Disappointing Books

Thanks to MTV's (who would've thought?) The Chronicles of Shannara, I'm rereading Terry Brooks' Sword of Shannara and Elfstones of Shannara. I first read both of these somewhere between 10 and 14 years old (I know I read Lord of the Rings in Hawaii when I was 12, but I can't remember if these came before or after that). Barely remembered Sword, so I'm thinking I read it once and Elfstones more than once.

Sword is... well, it reads like a first book. Lots of unnecessary words. A more than passing resemblance to Lord of the Rings (Elder Brother was less kind in his opinion on that). Omniscient POV that irks. In short, a good story made harder by less than stellar execution. If I can finish this second read, I won't pick it up again.

Elfstones was smoother, as happens when a writer continues to hone his skills. I hadn't realized how much Star of Justice pays homage to Amberle Elessedil, who was my favorite character.

I'm also rereading Mansfield Park by Jane Austin. I say "rereading" only because I find evidence in my copy that I read it in 2008. I have literally no memory of anything from the book. If it weren't my handwriting in the margins, I would swear I'd never even seen it before. Since I'm halfway through and unable to find a single character I like, I'm not sure I'll finish it, either.

I remember loving the Arrows of the Queen triology by Mercedes Lackey when I was young (although her Companions were a total rip-off of Anne McCaffrey's dragons). I reread it as an adult and threw the books away because the writing was so poor. I'll never read anything of hers again.

I wish I was able to pick up a book and just read it. The books I finish anymore are rare. Too much effort for too little reward. I find myself wishing the author would just leave these people alone and let them live out their little lives in peace and quiet. Hardly the stuff of legends.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Prayer Garden

A little over two weeks since the election. The amount of time it takes most New Year's resolutions to fall by the wayside. How are you doing?

My prayers have slacked a bit. Could be the holidays. More likely, I'm not used to endurance prayers.

When I wrote Daughter of Anasca, I was studying prayer as taught by Jim Cymbala of the Mormon Tabernacle*. If you didn't see it in the story, you weren't paying attention.

Now I'm reading Destined for the Throne by Paul Billheimer, originally published in 1975, revised in 1996. Hardly new thoughts, but new to me. I don't know that I agree with all the conclusions but I do agree - emphatically - that intercessory prayer matters, and the state of our world is a sad reflection of how seldom and how poorly Christians pray.

When God doesn't answer my prayer of the morning by dinner, I'm inclined to believe he didn't hear me. I forget that God is a God of timing, not just time. His timing is perfect, and his plans always blossom at the perfect moment.

I have a medicine bag given to me by a former boss with a feather bead on it. I was told certain tribes believe their prayers are carried to heaven on smoke and feathers, and the bead is the symbol of those prayers. While that is a beautiful image, my prayers aren't smoke that vanishes. They have substance.

TT: The "search" feature on this blog stinks. I know I've written about this before (House of Prayer), but it won't pull it up. I had to go straight to Google, and found results in the top five.

Prayer builds on itself. Choose your image, or perhaps the image changes depending on the prayer. Prayers become a house, a wall, a ladder. Or a garden. I like the garden idea. Some prayer is the hardscaping, some the plants, some the fertilizer. What if my prayers really do create a garden in heaven, a place I will one day walk, and recognize, and rejoice over? If that happens, I want that garden to be as big and beautiful as I can make it, not a tiny, feeble chicken-scratch patch of dust.

I decided before the election to pray. I haven't changed my mind. I don't stop eating because I miss one meal, and I won't stop praying if I miss one day. That prayer garden means too much, and my world needs those prayers too badly.

If I'm hearing mainstream Christian media clearly, and it's mostly what I listen to, this urge to return to prayer is something God is telling us to do. It's showing up in too many places as the exact same message to think otherwise. We are God's church, and his Spirit calls us to oneness. Is it too hard to believe that oneness should be in purpose first, i.e. to turn to God and pray for a change in the hearts of his people and the unsaved?

Pray, Believer. Pray for God to call us to oneness, as he is one. Pray that he limits the evil that runs so rampant, and strengthens his children to produce good fruit in accordance with his will. Pray that demons are bound, and their prisoners are set free in Christ. Those are my top prayers.

May God bless you and keep you and give you peace.

Keep the faith.

*A friend pointed out I meant "Brooklyn Tabernacle." Yep. That's the one I meant. Hard day, folks.

A Stay of Execution

That sums up my feelings on this election.

Worldview-wise, I am a traditionalist. I believe in a supernatural Creator of awesome power, who designed me specifically to serve and worship him by choice. I believe the Bible literally, except in those instances where it specifically tells me it is being figurative. I am a conservative, who supports the Constitution as written, and the Republican platform as written. I believe there is nothing new under the sun, and sin for every generation is the same-old story in new wrapping paper.

I believe the vast majority of people have no idea what they believe or why. When confronted with questions about how they arrived at their views, most flounder about and walk away confused or retaliate with meaningless cliches. I've done a little of that myself when confronted with completely new thoughts.

TT: I'm still mulling the whole "Holy Spirit as she" issue, but I cannot reconcile it to my worldview. I won't argue the gender of a spirit, but I also have no need to find my "femaleness" in my God. I'm made in his image. I don't need part of him to be female to make that true, and referring to any part of God as "she" summons images of Gaia and Isis and paganism. Sorry, ladies. I'm a female male chauvinist. I don't see that changing.

I was prepared for a Clinton win. I believe the Supreme Court decision legalizing unnatural marriage was the death-knell of America as I knew it. I know that anti-Christ rules a one-world government that cannot emerge until America is dead.  I know we have sacrificed our firstborns at Molech's altar thanks to Roe v. Wade for 40 years. I know we practice adultery and fornication under every spreading umbrella of a free wifi coffee shop. We are Judah before the exile, and who better to lead us into destruction than Jezebel?

My prayers before the election were for God to sustain his children and allow persecution to purify us of all unrighteousness. There are many today who say "Lord, Lord" who do not know God, and more importantly, are not known by God. Persecution separates sheep from goats, and American Christians are long overdue to suffer for our faith.

My hope before the election was that God would be merciful and give our nation a little more time for the homeschoolers to grow up and take over. I believe he granted that hope, and a day later, I'm as surprised that he did as I am every time he relents over Israel and Judah and gives them another chance.

A day after the election, I see the most ungrateful, corrupt, self-involved flesh-worshippers in the history of the world acting out the temper-tantrums of undisciplined children. I see those who should be buckling down in repentance for our apathy, and mourning for the lost, instead crowing over a worldly victory. Why God bothers with us at all is a continual question for me. But it is not my place to question God's reasons. It is my place to not squander the time I have been given.

So, whether Trump turns out to be Nebuchadnezzar, Cyrus or Josiah, I will step out boldly. I will pray daily for God to move the hearts of his people to be actual salt and light instead of a freshwater lightshow of pick-and-choose paganism with a Jesus-flavored coating. I will pray for the hearts of our leaders to turn toward the people they represent, instead of their own glorification and enrichment. I will pray for the heart change that must come before an end to child sacrifice. I will pray for God's truth to spoken and lived, his whole truth, that he is both loving and just. We have forgotten the "just" part, and one day soon, it will devour us whole as he gives us over to the depravity we are determined to indulge.

My hope is not in this world. My hope is in Christ, now and always.

Keep the faith.

The Continental Divide by Tommy Nelson

Yes, I agree with him, and with his right to speak.

The Continental Divide by Tommy Nelson

Fast and pray for our nation.

Prayer Updates

Toffee has resumed eating. In typical cat fashion, she doesn't want the wet food the vet specifically recommended but the dry food she has eaten for most of her life. It is certainly cheaper and easier to feed her dry food so I'm not complaining. I'm also hoping she doesn't read this blog and change her mind.

(She's on the table while I type, so I'm good for now. I don't think she knows my computer password.)

Simon has decided he likes the wet food. I do not believe he will ever go back to dry. I have accepted this and open can after can because at least he's eating and not throwing up.

Second Dad's situation is not good. It will take an honest-to-God miracle for his physical healing, not a thank-you-God-for-medical-breakthroughs miracle, which are amazing in their own right, don't get me wrong. I believe in supernatural miracles, so I have no doubt such healing can come. Second Dad is optimistic as ever and determined to do what he can to help with nutrition and vigilance.

I've already reported on Swamp progress.

The work situation is entirely in God's hands, and I pray for serenity, courage and wisdom. I thank God for his daily grace and provision.

I am grateful for your prayers, and for God's mercies. I don't know if I can say I'm at peace, but I have found a place of calm acceptance for the time being. I am taking one day at a time with the knowledge God is already in the future and I'm just walking toward him.

Can I pray for you this week?

Happy Thursday, dear readers. God will meet you where you are.

Forty-Five

I tried to write this last night, but I was too tired to make my fingers move. Don't believe me? I went to bed at 6:15 and mostly stayed there. Each time I did wake up, I applied pain relieving oils, so this morning was easier than expected.

Getting a code violation for weeds is not only frightening; it's insulting. There were weeds, yes, but not enough for a code violation, and the "brush pile" was a compost pile. Years of work completely failing to look like years of work grates on my artistic sensibilities. Of course, a sense of betrayal and paranoia creeps in as the time passes. Who is watching? Who am I trying to convince? Should I cave and conform, plow it under and settle for hated grass?

A week without another violation letter or fine has helped a bit, although knowing that such a letter could come produces a sense of dread with each approach to the mailbox. My trauma is a small-scale version of Second Dad's battle with melanoma. When will the next bout begin? Should I fight? Do I have a chance of winning? I have screwed my courage to the sticking place and decided to see the violation as a wake-up call. I have been slack this year. I do love my yard, and spending time in it, even if Hippy Neighbor Down the Street stares at me while he smokes.

(He's the one who sound-proofed his house within a week of moving in because he "plays the drums." Should I ever vanish, check out the house three to the south and the long-haired dude living there. My parts may be in his basement. My soul will be with God.)

My birthday happened this week. Forty-five. Close to paying off the mortgage. Wondering what the future will hold. If I had a husband and kids, I'd be ready for a mid-life crisis, but, really, how many of those can one person have?

In continuation of my birthday tradition, and with some need since my Leaf Hog died last year, I bought a Predator 6.5 hp gas-powered chipper-shredder. It was on sale; what could I do? I will no longer have compost piles that can be confused with brush piles. I can once again steal other people's yard waste with impunity. I doubt the 3 hours of break-in time was supposed to happen on the same day, but it did. There is something cathartic about turning dead things into life-giving things, and I could use a little catharsis.

A big Thank You to Younger Sis for helping with assembly, which turned out to be a two-person job when one person not only doesn't have the right tools, but has the finger-strength of the average chicken (Chickens don't have fingers? Yes, that's the point). Also, many thanks to Big Brother and Little Sis for getting it out of the van. Elder Brother was at his day job, or I'm certain he would have come, too.

I need to purchase additional tools for maintenance purposes, again proving that every major purchase leads to minor purchases. I also need to watch a few more YouTube videos of men using this machine. I do not test limits, but men seem to live on the principle of "what exactly can I shove into this before it breaks?" My horizons expanded, I can tell you. Had I watched some of those before assembly, it wouldn't have taken three hours to put the kickstand on.

In all, a good vacation, full of physical activity and very little mental effort - the exact opposite of my day job.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Hope you put your trash out.

God's Answers

Have you been praying? I have.

Second Dad's appointment in Texas was cancelled because it was with the wrong department, and scheduled for next month. One of my prayers was that God would make the path obvious, close the wrong doors and open the right ones.

As we prepared for next month by scheduling other tests and biopsies here, Second Dad went into the ER with a severe kidney infection that would have incapacitated him while they driving to Texas. He was in the hospital with his regular doctors for all his tests, and one of them was able to perform plastic surgery during the biopsy to repair the head damage from the removal of the melanoma.

While they were there, MD Anderson rescheduled them for next week, so the travel plans are back on, and God remains in control.

Toffee started eating again, although she's off again thanks to her vet visit. I'm waiting for her test results now.

I spoke with the city code officer, and believe I have solved the issue to everyone's satisfaction. I will find that out tomorrow, too. On a side note, I'm used to The Swamp hating me, but it's never gone so far as to try to get me jailed. I may have to reconsider my plans and turn the front yard back into stupid, unsightly lawn because that's all stupid, unimaginative people can understand. I do not speak of the code officer, but of the person I believe turned in the code violation.

The cough abates slowly. I fear I've damaged myself permanently, but it's a bit early to beat that drum.

The work problem is with God. I have no solution.

In short, God is listening, and He is acting. I will continue to pray, and I hope you will, too. Jen S., I'd love to know how things are going with you.

How can I pray for you this week?

Applaud the jellyfish.

The Prayer Cat

This is Toffee. She's 16 (or so). She was a bully in her younger days, although she's become the victim as she has aged in a house with five other cats. She chews her food, and her jaw makes startlingly loud grinding noises while she does. She loves to be petted, her meow sounds like nails on chalkboard, and she wets outside the litter box when she's upset. I try very hard not to upset her.

She is wired wrong in the head. Her eyes don't work quite right, although that doesn't stop her from climbing The Heights. She's the cat who fell on me and my burrito one lunch hour last year. The scars are still visible on my right hand.

Like all animals that aren't wired quite right in the head, she has enjoyed remarkable health. No tartar, no diseases. She even missed out on the flea epidemic of 2007.

A week ago, she stopped eating.

Well, not stopped, exactly, but her volume fell to maybe 20 nuggets a day, 5 per meal. Cats, unlike dogs, will not eat when they get hungry enough. If they stop eating, they don't start again, their livers shut down, and they die. It's a mess.

I had a can of wet food left over from someone else's momentary freak out, and she ate it. I had that conversation with myself that no one thinks I have: the "am I willing to do X or is X too crazy/not worth it?" argument usually had between spouses.  I drew my line and got more wet food. Being a cat, she stopped eating it as soon as I got a two-week supply.

I learned she will eat it - as long as I sit right beside her and pet her the entire time. This morning was 40 minutes to eat a third of a can. To maintain her weight, she needs a can and a half a day.

This is ridiculous. I cannot spend an hour and a half each day coaxing a 16 year old, ashamed-to-admit-not-my-favorite-cat to eat. I have been less than patient the last couple of days while I again had that "am I willing to do X?" argument with myself with new parameters. It's not like I just have to be in the room (the separate room closed off from the five other protesters living in this house who also want the new food stuff). I literally have to sit quietly next to her while she licks the bowl clean, petting her when she slows or gets restless.

However, the one other thing I can do during those times is pray. I can pet while I pray, and I certainly have an hour and a half's worth of things to pray about lately.

We go to see the vet Saturday to make sure there isn't a medical reason for this. I suspect it's the stress of too many houseguests too close together that threw her off, and I should be grateful she's not wetting outside the litter box.

I can't do this forever, but I can do it for a while. Long enough to see if she'll pull out on her own or is just ready to take The Long Step.

Just call her The Prayer Cat.

Push button. Receive bacon.

My Week in Prayer Requests

Been one of those weeks when the hits keep coming. I'm asking for prayer. Let me know how I can pray for you while I'm closeted with the Big Guy.

The hard stuff:

Second Dad was diagnosed with melanoma. He and Mom are on their way to MD Anderson for additional tests, prognosis and possible treatment.

I was served with a city code violation for -get this- "weeds, annual grasses and vegetation more than 12" tall." Since 95% of my yards are spring-blooming perennials more than 12" tall, I can only assume the code officer doesn't know what those look like. I have until Sunday to appeal, "correct" the problem, or face $499 fine and 179 days in jail for non-compliance. I'll be calling today for more details on the situation.

I have a problem at work that I am both responsible for and completely unable to control that has made my eyes numb from stress for the first time in three years. It won't kill me, but it's trying.

I now have two cats turned finicky eaters: Simon and Toffee. I am about ready to kiss them both good-bye and let them starve to death.

The cough is back. I believe this is week eight, but, frankly, I'm too tired to count.

The good news:

The weather is supposed to be nice until Sunday. I have a handy friend with a chainsaw and a chipper who is helping me tidy up (since I doubt the garden awareness of the code officer, we're trying to make it look more like what people expect to see in a garden instead of my "prettyish little wilderness").

I have super, supportive bosses who are ultimately in charge and act like it.

I've lost 5 lbs and the desire to eat, so the cats and I can starve to death together in a final bonding ritual.

All the house guests are gone home. I'm hoping this will solve some of the not-eating issues.

The cough mostly shows up morning and evening, so it doesn't keep me awake and doesn't interfere with work.

Thank you for your prayers. Let me know how I can pray for you.

The Power by Frank M. Robinson

I haven't coughed in 3 days. Last night, I start coughing again. Back to hot honey and lemon juice, which are not doing my teeth any favors, let me tell you.

I watched The Power with George Hamilton and Suzanne Pleshette as a child. IMDB says it came out in 1968 (before I was born) so I probably saw it on HBO sometime in the early 80s in my preteen years. I have a vague memory of writing fanfic about it, although that might be mixing it up with Scanners, another telekinetic thriller that left an impression and an obsession with movies starring Michael Ironside. I was young enough not to notice the movie was based on a book.

Amazon now sells The Power as a DVD, so in my very recent rewatch, I learned about the book. Amazon also provided a dealer of the unrevised 1957 version so I didn't have to cope with the "updated" 90s version that has come out since. The reviews were disappointed in that one, and preferred the original.

I hate revised books, btw, even when its the author's idea. You published; it's out there. Cope by writing another book if you're that unhappy.

Normally, I like the version I encounter first. If it's the book, I like the book better. If it's the movie, I like the movie better. I'm torn on this one.

I liked the book a lot. It was tense, dark, logical and tightly written. I didn't mind where the movie varied. Some made a lot of sense - the removal of Marge as a companion, for one, which added to the tension. Even knowing how I expected it to end didn't make it boring, because there were enough differences I wasn't sure it would end the same.

It didn't. It ended as most early scifi ends, on a sour note.

I like the movie ending better. I suspect, in the future, I will treat it as William Goldman treated the end of The Princess Bride as read by his father. Don't know what that means? Read the book. It's good, and the movie makes a lot more sense after.

I have two other gripes. First, the protagonist is "Jim" in the movie and "Bill" in the book. I have no idea why, and it annoys me when names get changed for no obvious reason. Maybe George didn't want to play a "Bill." Second, a tendency to run-on sentences. Should I read it again, I may just add a few semicolons in my copy.

Those are small, very personal gripes about what was otherwise an interesting adventure, so I give the book 5 stars.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Spoiler: A dog is killed in this book. Normally, that would make me close the cover, pitch it in the trash and never think on it again, but, frankly, I could see it coming, it wasn't dwelt on, and it didn't seem to be thrown in just to get me upset. I've moved on with my life, but I'll understand if that's too much for you.

The Layers of Friendship

Growing up, I was a one friend per year kind of person. I had one specific friend in school, and one specific friend outside of school (only because she attended a different school). I ignored most other people, and tended to ignore my friends except during those specific "school" or "play" times.

I was not a nice child.

In college, I learned about variety in relationships, specifically proximal friendships, meaning you're friends because you're in proximity to each other. Most friendships fall into this category, btw. Close when physically close, and separate when separated. These can be intense relationships, but they rarely outlast a change in distance.

I've made deals with several friends since learning this. We will never recriminate on why we've fallen out of touch. Each meeting will begin with the enthusiasm of a dog greeting an owner, no matter how much time has passed. It works great, as long as you really mean it. Which I do.

When I think the word friendship, though, I think of something more. That C.S. Lewis definition of "What! You, too? I thought that no one but myself..." A similarity that goes beyond working in the same office, or attending the same Sunday School class. A similarity of worldview.

I have tried to expand my friendship base as an adult. To be friendly with those not like myself and enjoy our differences. It is useful to measure life against a different viewpoint, and one of the benefits of a true friend is enough difference in perspective to keep conversation interesting.

However, some perspectives are just too different. I may love, admire, respect a person, but if the differences in our worldviews are too pronounced, they move out of the friendship circle into the proximal friendship circle. This may be a sudden shift or a gradual decline.

I have heard friendship likened to a well (although maybe a money jar is more accurate). A friend must contribute to the well before drawing out. If more is drawn out than put in, the friendship cannot last.

In a perfect world, I could be friends with everyone. I could handle all differences and never find opposing viewpoints toxic. I do not live in a perfect world, and I am far from perfect. I do not find comfort in contention. I will do my best to minister daily to the world around me, but my friends enjoy a special, peaceful, pleasant place in my heart, and I will seek them out for that reason.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Finish What You Start

I can't say this enough.

It isn't an issue for all writers (or people, for that matter). Some exist who write a story, give it a good once-over and publish that sucker. I can't rightly say I admire that, but I can say they're on the right track.

Some of us agonize over every word. We neglect story for the art of implementation. Every day, sometimes in mid-sentence, we see ways the story could be different, better, deeper, more lyrical, whatever. Yes, my daily experiences add layers to my thoughts like rings on a tree, but that doesn't mean every story has to be the sum total of my entire being. It's not possible.

A newspaper is old news before it hits the stands. A story is the same. It's a snapshot of my desires at the time of writing.

Make an outline. Write quickly in whatever style you prefer. Follow the outline when the muse isn't musing, and make something happen when you're bored. The goal is to finish this story. I recommend stuffing as much melodrama as you can manage into your first draft because emotion is what makes most readers read, and it's nearly impossible to add emotion later.

The young writer laughs at the thought of not being able to write. When I was a youngster, you couldn't keep me away from the keyboard. But you also couldn't make me finish a single story because I got bored and wandered off to the next exciting thing.

Now I am old. An old woman with a dozen half-finished ideas that keep getting in the way when I'm trying to write something worth reading. Had I finished those when I was young, I would know them for garbage and move on. As it is, I keep puking them up and stalling on the chunks.

Sorry. Hope you weren't eating breakfast.

Finish what you start. It is worth the effort.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Cats and Litter Boxes

When you wake up at 3:38 thanks to a full moon, and check FB on your phone app, and see that a Friend posted something meant to be funny that instead triggered your uptight-over-zealous-cat-mommy gland, you don't comment on the post and ruin the joke. That's rude. You write a blog post to relieve your angst.

Here it is.

If a cat pees outside its litter box, either 1) the cat is sick, or 2) something in the environment is causing severe stress for the cat and needs to be addressed.

Cats are generally fastidious creatures who prefer cleanliness more than you do. This is why they burrow into clean laundry, sprawl on freshly opened newspapers, and plant themselves in sanitizing sunlight. It only takes one or two tries to litterbox train a kitten, and if they miss, it's because they were too far away when they realized they had to go or they couldn't manage to get into the box.

Make sure the cat isn't sick. Cats generally don't drink enough water, so urinary infections can happen, requiring antibiotics. It could also be a sign of kidney failure, and that means the death of the cat, and you should treat them with respect until their last breath, you callous scum. Keep lots of clean, fresh water available in different sized bowls at various heights in the house (and NEVER put food and water next to the litter box. Would YOU like to eat where you crap?). I always use glass bowls because some cats can get "black acne" from plastic. I use wide bowls, brandy snifters, fish bowls and plant cache pots. I like the shapes and all of my six cats seem to like drinking in different ways.

The easiest solution for most peeing issues is to add a litter box to another area of the house. Older cats, like older people, have to go NOW, and they may not make it if the box is stashed away in the basement or a door gets closed accidentally. It's also nice when you clean the box regularly. If you're having trouble getting all the clumps out, imagine how hard it is for the cat to cover its business. A smelly box is generally an overflowing box. The general rule of thumb is one box per cat, plus one. This is because some cats will guard the litter box and not let other cats use it. Where would you go if a bully blocked the bathroom?

Cats are sensitive to their environments, and when a cat gets upset, peeing can be the first sign. New people or pets in the house, a change in schedule, a change in litter or food: just about anything can cause anxiety depending on your cat. Do some research and find a way to help the cat adapt. My Cat From Hell offers a lot of advice on this subject (I can't watch much of it because I want to beat most of those owners to death for being selfish morons).

Use your brain before you start screaming. Cats, like people, don't come right out and tell you what their problem is. They expect you to figure it out. A good cat parent does, and fixes the problem rather than the blame. A bad cat parent takes the cat to the shelter to die, or kicks it outside to die. I hope all bad cat parents burn in Hell, but I admit I am not rational on the subject of cat care.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Too Adult?

I've often complained about how dead my inner child is. I blame graduating from college, and all that "life" that happens afterwards. You know, the part where you work really hard to improve your circumstances until you can afford all the things your parents used to pay for (for all the lemmings out there, that's how it's supposed to work).

Anyway, I've noticed a trend in my TV viewing habits, possibly because I'm watching things that went off air before I was born or hit puberty. Rather than just watching the show, I want to know about the making of the show. I'm going to IMDB daily for research. Was The Virginian shot in Wyoming? Where did they get the cattle? Were they used multiple years or did each batch go off to slaughter after filming? Did they boast in line about getting hog-tied by Doug McClure or James Drury? Were the same cowboys or cowboy footage used in Bonanza? The High Chapparal? The same guest actors show up in all the shows, oftentimes as different characters in different seasons, so the same could happen with the horses, too, right? Although, the horses seem as distinguishable as the wardrobes. Does anyone else get tired of the men wearing only one set of clothes for 9 to 14 seasons? The coats I understand, but the same shirts and pants? Was that a budget decision?

What was NASA's position on I Dream of Jeannie? They can't have been pleased with Roger Healey.

Are these adult musings? I used to be able to watch a show and follow the story. Or maybe these shows don't have stories, so I look for the stories about them. Maybe this is the resurrection of my inner child and her relentless questioning.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Pain Is Pain

I've kept my pain comments to a minimum this year (if you don't think so, you aren't living in my body). Until this morning. This morning I received permission (in an odd way) from a Friend I identify as the most long-suffering of the chronic pain sufferers among my Friends (although I doubt I know how many such Friends I have).

She started a conversation about how pain is different for everyone and there's no point comparing pains. It had an Apostle Paul quality to it. I haven't posted this year because of all those Friends who hurt far more and far more often and far longer than I have (according to FB, this is Year 3). It feels insulting to them to gripe about my pain when theirs is likely worse.

However, there is no comparison. Pain is pain. The same way I would never mock someone grieving the loss of hamster because it isn't a person (my inclination with such mockers is to punch them in the throat). The grief is the salient point, not the supposed worthiness of the cause of the grief. Besides, I would grieve a hamster more than most people.

So I'm going to write about my pain this year this once, and then fall quiet again.

Here's something I also grabbed from my Friend:

Four years ago, I fell on my left knee on my driveway in early Spring. It began bothering me at the first Realm Makers conference in St. Louis. I believe that was four years ago. I remember clearly because the 4 hour drive there set it off, and I prayed I had enough ibuprofen to get me home. The drive home was torture, even with ibuprofen.

The knee has flared ever since, but two years ago, my left jaw began to hurt in a way my tooth splint didn't correct. Although not debilitating, I was desperate enough to seek physical therapy, which cost over $800 and failed to help in any significant way other than to confirm I'm too rigid and need to relax.

I began Classical Stretch last autumn, which did help me relax, but has not lessened my pain. It taught me to keep moving through the pain, and that was valuable because the pain increases. In addition to my knee and jaw, my back has joined in. Nearly all the time. I cannot lie down for any reasonable length of time. I've found myself considering the purchase of a recliner, which I hate, because it might hurt less than my bed, which is adjustable. I'm grateful for insomnia because it means I don't wake up in more pain than I laid down with.

January was the last time I wasn't in pain every single day, and I suspect that was because January had no weather fronts to speak of.

Have I exhausted every medical recourse? No. I haven't even sought an official diagnosis of arthritis because I don't know where to start or how much money I want to spend to get one. Do I take meds every day? No. Some days I'm willing to power through because the pain is only a 3 or 4, and I don't want to ruin my liver or become victim to the law of diminishing returns over that. Some days, I have to take drugs to keep the pain at a 3 or 4.

I find myself wondering if OxyRub or OmegaXcel really work like the infomercials say, or whether there'll be a lawyer commercial in 5 years telling me to call for the payout because of some horrific side-effect the FDA didn't know about. Then I wonder if the side-effect is worth it for 5 years of no pain. I wonder if my insomnia is really night pain I've almost gotten used to.

Have I become a chronic pain sufferer? I guess I have. Grandma Turtle lived the last decade of her life with debilitating rheumatoid arthritis, and never once did I hear her complain or snap at anyone. I hope I can live up to her example.

Mom heard about a stem cell pain treatment center in Manhattan, and I've requested an application for consideration. I have plenty of fat cells for them to harvest. We'll see how it goes.

That's all I have to say about that. For now. For all of you who hurt, too, I'm sorry. I'm praying for us.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Still Writing

I've added another 5 pages. Five pages in a month isn't much, but it's more than 1 page in a year.

My aim is one to two sentences a day. They don't have to be good. They just have to be story-relevant. I can write them at any time during the day. I've taken to leaving my WIP open where I left off, so I can write the moment something occurs to me. If I write more, great. If I don't, I've at least got my two sentences.

I have a lot of reasons writing has become so hard. The cats are an automatic initial six reasons (literally as I write this sentence, Skamper picks himself up from the floor across the room and stations himself between me and the keyboard with his enormous fluffy tail directly in front of my face. ARRGH!). I have trouble pacing myself at work, so little brain is left after hours for creation. I've found The Waltons and Bonanza on INSP from 6-8. Doesn't matter. Two sentences don't take that long to write, and INSP commercials are long and frequent.

Editing is easier than fresh writing. Maybe you aren't old and weary enough to know this. Good for you, whippersnapper. I, too, was young once, and I never believed the words would stop, either.

Finish what you start. Once sentence at a time.

Applaud the jellyfish.

I Am Writing

Naturally, the moment I excuse myself from blogging, I get the urge to blog. I have ignored it and opened my WIP instead.

I wish there was a way to open to where I left off. I'm using Word (old, old Word - 2003, maybe?) and it always opens to the first page. Like it's supposed to. Except I now like the Scrivener feature of opening to wherever I left off. This is probably a google search in the making.

I am writing. Not every day. Not huge amounts. But at least a sentence, and sometimes more. My page count has moved from 75 to 80. They aren't polished, but they're written.

Sounds pretty small. That would have been an hour's work back in my SOJ writing days. But life was less complicated then, and I had fewer cats, and no need to truly use my brain at work.

My only goal at the moment is to write something everyday. I took Lioness' advice and printed a calendar to track the days I write. That should help with the "one sentence or 10 words" goal. The big trick is to just write something.

Even writing this, Skamper is pacing in front of me, head-butting at random, purring loudly. Cats are hellspawn, sent to plague, torment and distract writers. This is why wizards don't have cats as familiars. They couldn't get a single spell formulated.

Push button. Receive bacon.

PS. Skamper moved to the back of the chair, and Miss Kitty jumped up to block the keyboard and headbutt and climb me. sigh

Gone Writin'

I finally remembered to turn the furnace on after our streak of warm weather, and I have cats sprawled across every vent to prove it. This is why I wear socks.

With Farmville out of my life, politics making it impossible to stomach nearly any form of electronic media, and the busiest time of year at work compounded with my recent promotion, I am stressed. The kind of stress I would usually rely on my mouthpiece to counter, but the mouthpiece didn't fit after the crown, and it didn't seem to be working that last year anyway, so I'm searching for a new stress-combating strategy.

Fortunately, it's Spring. Swamp Time. Time to be out in the muck battling the Curse and cursing the battle to make one space somewhat vital for an all-too-brief span. That takes care of the exercise portion of stress release, but it doesn't help with the emotional portion.

I'm writing. In the morning during my normal blogging time, and in the evening after Swamp Time. I have no idea how long it will last, or whether anything useful will grow out of it, but I'm doing it.

Therefore, for an undetermined time, I will be writing elsewhere in what I hope to be a productive and stress-reducing manner.

Enjoy your Spring.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Marketable Skills: Responsibility

I considered calling this one Accepting Blame, except my general rule is fix the problem, not the blame. Unless you're the problem. Then the blame is yours, too.

When interviewing for a job, generally you are given a list of job duties that you are expected to perform on a routine basis. This is rarely a comprehensive list, but it will cover the minimum expectations of both you and your employer. Meaning, if you can't do these things on a routine basis with a minimum of mistakes and no supervision, you should be fired.

If you are a server at Sonic and can't make change, you should be fired. If you work at a phone bank answering calls all day and regularly forget to turn on your phone or yell at back at frustrated customers, you should be fired. If you data-enter numbers, and you regularly transpose them, you should be fired.

The above paragraph makes the mistake most employees make: it assumes it is your employer's responsibility to remove you. Wrong. It is your responsibility to remove yourself. A person of integrity who agrees to perform certain tasks in exchange for money, who discovers he cannot perform those tasks, should refuse payment and find another job better suited to his skill set. Unfortunately, the workplace is full of lemmings who would rather be told what to do than lionesses who solve problems, especially when that problem is herself.

I do not mean people cannot make mistakes. People are people, competent or not, and everyone has bad days. When those happen, own them, do your best anyway, and expect to have some messes to clean up later. That's normal. But the consistent failure to do the minimum your job requires is unacceptable to everyone: the customer who can take his business elsewhere, your co-workers who have to bail you out while still doing their own jobs, and your boss who's literally paying you to cause problems she doesn't need.

If you make simple mistakes on a regular basis that cause extra work for everyone, you can expect to work in a hostile environment. I recommend accepting responsibility and doing what you need to do to get your act together. If you don't, your boss will do her job and fire you, and you will have only yourself to blame. If you're a lemming, that won't stop you from blaming everyone else anyway.

Push button. Receive bacon.

The Wind in the Willows

I've heard of this story, but never read it. I believe Disneyland has a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, but my motion sickness made that impossible.

I bought a very used book at a charity drive, and, after reading one too many Lovecraft horrors (the nightmares started), picked it up for a stroll on the brighter side. I'm halfway through, because life got busy as it usually does, but far enough to say a few things.

One, charming prose. Some truly lovely sentences in there that beautifully capture the image or moment.

Two, welcome innocence coupled with strong moral character. Friendship, hospitality, generosity, hard work, and hard winter rest - a concept I heartily endorse - are illustrated in each story. Even flighty Toad has a good heart.

Three, while I generally don't care for short stories, these are just the right size for reading before bed. Since I haven't slept through the night in about two weeks, I don't have a lot of eye stamina for long bouts of reading.

The hardest part of reading these stories comes from me being too adult. Rat has a boat, a brace of pistols and a cudgel. Mole has Italian sculptures in his burrow. Badger eats ham and bacon, and wears slippers. However, they are animals, and the stories don't dispute their size. Would a rat-sized pistol even fire? Where does Badger get his ham? How do they earn their money? Children don't worry about this sort of thing (except me. This is exactly the kind of thing I worried about as a child). I keep derailing as I try to categorize the logic of the world. Alice in Wonderland is the closest I can come.

The illustrations don't help. Toad's carriage is people-sized, pulled by a horse, and contains a bird in a cage they later carry away. What bird is small enough to be carried in a cage by a toad? Toad is tried in a human court of law, and held in a human prison, if the pictures are to be counted as accurate, which they probably aren't. The author does make some attempts at reconciling the inconsistencies, since they have to coax the horse to pull the carriage when the horse would rather be part of the party, and Badger does explain that humans built what eventually became his burrows. Still, I've stumbled more than once as my brain balks at pure fancy.

I wonder if Mom never read me this book because these are the questions I would have asked as a child, and didn't want to deal with it at bedtime. Can't blame her, if that's the case.

Applaud the jellyfish.