By Dave V.
Best of the worst
Worst of the best
Which am I to choose
Which am I to guess
Be it for my life or
Be it for my death
The reason be for this bequest?
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Neil Gaiman: 8 Good Writing Tips
1. Write.
2. Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.
3. Finish what you're writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.
4. Put it aside. Read it pretending you’ve never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.
5. Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
6. Fix it. Remember that, sooner or later, before it ever reaches perfection, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving.
7. Laugh at your own jokes.
8. The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you’re allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it’s definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.
From an article in The Guardian
Neil Gaiman has become so popular he is often considered the “rock star” of the literary world. He trades mostly in science fiction and fantasy in a variety of forms—novels, children’s books, graphic novels, comic books, and film. Among his trend-setting works: Coraline, The Graveyard Book and The Sandman series. He takes readers, of all ages, to the very edge of imagination.
Information provided from: http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/670
2. Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.
3. Finish what you're writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.
4. Put it aside. Read it pretending you’ve never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.
5. Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
6. Fix it. Remember that, sooner or later, before it ever reaches perfection, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving.
7. Laugh at your own jokes.
8. The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you’re allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it’s definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.
From an article in The Guardian
Neil Gaiman has become so popular he is often considered the “rock star” of the literary world. He trades mostly in science fiction and fantasy in a variety of forms—novels, children’s books, graphic novels, comic books, and film. Among his trend-setting works: Coraline, The Graveyard Book and The Sandman series. He takes readers, of all ages, to the very edge of imagination.
Information provided from: http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/670
Sunday, June 19, 2011
THE FIRST 50 YEARS, 40 YEARS AGO
By Jeff Segal
It is sometime in the early 70’s. An eight-year-old boy sits cross-legged on his bed, turning the glossy pages of a coffee table book spread in front of him. The book is about the National Football League’s first fifty years. The boy is amazed by black-and-white photos of football players wearing helmets that look more like baseball mitts strapped to their heads. (In some pictures the players wear no helmets at all!) There are color photos, too, with exotic exposures highlighting the speed and violence of the game. In one crazy collage of a picture, the stitches of a football appear to be sewn into a man’s massive forearm.
The boy can’t really follow the book’s essays, but he traces his fingers over the arrows on the diagrammed plays, deciphering the X’s and O’s. When the Chicago Bears first deployed the T formation against the Washington Redskins in the 1940 championship game, it was a simple misdirection play that launched the 73-0 rout.
He lingers longest over the four-page, hand-drawn collage illustrating the evolution of the league and its franchises. The Bears and the Packers and the Giants were all there at the beginning, but he marvels the teams that never made it out of the 20’s: Providence Steamrollers! Rock Island Independents! Canton Bulldogs! Duluth Eskimos!
The boy still owns the book, and still enjoys flipping through it, even though—or, maybe, because—it’s as antiquated now as it was modern then. It’s the NFL before there were teams in Tampa and Tennessee, before video review and four-receiver sets and February Super Bowls. Still, the Colts may have moved from Baltimore to Indianapolis, but their uniforms haven’t changed since the 50’s: simple blue and white, with two stripes over the tops of the shoulders and a lone horseshoe on the helmet. Some things change, some stay the same. He imagines an alternate universe where the playoffs would pit the Providence Steamrollers against the Duluth Eskimos, and wonders who he’d root for.
It is sometime in the early 70’s. An eight-year-old boy sits cross-legged on his bed, turning the glossy pages of a coffee table book spread in front of him. The book is about the National Football League’s first fifty years. The boy is amazed by black-and-white photos of football players wearing helmets that look more like baseball mitts strapped to their heads. (In some pictures the players wear no helmets at all!) There are color photos, too, with exotic exposures highlighting the speed and violence of the game. In one crazy collage of a picture, the stitches of a football appear to be sewn into a man’s massive forearm.
The boy can’t really follow the book’s essays, but he traces his fingers over the arrows on the diagrammed plays, deciphering the X’s and O’s. When the Chicago Bears first deployed the T formation against the Washington Redskins in the 1940 championship game, it was a simple misdirection play that launched the 73-0 rout.
He lingers longest over the four-page, hand-drawn collage illustrating the evolution of the league and its franchises. The Bears and the Packers and the Giants were all there at the beginning, but he marvels the teams that never made it out of the 20’s: Providence Steamrollers! Rock Island Independents! Canton Bulldogs! Duluth Eskimos!
The boy still owns the book, and still enjoys flipping through it, even though—or, maybe, because—it’s as antiquated now as it was modern then. It’s the NFL before there were teams in Tampa and Tennessee, before video review and four-receiver sets and February Super Bowls. Still, the Colts may have moved from Baltimore to Indianapolis, but their uniforms haven’t changed since the 50’s: simple blue and white, with two stripes over the tops of the shoulders and a lone horseshoe on the helmet. Some things change, some stay the same. He imagines an alternate universe where the playoffs would pit the Providence Steamrollers against the Duluth Eskimos, and wonders who he’d root for.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Fledgling
By Sandy Kamen Wisniewski
The early spring morning brought with it cracks of thunder and impressive lightening streaking the sky. But with all the show there wasn’t much rain and by the afternoon all was quiet and the sun was peeking out through the clouds. My almost three-year-old grandson Danny and I decided to trek over to the park, Danny on his five-dollar garage sale tricycle (I love great buys) and me on foot.
Our visit to the park was pleasant, yet uneventful. On the way back Danny peddled away and my cell phone rang. It was one of my friends checking in to say hello. As I listened to her chatter away I noticed just to the right of us, on the patch of grass between the street and the sidewalk, a small, brown-ash colored bird appear from what must have been behind us. I was momentarily perplexed by where the bird came from but the question quickly dissipated as I watched. The bird sat there all puffed out, unlike an adult bird, which would have quickly flown away. Downy feathers mixed with grown up feathers¬ - a fledgling! I said to myself.
Hop, hop, hop, went the bird, looking around in delight. I half listened to my friend talking, fully wishing at that very moment there was no such thing as cell phones because I was missing out on sharing such a special experience with Danny. But, I thought to myself, even if I hung up quickly it would likely be too late and the bird would fly off before I could even get Danny to focus on it at all. So I watched the little bird and half-listened to my caller.
Oh how that bird was bursting with wonderment as she looked all around her. She seemed so proud of her young self, for her independence, for her ability to move about. She flew-hopped again, stopped and pivoted her head back and forth. Glorious was the new day through that tiny new bird’s eyes as she took in the breeze, the moistness after a rain, and the clean, clean air.
Hop, hop, hop into the street, her chest puffed out in pride for she was independent, free and able to decide what she wanted to do. Every part of her was twitching with excitement. Oh, to be young with new eyes! Then just as quickly as she had appeared I caught the sight of a car out of the corner of my eye. It was rolling towards her.
“NO!” I yelled trying to will the car to stop. This cannot be happening, I screamed in my head. Not slowing, braking or swerving to avoid her the driver killed the bird.
The sound of crushing bones, as the car slowly ran over her, without a pause, sounded like the scene in a horror movie when a person is creeping through woods and slowly steps on and crushes fallen twigs. The fledgling’s body was flat; the only indication of what she had once been were the feathers now strewn about like a chicken been plucked.
So odd that in one minute a little life can be literally dripping of spirit, rich with it, as if surrounded by golden light and in just a snap of the finger, nothing, simply nothing but a bunch of feathers.
I looked over at Danny, who had stopped his peddling and was looking towards the bird. “I gotta get off the phone,” I told my friend and hung up abruptly. I bent down towards Danny.
“Oh honey, the little birdie was killed by that car, that’s so sad,” I told him. “But now the bird’s in heaven.” (I really didn’t know what else to say.) I studied his face, blank, his eyes blinking. “Poor birdie,” I said, searching Danny’s face to make sure he was all right. Then I put my sunglasses on and cried, right out there in the open - not a sobbing cry but a soft, sad cry for the bird, what was and could have been and for the tragedy of it. Danny looked at me a bit perplexed but accepting, I wasn’t sure he was making the connection.
That day and even now as I write this I have been trying to think of how to turn that experience into a life’s lesson, or a positive experience or a moral or something. I’m struggling with it even as I write this. I could say that things like that happen all the time, cars kill all sorts of animals, that’s life. But I don’t see anything necessarily positive about that at all. I could say that the car killed that bird but that’s really not the case, not really. It wasn’t the car but the person driving it who was too self-absorbed doing whatever they were doing to see the bird. There weren’t any warranted distractions for the person driving on that quiet suburban street.
If we look around ourselves we won’t miss a small bird right in front of us.
So then I think to myself, I can think about the fledgling herself. She was so completely and totally in the moment. She was enjoying herself in those moments to such a degree she was quite literally light as a feather. She had pride at her independence and she was free in spirit and soul. Maybe the lesson of this story is not necessarily the demise of that tiny soul but the way in which she chose to live. I can try and do that. Yes, I will remind myself of how that little, brown fledgling lived.
The early spring morning brought with it cracks of thunder and impressive lightening streaking the sky. But with all the show there wasn’t much rain and by the afternoon all was quiet and the sun was peeking out through the clouds. My almost three-year-old grandson Danny and I decided to trek over to the park, Danny on his five-dollar garage sale tricycle (I love great buys) and me on foot.
Our visit to the park was pleasant, yet uneventful. On the way back Danny peddled away and my cell phone rang. It was one of my friends checking in to say hello. As I listened to her chatter away I noticed just to the right of us, on the patch of grass between the street and the sidewalk, a small, brown-ash colored bird appear from what must have been behind us. I was momentarily perplexed by where the bird came from but the question quickly dissipated as I watched. The bird sat there all puffed out, unlike an adult bird, which would have quickly flown away. Downy feathers mixed with grown up feathers¬ - a fledgling! I said to myself.
Hop, hop, hop, went the bird, looking around in delight. I half listened to my friend talking, fully wishing at that very moment there was no such thing as cell phones because I was missing out on sharing such a special experience with Danny. But, I thought to myself, even if I hung up quickly it would likely be too late and the bird would fly off before I could even get Danny to focus on it at all. So I watched the little bird and half-listened to my caller.
Oh how that bird was bursting with wonderment as she looked all around her. She seemed so proud of her young self, for her independence, for her ability to move about. She flew-hopped again, stopped and pivoted her head back and forth. Glorious was the new day through that tiny new bird’s eyes as she took in the breeze, the moistness after a rain, and the clean, clean air.
Hop, hop, hop into the street, her chest puffed out in pride for she was independent, free and able to decide what she wanted to do. Every part of her was twitching with excitement. Oh, to be young with new eyes! Then just as quickly as she had appeared I caught the sight of a car out of the corner of my eye. It was rolling towards her.
“NO!” I yelled trying to will the car to stop. This cannot be happening, I screamed in my head. Not slowing, braking or swerving to avoid her the driver killed the bird.
The sound of crushing bones, as the car slowly ran over her, without a pause, sounded like the scene in a horror movie when a person is creeping through woods and slowly steps on and crushes fallen twigs. The fledgling’s body was flat; the only indication of what she had once been were the feathers now strewn about like a chicken been plucked.
So odd that in one minute a little life can be literally dripping of spirit, rich with it, as if surrounded by golden light and in just a snap of the finger, nothing, simply nothing but a bunch of feathers.
I looked over at Danny, who had stopped his peddling and was looking towards the bird. “I gotta get off the phone,” I told my friend and hung up abruptly. I bent down towards Danny.
“Oh honey, the little birdie was killed by that car, that’s so sad,” I told him. “But now the bird’s in heaven.” (I really didn’t know what else to say.) I studied his face, blank, his eyes blinking. “Poor birdie,” I said, searching Danny’s face to make sure he was all right. Then I put my sunglasses on and cried, right out there in the open - not a sobbing cry but a soft, sad cry for the bird, what was and could have been and for the tragedy of it. Danny looked at me a bit perplexed but accepting, I wasn’t sure he was making the connection.
That day and even now as I write this I have been trying to think of how to turn that experience into a life’s lesson, or a positive experience or a moral or something. I’m struggling with it even as I write this. I could say that things like that happen all the time, cars kill all sorts of animals, that’s life. But I don’t see anything necessarily positive about that at all. I could say that the car killed that bird but that’s really not the case, not really. It wasn’t the car but the person driving it who was too self-absorbed doing whatever they were doing to see the bird. There weren’t any warranted distractions for the person driving on that quiet suburban street.
If we look around ourselves we won’t miss a small bird right in front of us.
So then I think to myself, I can think about the fledgling herself. She was so completely and totally in the moment. She was enjoying herself in those moments to such a degree she was quite literally light as a feather. She had pride at her independence and she was free in spirit and soul. Maybe the lesson of this story is not necessarily the demise of that tiny soul but the way in which she chose to live. I can try and do that. Yes, I will remind myself of how that little, brown fledgling lived.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Brooklyn Time
By Alan Barasky
Cheryl cried at breakfast when Dad couldn’t remember how to use a fork.
And again when she told Dr. Young about it during their weekly visit.
“Forgetting how to use everyday items is to be expected in a mid-stage Alzheimer’s patient. How did he react?”
“He smashed some dishes and started screaming about finding the bus so he could go back to Brooklyn – again. All he talks about is going home to Brooklyn….”
“Where he lived with your Mom for sixty years until she passed away. That’s a powerful memory – maybe the only one he’s still sure of.” Dr. Young took Cheryl’s hand. “Cheryl, you won’t be able to care for your Dad forever. It may be time.”
Then the door to Dr. Young’s office burst open and Dad filled the doorway, wringing his hands in front of him.
“Mr. Wiseman, it’s okay”, said Dr. Young’s nurse as she gently took his elbow, trying to turn him back to the waiting room.
“No!” he shouted, eyes blazing. He seemed to notice Dr. Young for the first time. “Can you tell me where the bus to Brooklyn is?” he pleaded softly.
* * *
After his nap Cheryl found Dad pacing in the study, cradling one of the model train engines Cheryl had bought for him. Dad had always loved trains. He used to tell stories about playing on an old railroad bridge when he was a kid and insisted on using the Auto Train when he and Mom spent winters in Florida.
“Dad, how was your nap? Did you see all the new snow outside? Isn’t it beautiful? Dad?”
“Can’t stay here, can’t stay here,” he muttered, turning to Cheryl. “I have to go home. I have to go back to Brooklyn. Now.”
“Dad, you don’t live in Brooklyn anymore. You live with me. You are home.”
“No, no, NO!” Dad looked at the engine in his arms and then hurled it against the far wall of the study. Tears fell from two faces as they watched the shattered pieces of the engine spin crazily across the wooden floor.
* * *
Jeff was late because of a client dinner, so Cheryl couldn’t share her day with her husband until they were getting ready for bed. He listened in silence and then took her in his arms. “You know I love your Dad,” he said as he nuzzled her hair, “but my first concern is always you. Dr. Young may be right. It may be time.”
She was still crying when she put on her footie pajamas. But she smiled as she remembered how much Mom had loved footies and Dad’s mock outrage when he discovered that she had at least twenty of them. She could still hear Mom’s cackle whenever she wore her favorites from Arizona State with the red Sun Devils all over them. And see Dad’s eyes twinkle when he would say, “It’s the right outfit for you, woman.”
* * *
Cheryl pushed up against Jeff, sliding over under the covers until she could feel every part of her touching him. He pulled her close with a chuckle that had taken her years to understand was a sound of appreciation rather than condescension. Jeff’s touch was the quickest way to bring on the obliviousness of sleep that would finally end another gut wrenching day. But was it really time?
* * *
Cheryl woke with a start and knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep until she checked on Dad. Padding to his room, she saw his empty bed in the soft glow of the nightlight. That got her fully awake, but she quickly reminded herself that he had been wandering through the house at night a lot lately.
Still, her pace quickened as she checked the study and the guest bedroom, and then got even faster as she went through the dining room and kitchen. She hurried to the front windows to see if he was on the porch and then ran to the family room to look for him in the back yard.
And there he was, slowly swaying back and forth on the swing on the far side of the deck. Cheryl opened the back door and stepped out into the snow. She hurried over to him through the drifts, ignoring the wet and cold assaulting her feet through the thin material of the footies. A train whistled and she looked up to see the light from an engine piercing the grove of bare trees that separated her house from the Union Pacific line to the east.
Cheryl moved to the side of the swing. “Dad, what are you doing out here? It’s snowing and it’s so cold. Are you watching the trains?”
He looked at the trees as if seeing them for the first time. “No, I was talking to your Mom.”
“To Mom?”
“Yeah. I thought so. He looked out past the trees again. But she’s gone, isn’t she?”
Cheryl said nothing, just leaned down and laid her head on Dad’s.
He gazed at the wind-blown snow in the back yard. “What a mess,” he sighed. “I’m never going to get to Brooklyn.” He reached up and touched Cheryl’s cheek with his cold fingers. “But I can’t stay here. It’s time.”
Cheryl cried at breakfast when Dad couldn’t remember how to use a fork.
And again when she told Dr. Young about it during their weekly visit.
“Forgetting how to use everyday items is to be expected in a mid-stage Alzheimer’s patient. How did he react?”
“He smashed some dishes and started screaming about finding the bus so he could go back to Brooklyn – again. All he talks about is going home to Brooklyn….”
“Where he lived with your Mom for sixty years until she passed away. That’s a powerful memory – maybe the only one he’s still sure of.” Dr. Young took Cheryl’s hand. “Cheryl, you won’t be able to care for your Dad forever. It may be time.”
Then the door to Dr. Young’s office burst open and Dad filled the doorway, wringing his hands in front of him.
“Mr. Wiseman, it’s okay”, said Dr. Young’s nurse as she gently took his elbow, trying to turn him back to the waiting room.
“No!” he shouted, eyes blazing. He seemed to notice Dr. Young for the first time. “Can you tell me where the bus to Brooklyn is?” he pleaded softly.
* * *
After his nap Cheryl found Dad pacing in the study, cradling one of the model train engines Cheryl had bought for him. Dad had always loved trains. He used to tell stories about playing on an old railroad bridge when he was a kid and insisted on using the Auto Train when he and Mom spent winters in Florida.
“Dad, how was your nap? Did you see all the new snow outside? Isn’t it beautiful? Dad?”
“Can’t stay here, can’t stay here,” he muttered, turning to Cheryl. “I have to go home. I have to go back to Brooklyn. Now.”
“Dad, you don’t live in Brooklyn anymore. You live with me. You are home.”
“No, no, NO!” Dad looked at the engine in his arms and then hurled it against the far wall of the study. Tears fell from two faces as they watched the shattered pieces of the engine spin crazily across the wooden floor.
* * *
Jeff was late because of a client dinner, so Cheryl couldn’t share her day with her husband until they were getting ready for bed. He listened in silence and then took her in his arms. “You know I love your Dad,” he said as he nuzzled her hair, “but my first concern is always you. Dr. Young may be right. It may be time.”
She was still crying when she put on her footie pajamas. But she smiled as she remembered how much Mom had loved footies and Dad’s mock outrage when he discovered that she had at least twenty of them. She could still hear Mom’s cackle whenever she wore her favorites from Arizona State with the red Sun Devils all over them. And see Dad’s eyes twinkle when he would say, “It’s the right outfit for you, woman.”
* * *
Cheryl pushed up against Jeff, sliding over under the covers until she could feel every part of her touching him. He pulled her close with a chuckle that had taken her years to understand was a sound of appreciation rather than condescension. Jeff’s touch was the quickest way to bring on the obliviousness of sleep that would finally end another gut wrenching day. But was it really time?
* * *
Cheryl woke with a start and knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep until she checked on Dad. Padding to his room, she saw his empty bed in the soft glow of the nightlight. That got her fully awake, but she quickly reminded herself that he had been wandering through the house at night a lot lately.
Still, her pace quickened as she checked the study and the guest bedroom, and then got even faster as she went through the dining room and kitchen. She hurried to the front windows to see if he was on the porch and then ran to the family room to look for him in the back yard.
And there he was, slowly swaying back and forth on the swing on the far side of the deck. Cheryl opened the back door and stepped out into the snow. She hurried over to him through the drifts, ignoring the wet and cold assaulting her feet through the thin material of the footies. A train whistled and she looked up to see the light from an engine piercing the grove of bare trees that separated her house from the Union Pacific line to the east.
Cheryl moved to the side of the swing. “Dad, what are you doing out here? It’s snowing and it’s so cold. Are you watching the trains?”
He looked at the trees as if seeing them for the first time. “No, I was talking to your Mom.”
“To Mom?”
“Yeah. I thought so. He looked out past the trees again. But she’s gone, isn’t she?”
Cheryl said nothing, just leaned down and laid her head on Dad’s.
He gazed at the wind-blown snow in the back yard. “What a mess,” he sighed. “I’m never going to get to Brooklyn.” He reached up and touched Cheryl’s cheek with his cold fingers. “But I can’t stay here. It’s time.”
Sunday, June 12, 2011
ASTRONOMICAL
by Larry Boisen
From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 2.12.11, 05 52 UTC
Hi Kenny
I’ve got great news. I put the final touches on my stargazing invention. I call it “Stellaropticon." I can hone in on just one star in a galaxy and determine its elemental make-up, no great surprises there so far, mostly the expected hydrogen, ferrous oxide and very little carbon or oxygen, but a few stars show signs of some primitive life forms. It’s probably not like your garden variety asparagus, but at least I am finding some life forms, and I’m convinced that I’ll find some more advanced forms yet. This is really exciting. It’s a shame that you’re practically a galaxy away from me yourself.
Well, I’ll keep you up to date as I find out more.
Bye
Alan
From Kenneth Williams
To Alan Keller
Date 2.12.11, 18 11 UTC
Hi Alan
Congrats, awesome, man! Yeah, I wish I weren’t here in Chicago and you in Pasadena, but maybe I can arrange a trip out your way in the next few months.
There’s nothing exciting going on here unless you’re into icebergs, brrr!
I can’t wait until you make the big discovery. Big Foot on some distant planet, or maybe there’s an alien Einstein out there.
Keep me posted
Kenny
From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 3.08.11, 13 24 UTC
Kenny
This is incredible! It’s really happened; I’ve honed in on some galaxy with obvious advanced life forms. They are actually corresponding with me, or maybe it’s just “he,” but I don’t think so. From what I can understand so far it’s a whole society. We’re still learning to decode each other’s languages, but this is no plodding Yeti that I’m dealing with; that’s for sure. They are asking me so many questions in their probe. I really think they’re going to try to come here. How’s that for a pen pal, huh, pal? Hey, can you imagine me the official ambassador to the stars, wow! Fame and fortune await me.
Well, I have to go. This is consuming all my time. I don’t want to miss a thing. I’ll let you know whether anything startling develops.
Alan
From Kenneth Williams
To Alan Keller
Date 3.08.11, 14 22 UTC
Alan
Wow! You’re going to be in the history books. I asked at work about taking a week off in April. How does that sound? You don’t need to put me up, I’ll stay at any motel. I just want to be a part of all this.
Kenny
From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 3.15.11, 01 15 UTC
Oh my God, what did I get myself into? The aliens, they’re called the Fustians have just about taken over control of all my electrical power, and they’re on their way to Earth with a massive armada. We’re all going to become their slaves. I don’t know how much time I have. I hope this message #%*////
From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 2.12.11, 05 52 UTC
Hi Kenny
I’ve got great news. I put the final touches on my stargazing invention. I call it “Stellaropticon." I can hone in on just one star in a galaxy and determine its elemental make-up, no great surprises there so far, mostly the expected hydrogen, ferrous oxide and very little carbon or oxygen, but a few stars show signs of some primitive life forms. It’s probably not like your garden variety asparagus, but at least I am finding some life forms, and I’m convinced that I’ll find some more advanced forms yet. This is really exciting. It’s a shame that you’re practically a galaxy away from me yourself.
Well, I’ll keep you up to date as I find out more.
Bye
Alan
From Kenneth Williams
To Alan Keller
Date 2.12.11, 18 11 UTC
Hi Alan
Congrats, awesome, man! Yeah, I wish I weren’t here in Chicago and you in Pasadena, but maybe I can arrange a trip out your way in the next few months.
There’s nothing exciting going on here unless you’re into icebergs, brrr!
I can’t wait until you make the big discovery. Big Foot on some distant planet, or maybe there’s an alien Einstein out there.
Keep me posted
Kenny
From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 3.08.11, 13 24 UTC
Kenny
This is incredible! It’s really happened; I’ve honed in on some galaxy with obvious advanced life forms. They are actually corresponding with me, or maybe it’s just “he,” but I don’t think so. From what I can understand so far it’s a whole society. We’re still learning to decode each other’s languages, but this is no plodding Yeti that I’m dealing with; that’s for sure. They are asking me so many questions in their probe. I really think they’re going to try to come here. How’s that for a pen pal, huh, pal? Hey, can you imagine me the official ambassador to the stars, wow! Fame and fortune await me.
Well, I have to go. This is consuming all my time. I don’t want to miss a thing. I’ll let you know whether anything startling develops.
Alan
From Kenneth Williams
To Alan Keller
Date 3.08.11, 14 22 UTC
Alan
Wow! You’re going to be in the history books. I asked at work about taking a week off in April. How does that sound? You don’t need to put me up, I’ll stay at any motel. I just want to be a part of all this.
Kenny
From Alan Keller
To Kenneth Williams
Date 3.15.11, 01 15 UTC
Oh my God, what did I get myself into? The aliens, they’re called the Fustians have just about taken over control of all my electrical power, and they’re on their way to Earth with a massive armada. We’re all going to become their slaves. I don’t know how much time I have. I hope this message #%*////
SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND
by Larry Boisen
I tried not to think of food, but my dog, Toby, continually let me know that he wasn’t getting enough to eat. I received enough money from begging yesterday to buy him some Purina moist and meaty dry food and some cheese and crackers and Cutey tangerines for myself. The tangerines were inexpensive, but they and the dog food weighed down my Safari jacket. I rationed them out one a day, but in my sleepless stupor I couldn’t remember whether or not I had eaten that day.
Some mysterious force had guided me to the library, but I wasn’t sure what it was that I was supposed to do there. It was as if this force had control of my every action, but it didn’t seem to possess any logic in its choice of a course of action for me. But, of course, what logic was there to bringing a dog into a public library? It wasn’t that public.
The librarians hesitated a moment as I entered, perhaps thinking that Toby was a seeing-eye dog. But they soon must have realized that I wasn’t blind – or was I? They told me that I wasn’t allowed to bring a dog into the library. I inexplicably ignored them and continued on towards the racks of DVDs with Toby at my side, which also made no sense, since I not only didn’t own a DVD player, but I was, in fact, a homeless sixty-four year old woman. My sole possession was Toby; my dear faithful Toby, whom I could never possibly part with.
More and more I felt a swelling up of an emotion of utter confusion. I was totally out of self-control. I was a mere marionette, the strings of which were being manipulated by some unseen, seemingly irrational force.
I resisted as one male and two female librarians lead me out of the library. What was I to do now - tie my poor Toby outside to a trash can? If I did this would I be able to re-enter the library sans canine or was I permanently a persona non grata?
I tied Toby to a bike stand, gave him some of the dog food and re-entered the library. The only resistances that I was met with were stares of disbelief. I walked over to the DVD section. What on Earth was I looking for?
“Where is God, where is God?” I screamed as I ransacked the racks of DVDs, and the librarians, this time four of them, quickly escorted me to an office where someone phoned the police while the others attempted to hush my wailing. No, I hadn’t mistaken the library for a church. I had already been to a church and also had been ejected from there. I had already been many places seeking Him.
But I wasn’t finding God anywhere, especially not in my homeless soul.
I tried not to think of food, but my dog, Toby, continually let me know that he wasn’t getting enough to eat. I received enough money from begging yesterday to buy him some Purina moist and meaty dry food and some cheese and crackers and Cutey tangerines for myself. The tangerines were inexpensive, but they and the dog food weighed down my Safari jacket. I rationed them out one a day, but in my sleepless stupor I couldn’t remember whether or not I had eaten that day.
Some mysterious force had guided me to the library, but I wasn’t sure what it was that I was supposed to do there. It was as if this force had control of my every action, but it didn’t seem to possess any logic in its choice of a course of action for me. But, of course, what logic was there to bringing a dog into a public library? It wasn’t that public.
The librarians hesitated a moment as I entered, perhaps thinking that Toby was a seeing-eye dog. But they soon must have realized that I wasn’t blind – or was I? They told me that I wasn’t allowed to bring a dog into the library. I inexplicably ignored them and continued on towards the racks of DVDs with Toby at my side, which also made no sense, since I not only didn’t own a DVD player, but I was, in fact, a homeless sixty-four year old woman. My sole possession was Toby; my dear faithful Toby, whom I could never possibly part with.
More and more I felt a swelling up of an emotion of utter confusion. I was totally out of self-control. I was a mere marionette, the strings of which were being manipulated by some unseen, seemingly irrational force.
I resisted as one male and two female librarians lead me out of the library. What was I to do now - tie my poor Toby outside to a trash can? If I did this would I be able to re-enter the library sans canine or was I permanently a persona non grata?
I tied Toby to a bike stand, gave him some of the dog food and re-entered the library. The only resistances that I was met with were stares of disbelief. I walked over to the DVD section. What on Earth was I looking for?
“Where is God, where is God?” I screamed as I ransacked the racks of DVDs, and the librarians, this time four of them, quickly escorted me to an office where someone phoned the police while the others attempted to hush my wailing. No, I hadn’t mistaken the library for a church. I had already been to a church and also had been ejected from there. I had already been many places seeking Him.
But I wasn’t finding God anywhere, especially not in my homeless soul.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Hopping to see you Wednesday Night
By Neal S. Mehr
I haven’t been to a meeting in almost two years. It’s not that I haven’t thought about going; in fact, I’ve had a lot of time to think about a lot of things.
On February 4th of this year, I came home after an absence of 523 days. I’ve changed a little, lost some weight, about 14 pounds of which used to be my left leg.
My wife Jeanette and I went on vacation in August of 2009. We flew into Nairobi Kenya to go on a long awaited African Safari. We flew on a small plane to Meru National Park, and then went to the Paradise Lodge. We had a great time touring and seeing the sites and wildlife. I’ll write about that later, but now only one story matters.
With only a few days left on our trip we went out on the Lodges’ four wheel drive Range Rover. We drove along the Tana River and stopped for a luxury safari picnic. After lunch I wandered off towards the river bank into the high weeds. I’d like to say just like in a bad novel, “I came face to face with the creature.” To tell the truth, I don’t remember what the crocodile looked like. Either I never saw the crocodile or my mind blocked it out.
I was told later that I was flown to a hospital in Nairobi. After four days I was flown back to Chicago. I have no memory of this. I was in shock.
After sometime in Advocate Lutheran General Hospital, I was awake and alert. They told me that a Nile crocodile snapped off my left leg below the knee. I didn’t have an easy time after that. The crocodiles’ mouth is filled with a variety of diseases, salmonella, mycobacterium and other bacteria. The crocodiles also harbor viral diseases, such as the pox virus, herpes virus and hepatitis.
I spent a long time in the hospital and nursing home/rehab center. They tried to isolate the many bacteria that infected me. Crocodile bites aren’t that common in Park Ridge. The doctors used antibiotics to fight my infections. Unfortunately, I was allergic to four of the antibiotics. Bad reactions caused sepsis, kidney failure and seizure. I recovered from all those. I had a total of ten operations and the rest of my leg was taken off above the knee.
I’m doing quite well now. I’m in outpatient rehab at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago in Northbrook. I have a prosthesis and use a walker. By the meeting in July, I’ll be using a cane.
This is the most I’ve written in two years, more will be coming.
I haven’t been to a meeting in almost two years. It’s not that I haven’t thought about going; in fact, I’ve had a lot of time to think about a lot of things.
On February 4th of this year, I came home after an absence of 523 days. I’ve changed a little, lost some weight, about 14 pounds of which used to be my left leg.
My wife Jeanette and I went on vacation in August of 2009. We flew into Nairobi Kenya to go on a long awaited African Safari. We flew on a small plane to Meru National Park, and then went to the Paradise Lodge. We had a great time touring and seeing the sites and wildlife. I’ll write about that later, but now only one story matters.
With only a few days left on our trip we went out on the Lodges’ four wheel drive Range Rover. We drove along the Tana River and stopped for a luxury safari picnic. After lunch I wandered off towards the river bank into the high weeds. I’d like to say just like in a bad novel, “I came face to face with the creature.” To tell the truth, I don’t remember what the crocodile looked like. Either I never saw the crocodile or my mind blocked it out.
I was told later that I was flown to a hospital in Nairobi. After four days I was flown back to Chicago. I have no memory of this. I was in shock.
After sometime in Advocate Lutheran General Hospital, I was awake and alert. They told me that a Nile crocodile snapped off my left leg below the knee. I didn’t have an easy time after that. The crocodiles’ mouth is filled with a variety of diseases, salmonella, mycobacterium and other bacteria. The crocodiles also harbor viral diseases, such as the pox virus, herpes virus and hepatitis.
I spent a long time in the hospital and nursing home/rehab center. They tried to isolate the many bacteria that infected me. Crocodile bites aren’t that common in Park Ridge. The doctors used antibiotics to fight my infections. Unfortunately, I was allergic to four of the antibiotics. Bad reactions caused sepsis, kidney failure and seizure. I recovered from all those. I had a total of ten operations and the rest of my leg was taken off above the knee.
I’m doing quite well now. I’m in outpatient rehab at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago in Northbrook. I have a prosthesis and use a walker. By the meeting in July, I’ll be using a cane.
This is the most I’ve written in two years, more will be coming.
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