Making an "Ism" out of Terror

     Terrorism.

     It's a real bugaboo these last twelve years. 

     Oh, it was a "thing" for the previous thirty years, but one criminal act in 2001 elevated it beyond reason.  Now, I'm not trying to make light of the destruction of the World Trade Center, or the corner of the Pentagon, or the plane that went down in a field in Pennsylvania, but I am trying to give them some perspective.

     So, let's analyze the word "terrorism."

     First, there's the obvious terror.  It's a good word, and describes intense fear.  In fact, the dictionary definition is: a state of intense fear.  That's pretty self-explanatory.  You feel terror when you think someone has broken into your house if you have no means of self-defense, if you're on a water-borne or air-borne vessel that is no longer being borne by its medium, if you suddenly find yourself falling from a tall building or a cliff, if you're being attacked by a wild, large, angry animal.  In general, it is a feeling that assails us when we are in situations that threaten our lives over which we have no control.

     Now, let's look at "-ism."  John Lennon had something to say about "-isms."  In fact, he said he didn't believe in them.  So, what is an "-ism?"  Well, according to the Concise Oxford English Dictionary, an  -ism is any distinctive doctrine or practice.  Consider Buddhism, Judaism, Catholicism, Socialism, Capitalism, Communism, Fascism, Vegetarianism, Lesbianism, Hinduism, Dudeism, Baptism, Patriotism, Pessimism, Racism, Optimism, Sexism, Ageism, Classism, Liberalism, Conservatism.....So, what you're saying is that Terrorism is a distinctive doctrine or practice of terror.

     Now let's look at those people defined as "terrorists" throughout the years.  Let me give you a hint: they do not all belong to the same religion, they do not all practice their terror the same way....so there is no distinctive doctrine, and there is no distinctive practice.  Timothy McVey, who blew up the Oklahoma City Federal building, destroying a day-care center and killing more than 150 people (many of whom were children) in the process, was defined as a terrorist.  By the same token, so were the perpetrators of the destruction of the World Trade Center, so were the numerous Arabs and Cubans who hijacked airplanes throughout the 1970s and 1980s, and so was the man who destroyed the TWA flight over Scotland more than twenty years ago.

     Now, a lack of fitting the specs to be a real "-ism" aside, there's a much more important consideration.

     When you call someone a terrorist, when you call an act terrorism, because of the connotations of the words, you give those people and that act power.  You are saying to those people that they are important enough to have made you angry and afraid.  Fear makes people controllable.  So what you've done by giving this title to these people is handed them your reins.

     Why can't we just call them crimes and criminals?  These words are just as true, but do not have the same charged connotations.  People fear a terrorist, but they look down on criminals.  So why would you rather be afraid of someone who had tried to get you to fear them?  You're playing right into their hands!  Sure, let's catch the criminals, but let's view them as the criminals that they are.  Murderers and vandals, but not terrorists.  The title is too good for them.

The Story of The Wandering Lobster

As the below indicates, this was a guest post I wrote for another blog: http://vulcanjeditimelord.wordpress.com/

     As the title indicates, I'm not the Vulcan Jedi Time Lord.  I am the City Druid, and he has asked me to sit in for him, since he has been writing so much the last few weeks that his brains are starting to leak out his ears.  So I'm here to tell you a story of an adventure that he and I, and another person, had many years ago.

     It was December of 1988, and he and I were staying with his girlfriend at the time.  I worked as a legal secretary for my father, he kept house, and she was a college student.  Since he cooked for everyone, he and I had gone grocery shopping at Kroger.

     It was a Wednesday, and payday was on Friday, so we were there to get a few necessities for dinner.  While we were shopping, we stopped to watch the lobsters in the tank.

     Mostly, they were ordinary lobsters, either sitting in the corners or sparring with their rubber-banded claws over territory.  However, there was one that absolutely got our attention.

     It was blue.  Have you ever seen a blue lobster?

     We vowed to come back on Friday after I got paid so that we could buy that lobster.

     Well, Friday rolled around, and I got paid, and we went to Kroger to look at the lobsters.  Much to our disappointment, Blue was gone, off to boil in a pot for someone's dinner.  However, we found another lobster in the tank that was nearly as remarkable: it was mottled green and blue/brown in a pattern very much like hunter's camouflage, and it had a barnacle growing where its nose would have been had it had one.

     We bought it.  We also bought a bag of ice and put the ice, and the live lobster, into my red Igloo cooler, and put the cooler into the back of my little Ford Festiva.  Then we went to the apartment where we lived in Inman Park, I parked the car in front of the building and kept the engine running while he ran in and got his girlfriend.  When they came out of the front door of the building, she was reading a book, and he led her to the car and helped her into the back seat.  She didn't say a word, just kept reading.

     He got into the passenger seat, and I started out.  We went downtown by way of Edgewood Avenue, and headed south on the Downtown Connector.  We talked, she read, and we generally had a very pleasant drive.  At some point, around about Macon, we switched drivers (his girlfriend didn't have a license, so she just kept reading), and we continued on our way down I-16.  Shortly after that, she realized we weren't in Atlanta anymore, and asked where we were going.

     Our goal, since I haven't mentioned it yet, was to take the lobster to the ocean at its closest point to our home (in this case, Tybee Island, Georgia, home of Savannah Beach) and release it into the water.  We felt it should have a chance to influence the gene pool.  We told her that as we drove.  She was interested in the adventure, and at that point it was getting dark so she joined the conversation.

     It's been a lot of years, so I don't remember what we discussed.  I do remember stopping at a rest stop to get out of the car and stretch.  It was just an area for tractor-trailers to park, and it had no street lights, so we got out and lay in the grass to look up at the sky.  Since we were in the middle of nowhere, there was a vast expanse of bejeweled sky, and the arm of the Milky Way was clearly visible.  We lay in the grass and talked for a few minutes, about the stars and constellations, and got back on the road.

     Once we reached Savannah, we ate and drove on out to Tybee Island.  Our biggest challenge, since it was December 2nd, was finding a hotel that was open for business.  We ended up at an Econolodge on the beach.  Since it was out of season, it was affordable.  We all went to bed.

     At dawn, we got up and hauled the cooler to the water's edge.  As planned, the giant bug was hibernating due to the ice, so we were able to safely take it out of the cooler (we slipped the rubber bands off its claws at this point since it was asleep), and put it in the shallow part of the surf.  Then we waded a little  in the water that was the temperature of iced tea, and stood on the beach to make sure the lobster went to sea.  It took a while, since we apparently got out there at low tide, or at least as the tide was coming in, because the waves kept pushing the poor, sleepy creature further up on to the sand. 

     Eventually, it woke up and actively worked to swim out to sea, and we left the beach.  Of the three of us, I was the only one who had been to Savannah, so I was the "native guide"; he gave his girlfriend a driving lesson on the driveways of Fort Pulaski (one of my favorite places to go) after we toured the fort.  Then we made our way to River Street and had breakfast at Huey's, then took a river boat tour of the port.  Then we headed home,

     It was a memorable trip, and one that has been published before.  If you've ever read a story called "The Great Lobster Liberation", that was written by the girlfriend.

     And now you know....the rest of the story.

Salad Nights

Last night can only be described as “Misadventures in Dining.”

It all started when I got home from work and we had errands to run.  It seemed every time we completed one, either Julian or I would remember another that we might as well take care of while we were out.  I finally put my foot down when we were less than three miles from home, and I was too tired and sore to survive another errand.  

Understand that both of us have old spinal injuries and suffer from chronic pain.  While going to the post office, the UPS Store, Cooks Warehouse and Target may not seem like much, to me it was enough that Costco was out of the question.

It must have been a bit much for Julian as well, because when we got home and he threw something on the stove for my usually-hungry son, after sitting down for a moment to rest,  he forgot entirely about the stove.

This became evident when our basement Storm went into the kitchen, and then yelled that the plastic had melted.  Julian jumped up from the computer to check on his disaster, and I stayed where I was, cruising Facebook.  I heard noises of cleaning and pot-and-pan clashing, and my son came out of his room and had food handed to him.  Then I heard a “thunk” and sharp, loud expletive.  I jumped up to make sure no one was maimed.

Unfortunately, the “thunk” was Julian slamming his finger in a cabinet.  He asked me to check the garbage disposal to find out why it wouldn’t work, and went to the bathroom.

The water was on and the disposal was off, so I stuck my hand in, pulled out the chunk of carrot that had become wedged between two of the blades, and turned on the disposal to wash the last of the nearly-laminated chick  peas away.  

When I turned around, Julian was back, and so was our basement Storm.  Julian said, “I want to make a very bad suggestion.”

I looked at his hand, which had a very red index finger, and said, “You want to go out to eat.”

“Yes, I want to take us all to Longhorn.  Look at my finger; it’s turning black and starting to swell.”

We all decided that the cook had every right to decide that, and I went to get my son and tell him we were going out.  He said he needed to finish his food, but was more than happy to eat again.

Julian put one of our many miracle Chinese liniments on his finger and, once we were all coated and shod and ready, we got in the car to go to Longhorn Steakhouse at Toco Hills.

Yeah, that worked well.

The basement Storm and I were both craving salads, and Julian was craving....well, pancakes, but he had wanted Longhorn.  We sat down and looked at the menu and realized that, in the six months or so since we had last been there, they had entirely redone the menu and there was nothing that looked good to her, all the salads had either grilled meat or bacon (since Julian and I are both allergic to beef and pork, these seemed like an exceptionally bad idea), except for the one that would have sucked with bleu cheese dressing on it--I was not in the mood for oranges and strawberries anyway--and nothing looked good to Julian.  Robyn, of course, would have been quite happy to devour a 30 ounce Porterhouse For Two, but the vote was three to one against, and so he lost.

As we were getting up to leave, we (unfortunately) asked the manager to let our waiter know that we would not be dining there--we had barely sipped our water and had not even touched the bread.  I say it was unfortunate that we spoke to her because she went into full Used Car Sales mode, trying so hard to get us to stay that she may well have convinced us not to go back for a long, long time.

Next, we tried Lettuce Souprise You.  Julian and I used to eat there years ago, before they went way down hill and then went entirely away.  We had not yet tried them in the fifteen years since they reopened, so we thought we should check them out.  To make a long story short, it is not what it was years ago, and we may or may not try it again when it’s earlier in the day and we have a bit more leisure time.

We were running out of close places that closed later than 9 that served decent salads.  I suggested Houston’s since I had not been there since my divorce fifteen years ago, so we went to the Houston’s at Lenox.

For those of you unfamiliar with Houston’s, it is an upscale restaurant chain owned by an Atlanta man.  While I do not know him personally, both my ex-mother-in-law and one of my former employers knew him, and it had been my former mother-in-law’s favorite restaurant.  Despite all that, we decided to try them.

Of course, I say they were upscale.  We walked in and were assaulted by no fewer than three televisions and a volume of sound that would make a sports bar during The Big Game proud.  Now, I don’t know about anyone reading this, but I was always taught that television is not something that belongs in a dining room, and that yelling over other peoples’ dinner is rude.  Given that, it was a bit of a shock when the waitress scolded my son for having his hat on before he even got to the table, but had not said anything to him when he walked in the door.  They don’t allow hats in the dining room, but they do allow drunken monkeys.

When we told the waiter that we were going elsewhere, he didn’t even bid us good evening or anything else.  He just walked off without a word.

At this point, we came up with two remaining options before we considered giving up and going to IHOP.  One we could be pretty well guaranteed to work, but it’s a bit expensive and we don’t eat there often.  We ended up at Six Feet Under instead.

Now, we’re an interesting lot to share meals together.  Julian and I are allergic to mammals.  That’s beef, pork, lamb, venison, buffalo....I could go on, but I’m already hungry.  Robyn, my son, has to avoid sugar.  Storm absolutely cannot eat anything with any spice to it, and is specifically allergic to oregano.  Conversely, Julian, Robyn and I love spicy food, and Robyn and Storm are both quite happy to eat beef in front of us, and the rest of us have no qualms about eating sweets in front of Robyn.  Sometimes it can be difficult finding a place that fits us all.

Six Feet Under is a seafood place that has a certain Cajun flair.  It didn’t matter; Storm sucked down her Chowder like she’d never seen food before, and only complained towards the end that it was way too spicy for her.  Julian and I ate the fried scallops off the top of it for her and, while I could barely tell there was pepper in them, they were very good.  Personally, I got a giant bowl of fish stew and an awesome salad, Robyn got salmon BLT sliders, and Julian got a seafood platter and....the worst chicken tortilla soup in the known ‘verse.

It started out as an effed up evening, and ended up Six Feet Under and pleasant.  Now if only the seafood party bar would 86 the televisions, it would have been perfect.

Don't Be A Wirehead.

     Sandy Hook, Connecticut.

     Are you alarmed yet?  Are you grabbing for your gun?  Are you worried about your children?  Are you hanging on every news article, every news page, every mention of school shootings, theater shootings, violence in the streets that you can find?

     Are you afraid your guns are going to be taken away?  Do you give money to the NRA?

     Do you think guns are evil?  Do you think every gun has the potential to, or the likelihood of, being used in a murder?  Do you think that every gun owner is a potential murderer?

     Do you think it's important to watch network or cable news?

     Do you work as a news broadcaster?

     If you answered yes to a substantial number of these questions, chances are that you ARE the problem.

     I've been paying attention, especially since Columbine.  I don't watch the news.  Occasionally, I will listen to NPR, which plays only news in the mornings and afternoons when I am commuting.  I have to limit this, because if I don't it causes severe depression that can last for days.  If I were to watch the news, one of two things would happen.  A) It would be much worse, or B) If I were to make a habit of it, I might become inured to the horror of it all.

     The point is, every time there is a major slaughter of this sort, it's blasted on all fronts at high volume, so much so that even someone like me who works to avoid the news can't escape.  It's on the television, the radio, the newspaper, the internet....it's everywhere. Whoever just wreaked havoc is now famous!  Often dead, but famous.

     Consistently, thereafter there are "copycat" crimes.

     The problem is defined in the name: "copycat".  Most of these people (not all, of course.  All generalities are false) want attention.  They know they'll get attention by doing this horrific thing because every other person who's ever done it in a big way (as far as they know) got loads and loads of attention.  Like a toddler, they want the attention, and don't really care whether it's positive attention or negative attention, so long as lots of people are paying attention.

     So, by watching the news, by talking about it with your friends and getting them to watch the news, by blogging about the news and Facebooking about the news, you're just giving the sorts of people who are in the state of mind that they are willing to perform such an atrocious act a reason to do it.

     Let me ask a less antagonistic question now: Do you have a legitimate need to know every detail of these tragedies?  Or, to put it another way, Do you really need to know any of this?

     If you really examine the question, and examine yourself realistically, and your life, I think you will find you do not.  Oh, perhaps if you were related to one of the children or teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary School, you would need to know.

     Did I need to know?

     No.

     I did not seek out this information.  I work with a number of people who are socked into the 24 hour media frenzy, and feed happily through any outlet they can find, and I knew about it within an hour of it happening because it became the discussion at large.  (One of the disadvantages to working in Cubicle-land.)  When I got in my truck to commute home in the afternoon, my radio had been left on NPR and they were covering it.  When the tears became uncontrollable, I changed the station.

     I did NOT need to know.

     I think the news media has a lot to answer for.  They are no longer purveyors of "news" (news  - /n(y)o͞oz/ - Noun - Newly received or noteworthy information, esp. about recent or important events) but of ratings.  They will say almost anything if it will get them the attention they desire.  I'm not saying that they make things up.  What I'm saying is that they pick the stories that will get the strongest emotional reactions, because those are the ones everyone watches.  It does not mean that those are important stories.  It means that they are ones that will be watched by people who will also watch American Idol, Survivor, Honey Booboo, Dog, The Walking Dead, Adult Swim, Two Broke Girls, and especially CSI and NCIS, or pretty much anything else someone filmed and sold to a network executive.

     Look, I'm not saying anyone reading this is bad, or evil, or anything.  However, your behaviors, your choices, influence the world.  If you encourage these kinds of outrageous news stories (which you do by watching them, reading them, sharing them, discussing them) then you are also encouraging the results of those stories.  

     Years ago, when we lived in Athens (home of the dratted inbred English bulldogs), we had several friends in different aspects of police work.  One was a detective, and found that watching shows like CSI and Law and Order made it easier for him to catch criminals because they committed the same crimes and made the same stupid mistakes.  Another friend, a "beat cop", laughed about gang shoot-outs because, invariably, one of these guys would get hold of a pistol or some similar weapon and hold it like they were in the movies: arm locked in front of them at just above shoulder height, with the gun held at a 90 degree angle to the vertical.  The results were predictable: squeeze the trigger and fire a line of bullets until the gun smashed them in the face and knocked them out through the joys of recoil.

     It apparently made them quite easy to capture.

     As to the whole discussion of guns, A) The Second Amendment guarantees us the right to defend ourselves with guns, not to hunt with them; B) The Second Amendment also calls for a civilian militia rather than a standing army.  Not so sure how well that would go over these days....C) No one (except for a few particularly loud idiots/power mongers) is actually calling to seize all the guns; and D) I'm all for registering the gun owners; not so sure the value of registering the guns themselves.  I'm willing to debate that, but I'm not going into my reasoning here and now.

     In the end, I suppose the real point of this long, drawn-out and slightly abusive rant is this:

     SHUT UP AND THINK FOR YOURSELF.

Perspective--Use it or Lose it!

     In 1973, I was four years old. It was a hugely significant year in my life, or at least had one of the events with the most effect on my life. 1969, 1971 and 1972 did as well, but this particular day in 1973 had an effect on my life second only to July 20th, 1969.

     I don't remember the exact date. I was four. The calendar was a meaningless chart as far as I was concerned. Sure, I knew how to read, and I knew my numbers, but I had no attachment to the significance of that particular set of words and numbers. And they're no particularly significant to the event in question, except that I suspect that it was sometime during the summer.

     I remember distinctly that I was looking out of the window of my bedroom at the back yard, and contemplating the concept of Omnipresence. While my parents never talked about such things (unless I asked), my grandmother talked a great deal about such things to me and my cousins. On that particular day, I was looking at the mass of green that was my panoramic view--the magnolia tree, the giant maple tree with six trunks, the camellia bushes 15-20 feet high, the hydrangea bushes, the grass liberally invaded by clover, violets and other weeds, the honeysuckle that had taken over the fence between us and the neighbors, the forsythia bush, the calla lilies, the massive wall of privet hedge...a world of myriad shades of cool green--and trying to reconcile what I saw with the words of my grandmother. I was trying to reconcile a grand, amorphous being inhabiting the trees, the grass, the weeds, the bushes....and the whole thing seemed terribly silly to me. I may have been extremely precocious, but I was also 4 and deep in the throes of the Concrete Operational Phase of my life, and this had no logic to it.

     As I sat and contemplated, I also thought about those other concepts that I heard from my grandmother: omniscience, and omnipotence. So I was expected to believe in an all-powerful, all-knowing male being who was everywhere. And yet, when I would make the effort to "say my prayers" (which my parents did not mention, but my grandmother certainly did), there was no palpable response. I got more "response" from my imaginary friends (and yes, that is how I referred to them, unless my parents started getting pushy about asking about them, and then I said they were invisible).

     Here is where the irony occurs. I was contemplating these things, and kind of laughing to myself about them, trying to decide whether these were things worthy of taking seriously, when I was "visited". I'll stick with that name for it now. You see, a...something appeared in my room. It was probably about 4-5 feet tall (I guess; once again, I was 4) dressed like Uncle Sam, only all in green sequins. He claimed he was God. Or a god. That part gets a little hazy, as does what he actually said to me.

     So I decided I could not possibly believe in a god that would come and have a personal conversation with a four year old girl. At that moment, back in the warm months of 1973, I became an atheist.

     This was to be one of the most significant decisions I could have made. It affected my personal thought processes, my perspective, my social life, my intellectual development, my socialization processes, my schooling....and yet, I still think that, despite everything, it was the right thing for me at that time. For one thing, it divorced me from the dogmatic pressure of the churches to which I was invariably dragged when visiting my parents' families in South Georgia. It gave me the freedom to analyze what was being said, rather than taking it in whole cloth as a necessary truth. It allowed me the freedom of reason. It was intellectually liberating.

     Perspective, though, is a funny thing. It changes as circumstances change. I was a firm atheist for 15 years.

     1988 was a much more significant year than even 1973 for me.

     Part of the reason it was so easy for me to chose atheism was because of the environment at home--especially my father's attitudes. He was the ultimate skeptic. In fact, he was a skeptic of skeptics and, like many (though not all) skeptics, he was so skeptical that he blinded himself to the possibility that anything other, paranormal, supernatural, spiritual, mystical (or however else you would like to characterize it) could possibly exist. Since this was the attitude on which I was raised, it was first nature to me.

      But then the world started to open up to me.

      Or maybe just crack a little. Anyway, the result, or the beginning, was that I started seeing that the "real world" had levels to it beyond what was immediately obvious. Of course, there have been many studies that showed aspects of the human brain that indicate a presence of what might be called "psychic phenomena". I started to become aware that there was more to the world than met the eyes. And it all started to fall into place after a "dream", though the dream took place in April of 1989.

      Julian's fiancée committed suicide on April 13, 1988. She was his soul mate; she made him feel complete, whole. Her death shattered him, and I, not having any clue what to do for him, how I could possibly make him feel better, stayed with him in the months that followed and let him cry on my shoulder, let him talk about her....which I guess is what he really needed, because I was the ONLY one that did these things.

     Well, a little after the first anniversary of her death, we were all asleep in his girlfriend's tiny studio apartment, when his fiancée...came to visit me. I was asleep next to the wall shared with the building's hallway. She walked through it, grabbed me and...pulled me out of my body (a singular experience--the only time I ever experienced anything like it), and told me to get Julian. Well, I tried. I pulled on him; he sat up out of his body (wearing a shirt I had never seen before, which turned out to be his favorite shirt--my son wears it now), complained that he was tired, and sort of fell back into his body. She dragged me through the wall to talk to me in the hall.

     She apparently did this because I had been suicidal the night before, and Julian had had to wrestle me and hold on to me to keep me from running off (severe depression combined with severe anxiety attacks is an ugly combination), and she was upset enough at the pain he had already experienced because of her death. She absolutely did not want to see him hurt that way again. Then she told me some things about her family, and her father, that I had not known. Then she disappeared, and I had a dream about her parents. When we all woke up in the morning, I confirmed with Julian the facts she had given me that I had never known before.

     That was a mind-opening experience. Hell, that was a freaky experience that had me stunned and contemplative for weeks. It seriously shook my skeptical atheist world view that had been slightly dented over the past year.

     So I read books, and I experienced the world, and, a few years later, I told Julian the entire story of the visitation when I was 4.

     He pointed out that my description fit very well a certain ancient Celtic god, and that the sequins were probably emeralds or something similar. Of course, I, at the tender age of 4, had never even heard of Lugh, much less considered him, but there you have it.

     Obviously, I am not an atheist at this time. I still sympathize with the lack of belief; it took me a long time to be able to conceive of real, functional belief in a deity. It took me even longer to stop resenting christians for the way they tortured me and attacked me (both literally and socially) because of my atheism and my honesty. I eventually came to realize that being christian did not make a person evil; being evil made a person evil, and some of the people that act in ways that I could justly refer to as evil just happen to claim to be christian.

     So what am I? Well, I call myself Druid, though I don't know how accurate it is. Etymologically, it does fit my last name. And it feels right. I don't practice well, or effectively (as far as I can tell; I may have figured out the Druid thing 13 or so years ago, but I was an atheist longer), but I do feel it.

     It's amazing how the view changes throughout the years.

      Perspective makes all the difference.

A picture is worth a thousand thoughts

     I have, once again, changed my profile picture on Facebook. I do this periodically, and it's usually my own art. I know I should probably slap my face up there for "truth in advertising" or some such, but, frankly, I don't like most of the pictures of me that I have available on the computer. So, you are all stuck with my art.

     Usually.

     This one is not mine. That is, I did not draw or paint it, though it was done for me. Alas, it's not quite what I wanted, but at least this one person was willing to give it the old college try. At least she captured sort of what the description of it is. That's better than all those people over the last twenty or so years who've said they would draw it for me and then did....nothing.

     Julian had this done for me. He is actually intending to practice drawing the parts to see if he can replicate what I have described to him. That means as much to me as the fact that he's the one that commissioned this piece for me while he was at a 'Con while traveling with Wolfhome Adventuring Outfitters. And, yes, he saw that it was not what I described, but it was the best he'd been able to find as well.

     What it should be: a Chinese dragon, but skinnier and gold; the feet should be on the outside of the ring and much smaller, and its head should be more even with its tail (and also smaller), breathing a huge gout of flame into the circle of its body, with the phoenix rising from that flame and filling the circle of the dragon's body. And the rose should be pointed up, not down.

     I suppose most of this is a stylistic difference but, given the significance of this image to me, that style means a lot.

     I saw this in a vision during meditation many years ago. It symbolizes me in many respects. The aspect of the phoenix describes my early twenties, and the rose comes from the name I was given by my Sifu--Golden Rose--which is, at least in part, a reference to a Bruce Lee quote from The Tao of Jeet Kune Do: The thorn defends the rose/but harms only those who would steal the blossom.

     So this is a picture of me, in a sense. It says a lot about me, but mostly only if you know the stories behind it. While it's not perfect, it's mine.

A Quest!

     As long as I can remember, I have wanted to write. I would say "wanted to be a writer" but I don't think that quite sums up the burning to put ideas to paper. I want to get these ideas into the air, drag them kicking and screaming from the hidden recesses of my brain and expose them, squinting, to the light of day.

     I first felt this itch, this burning, when I was in third grade. We each had to write a story, and I created a small, strange little world of Robbie the Rocket and a ghost. I don't remember it well, but that was...longer ago than I'd like to count right at the moment. And at the moment that I finished that story, I was hooked. Not only did I get to create something and not be scolded for "making up stories", but I got to read it afterwards, and explore the world I had created in my head. There was nothing better to my eight-year-old mind.

     By fourth grade, I had discovered poetry. That went over even better for a time, because adults actually liked my poetry. I was even forced to read one of my verses on the intercom before (or was it after?) the Pledge of Allegiance when I was in fifth grade. Suddenly, I had recognition! As shy as I was (and I was so painfully shy), being recognized for something I had done in a good way was both exhilarating and mortifying.

      I couldn't, and didn't, stop writing. I wrote stories. I wrote essays. I wrote poetry. When I was a teenager, the poetry became the voice for my deep depression. Somewhere, I still have it. I probably should have burned it, but that would be like burning your children.

     Or perhaps just your mirror.

     When I was in my twenties, all my writing was channeled into writing long explanations to myself to try to figure out why and how I was so effed up. They were deeply analytical, vaguely lyrical, and hideously depressing. They also allowed for a degree of introspection and self-realization that may have been impossible without. Alas, I'm afraid many of those are also still lingering, largely because most of my belongings remain in storage, and I don't want to just burn everything. I would lose too many books.

     For a time, I edited a small science fiction magazine owned by my best friend. I wrote for it as well, poetry, stories and articles. That was the best damned job I have ever had in my life, and if we had continued with the success we were enjoying we would probably still be doing it. However, we learned the hard way that, no matter how good a relationship you have with a printer, GET IT IN WRITING! The last issue of the magazine was published in 1991. We lost $0.60 on each and every one of the 200 copies because the printer changed managers, doubled the price, and screwed up every single copy. $120.00 was way too much for us to lose, and we were forced to stop publishing due to intense poverty. Someday we'll bring it back, perhaps as a web-zine, but it hasn't happened yet. 

      As a married mom to a small child, I tried very hard to get back to writing. I wrote a story for a contest, then realized it was way too long so I just sat on it. I wrote lots of bits and pieces of things, then divorced my husband because he was a dick. An abusive dick.

      Then I had to work (hard) to make a living.

     And that's where I stand now. I work a lot, and I try to take time to write. Now that my (same) best friend and I have his writers' group going again, I'm even somewhat motivated to write. Since the Graphites regeneration in July, I've finished two short stories. Considering the number of novels and short stories I started in the last ten years and failed to finish, I think I'm starting a good roll.

     So this brings us to the Quest.

     What I want, more than anything, is to write, get published, and get paid to write so that I have time to write. Working a forty hour a week desk job twenty miles from home is great, but it takes too much time away from writing. We depend on my desk job--I do not have the luxury of being able to quit to dedicate myself to it, no matter how many ideas are fluttering at the lantern, begging to be burned.

     I have started by sending friend requests to just about any published author I can find on Facebook. It's not so much that I think that being linked to published authors is some kind of panacea that will make time management for my writing easier, or make it simpler to get published. I'm far too realistic for that kind of thing.

     My reasoning is two-fold. First of all, networking is a fine and wonderful thing. That's half the reason Julian started his writers' group in the first place. You find yourself connecting to the most amazing people, and sometimes you connect with someone that can really help you. And sometimes you connect with someone that...you can really help. And there's nothing quite like people helping each other.

     The second fold of my reasoning is that...writers are people, too. They have kids, divorces, grief, grocery trips, psychoses, illnesses, writers' block, and often even day jobs. There's nothing quite so inspiring as seeing someone else accomplish what you want to accomplish from a position not so different from your own. At the very least, it makes your position seem much more promising.

      So to all those writers whom I recently friended (and I have been shocked at the sheer number, so my apologies for not thanking you each personally), thank you so much for accepting my friend request, and may we all be happily published with our own various and sundry genres.

     Let's wish us all massive success!

     Now I just need to know if I'm half as good as my best friend seems to think I am.