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My lady doesn’t understand. She thinks anything worth publishing will be recognized, but it WON’T…not ever…not if it can’t be expected to earn a buck or two. She STILL doesn’t realize it’s not about quality; it’s all about MONEY, and yesterday when we were going to an Italian restaurant with friends, she kept telling me how much she wanted me to publish…while I kept telling her just how FRUSTRATING the whole thing would inevitably become for me.
She’s a nurse and tends to equate work with reward. She KNOWS how hard I work at writing and feels I should find some way to garner some kind of benefit…but she really doesn’t understand what a writer is all about. We WRITE because we HAVE TO, otherwise, we’d wither and die…and I bet a lot of them have done just that…John Kennedy Toole comes to mind. She sees me typing away, reads some of the stuff I’m pouring into the word processor, and most of the time ENCOURAGES me to go on and eventually get it published.
Don’t get me wrong. She seems to understand how much I HATE being thrown into the meat-grinder again, but now and again after she’s read something I’ve written, she seems to feel it should be SHARED. I don’t. Emily Dickinson, my patron saint, wrote because she ENJOYED it, never ever expected ANYONE to read what she had so carefully penned, and she has become my model, my guidepost. While I have NO ILLUSIONS because I know I’m not anywhere NEAR her ballpark, she comforts me in a strange, out of time sort of way.
“Write because you enjoy it,” she tells me. “Ignore your lady’s advice.” And You know what? I think I’m going to do just that. My bed may be unusually lonely for a good while, but she’ll come around…in time. I’ve always felt if ONE person enjoyed what I’ve written, it would ALL be worthwhile. What do I need with adulation, TV spots, and all that other bullshit none of my REAL predecessors had to endure? I’m not living like thay did…penniless in a garrett, though the image is seductively entrancing.
Thanks to years of working my ass off, I’m comfortable enough to tell those bastards out there in the publishing world to go do you-know-what to themselves…even though my lady has no idea what I’m thinking…or talking about. She loves me, and I love her right back, but there’s MORE to it than that. She KNOWS good literature. Savvy and smart, she’s not about to be fooled by a flash-in-the-pan, even if it’s ME, and I believe her.
In this world, you’re either a no-talent hack or a genius, and I envy those who didn’t have to jump through as many hoops as writers do today just to be NOTICED. Like I said…my patron saint…walking alone in her garden, composing sublime poetry, and not giving the timiest particle of conern to whether they would ever be read, somehow before her time, Emily KNEW the rest of it was all insignificant CRAP…and THAT’S why I adore her, the first REAL literary rebel.
I may be the worst writer God ever let live. Personally, I don’t think so, but dammit, I’d like to KNOW whether I am…or not. The problem is…with THIS system, I NEVER WILL!
Forgive me. I’m sort of at a low point just now.

Pensacola Two

I came away from Pensacola Beach unbelievably grateful to be living in this particular time and immensely proud to be an American. The GPS unit was invaluable, particularly since Pensacola’s streets, like Lafayette’s, go every which way and many are one-way. In the evenings when we sat watching the goings on in Sabine Bay, we decided where we wanted to go the next day, and I programmed it into my GPS Favorites section. The next morning all we had to do was pop into the car and activate the unit, and we were on our way. On the way back, if we realized we needed bread or milk, the GPS told us where the nearest market was.
My dad wouldn’t have liked…or accepted …a GPS unit; he considered himself the world’s greatest navigator…which he wasn’t. I can still remember him on trips, furiously trying to find the right map and the right PLACE on the map. Dad was old school…he wasn’t ABOUT to take direction from a little machine that spoke with a woman’s voice, and to tell the truth we always got where we were going, just not directly…or in a timely fashion much of the time.
He wasn’t atechnical, just didn’t trust new-fangled gizmos all that much. I remember a time he called me and said his computer had stopped working. After a few minutes explanation, I told him to hit the enter key. “I CAN’T do that,” he answered. “It might mess something up!” I drove to his house, walked in without saying a word, went to the den, hit the enter key…which corrected the problem…and silently left. That was Dad…he DID do email, though.

One more GPS story I just GOTTA share. I was at the electronics store buying a suction base for my unit, while the lady in front of me was looking for a unit of her own. The conversation with the sales guy went something lke this.
“How does it work?”
“It tells you where you are.”
“It KNOWS where I am?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“ME?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“IT KNOWS WHERE EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD IS?”
“No, Ma’am…just you.”
“There you go again. How does it know that?”
“It doesn’t know it’s YOU exactly. It knows where it is and tells its owner.”
“It KNOWS I own it?”
“It just sort of assumes the person using it is its owner.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It works on a triangulation principle using satellites. Transferring its calculated satellite-derived location into constantly updated memory, it brings up the appropriate map and shows where BOTH OF YOU are.”
“It has MAPS?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Of EVERYWHERE in the United States?”
“Yes, Ma’am, but if you go to another country, you have to update it.”
“So…let me get this straight. I have to read a little map while I’m driving along?”
“Not recommended, Ma’am. There’s a warning about that when you turn it on.”
“THEN HOW THE HELL WILL I KNOW WHERE I’M GOING?”
“It tells you.”
“It TALKS?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Totally exasperated and confused, the lady turned to me.
“Do YOU have one of these things?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“DOES IT WORK?”
“Beautifully.”
“Okay, if you say so, I’ll buy one.”
“But…Ma’am…when you get it home, PLEASE read the instruction manual.”
You can’t make up stuff like that. Nobody would believe it.

The great A-HA moment for me in Pensacola was understanding deep down just how much our forebears had to tolerate and live through to give our country its identity. Wandering through Ft. Pickens in moderate April heat, I couldn’t help imagining what it was like in 1861 in August when a garrison kept the entrance to Pensacola Bay permanently shut: oppressive heat, cottonmouth moccasins, alligators, monotonous food (salt pork and fish), no vegetables (except onions), and immense stretches of boredom punctuated by terrifying moments of ferocious battle. My heart bleeds for those guys, even while it thanks them for what they did.
And…they’re still doing it. The trip to the Naval Aviation Museum proved it…with innumerable planes, space capsules, proud history, and the infectious enthusiasm of museum personnel. I saw numerous elderly gentlemen, many fighting tears back, lingering with their families in front of one particular plane or history kiosk describing a WWII battle, other late middle-aged men doing the same thing at the Korean War site, and the youngest of them all, early to mid fifties, in the Viet Nam hangar, all teary-eyed, all eerily silent, and many praying.

They know better than any of us how sincere our resolve must be to preserve what we have. I wanted to thank them personally but knew better than to intrude on such a personal, obviously cathartic experience, and I can only hope they know how much they’re appreciated. What they did, they did for the future…and WE are the future they did it for. Pray God what we do with it gives our children, their children, and their children’s children the same reasons for pride…and for hope.
When we returned to our rental unit, we walked along one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, ate some of the best seafood ANYWHERE…including Acadiana…so fresh it was still sweet, slept soundly on crisp, clean sheets in comfort, and KNEW it would all still be there for us in the morning. People have suffered, died, faced terror, dug deep, and found heroism so we could do just that. People who say America is in decline have it unforgivibly wrong. America is alive and well…and beautiful…and inspiring…and technologically savvy…and filled with endless, hopeful promise.
I’m so happy God chose to put me in America!

The Gulf Out Front

We’ve just returned from Pensacola Beach, where we dove equally into fine dining, history, and the Gulf of Mexico. Usually, we go to Galveston when we want some time in the sun and salt breeze, but this time we decided to go EAST…and for some reason, Pensacola beckoned. It’s not a difficult trip from Lafayette, I-10 all the way, and what with stops for food and gasoline…almost $4.00 a gallon…we made it handily in about four and a half hours.
We’re big believers in VRBO, vacation renters by owner, usually more reasonable than hotels and ALWAYS a lot more caring and considerate, so we checked Pensacola Beach out on the net and found a VRBO rental in the Treehouse development, a three-story townhouse on the beach which fit our needs perfectly, only about a hundred yards from the gulf with an unobstructed view from the master bedroom on the third floor and a back yard for Baxter and Angel. It felt like home almost immediately.
Of course, Angel and I went for our walks, this time twice a day, but we had a little problem with her.  She’s a barker…mostly protective it seems to me; she ALWAYS barks and growls at other dogs (Baxter excepted…she IGNORES him), but this time she seemed to consider SEAGULLS a threat…and God help you if it was a PELICAN!  Baxter, on the other hand, was a pussycat.  The funny thing is he discovered his reflection in the glass door into the back yard, and you could just see the wheels turning.  “Poor little guy, he followed us here all the way from Lafayette, and he’s STILL trapped in that shiny thing.  He brought treats and toys to the door, but the little dog seemed to have his own and showed no interest.  Whenever Baxter went into the back yard, the first thing he did was to check on the little dog in the glass and make sure he was still there and okay.

Sabine Bay Out Back

What with the wind and all, there was only ONE day when the surf flags were yellow allowing swimming, but the bay on the other side of the unit had a nice sand beach and no flags. I got to throw myself into the incredibly clear water on that one day, but the rest of the time I either had to walk with my lady on the beach or swim in Little Sabine Bay…by the way…just as COLD. I guess you gotta expect that when you go to Florida in April.
The seafood was outstanding…INCREDIBLY FRESH…and deliciously cooked, and I gotta say Peg Leg Pete’s, Flounders, and Crabs, We Got ‘Em, were our three most favorite places. Of course, we cooked at home a lot of the time, but that brings up a problem we hadn’t forseen. The nearest supermarket is in Gulf Breeze, a toll bridge away from Santa Rosa Island, but the GPS unit was very helpful, leading us to a Super Wal-Mart and a Winn Dixie with all their bounty. The toll was only a dollar…and I had stocked up on ones…just in case. Florida is FAMOUS for toll things.

President Nixon's Marine 1 at the Naval Aviation Museum

When we weren’t eating, we were sightseeing and immersing ourselves in the history and richness of Pensacola’s offerings. We toured the Naval Aviation Museum on the naval base, something NOBODY should miss if he has even the SLIGHTEST chance to see it, but you know me…history and all that. Fort Pickens had to have been my favorite foray into history. The ONLY fort in Florida not captured by the Confederates, it sat at the mouth to Pensacola Bay and effectively blocked the Confederacy’s efforts to launch a strike force from the mainland. Though a southerner, I’m extremely IFFY about which side I choose to root for.

Gun Emplacement at Ft. Pickens

My lady and I both LOVE history…and rooting around through ruins, and Ft. Pickens, EASILY a day trip, was immensely satisfying. Not only that…we got to meet an author and authority on both the Civil War and the role that fort played in its outcome. We bought TWO of his books in the Visitor Center! One thing amazes me. I had to work like hell to slog a couple of miles through sand along Pensacola Beach…and I was barefoot, in shorts and a light tshirt. Those guys did it in WOOL…and full battle packs! The more I learn about the Civil War…or as they call it down there, the War Between the States…the less I think I would have enjoyed…or tolerated…participating on EITHER side!

Inside Ft. Pickens

But Fort Pickens did its job well and prevented the rebels from unleashing unholy hell from captured sites on mainland Pensacola…almost certainly changing the course of the war in the deep south. Still…you know…part of me kind of hopes at least a FEW of those guys in blue got a chance to tear off their awful, itchy wool uniforms and run happily into the emerald-blue, crystal-clear, salty waters surrounding them. Hell…I DID…and it was a BLAST…but a little chilly.

I can remember running all day when I was eleven, often all the way to the park or the middle of town, a good two miles either way, full blast, never stopping to rest or catch my breath…but I can’t do that anymore. Oh, sure, I can run…just not all day without stopping to recover and recharge. TIME has stolen that from me, time, the ultimate villan who makes it a point to invade and disrupt our lives whenever it can.
If you ask me, time has a lot to answer for, because it has stolen a lot of people I’ve cherished along the way, too. Always eager to meet and know EVERYBODY, I somehow managed to include a lot of older people among my friends in the tiny town where I grew up, mostly because I valued their experiences and wisdom far more than my contemporaries’ and because they were willing to SHARE it with me…but as time has sneaked its way along, I’ve found myself going to a lot of funerals.
A particularly painful one of those was my old scout leader’s, where I told him in my mind I’d be seeing him again…because now I KNOW I’m no more immune to time’s implacable harvest than HE was, time, the HARD, inescapable taskmaster, but the way I see it, time doesn’t give a royally good damn about what we think, just does its thing and leaves recriminations and sadness to what it no doubt sees as meaningless and useless emotion…that is, if it sees ANYTHING. After all, it’s only a concept of physics.
And Einstein said it doesn’t really exist; he called it an illusion, a STUBBORN illusion to be exact, but I gotta tell you, Albert E., to me…and a lot of my older friends…it FEELS pretty real. When those I hold dear die, I tend to keep asking myself what this is REALLY all about; I mean…if time is illusory, WHERE THE HELL DID THEY GO? Einstein also said there was too much energy in a living human being to just disappear; physics and mathematics REQUIRE it to go somewhere else, and don’t give me all that crap about somewhere we can NEVER know or understand. I’m not wired that way.
For sure, he’s there now, Albert E., wherever THAT is…in a place we can never wrap our minds around…and…in a way…that’s time’s fault, too. Like the ball in a ping-pong match, we’re endlessly bouncing around reacting to forces driving us in evermore unexpected…and often counterproductive…directions. Hey, Time, here’s an irony for you; we don’t have TIME to work it all out…too busy trying to deal with what you’re throwing at us, but I think your impact is all part of the plan…whatever that plan is.
I tend look to history when I feel my back up against the wall, desperately hoping SOMEBODY in the past had a clue about what’s REALLY going on, but to tell you the truth, they didn’t. NOBODY’S ever figured it out, so if it DOESN’T really exist, I’ve decided to consider time best understood as a SIMULTANEOUS continuoum, like a river where everything’s happening all through history at the same instant…just at different locations on the curve, the way I choose to believe God sees it. And if old Albert E. was right and time REALLY is the illusion he said it was, it makes sense.
In my way of looking at it, the story of our lives locked in time are a lot like a book to God. While King John is reluctantly accepting the Magna Carta, Ankhesenamun is desperately writing to the Hittites to bail her out of her connubial problem so she won’t have to marry Aye, Jefferson is sweating out the exact wording of the Declaration of Independence, you are being born…and dying, and Jesus, the Prophet, Confucious, and numberless saints are spreading words of beatific promise, God can turn to whichever page He chooses and either edit or appreciate it.
I SINCERELY hope He isn’t offended when I bring editing into this. I’m POSITIVE He knows how I feel about editors, but I also believe He can transmit what He KNOWS of our future to a chosen few down here…explaining the accuracy of soothsayers and prophets through the years…and not just Christian seers. MANY all over the ancient world were INCREDIBLY accurate. I know you liberal agnostics and athiests are going to find this part tough going, but whether you like it or not, there IS a God, and He is…what did my English teacher say when I was in high school? Yes, I remember…OMNISCIENT, OMNIPRESENT, and OMNIPOTENT. By the way, time got that English teacher, too.
I’ve said it before, humanity will NEVER develop the ability to move through time. Its grasp on us is just too great to work around, even if Einstein considered it illusory. Besides, if ANYBODY had been able to do it in the future, we’d have MET him by now…somewhere along the wheel of our history, but it hasn’t happened yet…so I think it never will Maybe the whole system is only meant to teach us to live in…and appreciate…what we know as the PRESENT, to do the best we can with what we have and leave our notch in the wheel of time brighter, softer, and a little better.
I hope that’s what time is doing, at least ONE redeeming quality to justify its carnage, because recently a good friend of mine died, and the disturbing thing is he was MY AGE: time one, J.J. zero. A good guy who’s book suddenly and unexpectedly slammed shut, he, like me, believed he had YEARS ahead to enjoy and be happy within, but he was cut short, far shorter than he DESERVED…proving to me at least, whatever its lofty purpose, sometimes time can be an ABSOLUTE BASTARD.
You’re a THIEF, time, and anyone who’s lived more than twenty seconds KNOWS it; we just don’t know how to CONTROL you…and probably never will, but that doesn’t mean we like what you do…and also probably never will. We’ll deal with what you do to us and pray it’s all part of some Divine plan, but before you get us…as you ALWAYS do, we’re gonna live, and love, and try to make the world better…whether you’re an illusion or not! J.J. probably never considered anything like this, but while he lived, he lived MAGNIFICIENTLY…and taught me something.
So, good night, J.J., I’m sorry you didn’t realize it while you were alive, but at least now I do…and that should give you some comfort wherever you’ve gone. Whatever it is, illusion, something carved in stone, a river, a figment of God’s imagination, or a simple physics paradox, I know…and understand. Time’s not ANYBODY’S friend; it’s a COMMON THIEF…and now I know something else, too. It’s hot on my ass…just like it was on yours. Actually, it’s hot on EVERYBODY’S!

Yes, yes…we KNOW. We said we’d clip Baxter’s little family jewels, but when push came to shove, we just COULDN’T DO IT! A couple of things kept bothering us. First of all, his coat and confirmation are magnificent…a perfect breeder, maybe even a show dog, but his personality also came into play…so incredibly SUBMISSIVE and respectful. He would rather DIE than pee or poo in the house, even goes out into raging rainstorms to do his business…he did that today…and he’s such a HAPPY little dog just the way he is. It wasn’t too big a leap for us to decide we wanted him to stay that way forever.
Angel is a LOT older, but even she seems to like him just the way he is. Of course, when he goes into his OBSTREPAROUS mode, she tends to object…as do we, but then he seems to understand and runs around, gathering up his absolute FAVORITE toys, dragging them to her…and us. He always chooses to bring me his green frog…which he ADORES…a LOUD little sucker generally left for me in the middle of the main area floor when I go to bed. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve inadverdently awakened the ENTIRE house stepping on that thing on the way to the computer room when I wake up earlier than the rest of them, but that’s Baxter in a nutshell…over the top almost all the time…and usually noisily so.

My lady has been earnestly trying to groom Baxter’s ever-growing coat, and I know it won’t be long before it’s far too challenging for her. So…today, I decided it was time to try and find a groomer for him…and HER. We’re both a little skittish…since Angel’s problem…I mean, a CUT EYE? How could THAT not affect our decision? Anyway, today when I was going to get the best Parmigiano Reggiano available in the city, I spotted a grooming place and impulsively stopped in to check it out. Turns out the lady has been in business for years and is quite successful, and after chatting with her for a while, I decided she could do the job my lady was finding so increasingly difficult.
Now…and you gotta understand this. Baxter is ADORABLE…and SUBMISSIVE…and consequently you instinctively want to PROTECT him, and when I told my lady I thought I had found a groomer for him, she kind of looked at me like I was some sort of TRAITOR. Okay…I’m MALE…and the head of a household…and ALWAYS trying to make things safe, better, and more comfortable for those I’m supposed to take care of…INCLUDING BAXTER…but it isn’t always all that easy. You try…God knows, you try, but you don’t ALWAYS succeed…not with female hormones ricocheting all over the place.
Baxter is getting shaggy…and to tell the truth, sometimes he doesn’t smell all that good, cute though he may be. Since I’M the one he chooses to snuggle up to on cold nights, and while I appreciate his love, SOMETHING has got to change. I wasn’t planning to have his HEART cut out…or his nads…only hoping to get his incredibly LUXURIANT coat under control for God’s sake, so how have I become the BAD GUY in all this? The way I see it, I’m an INNOCENT…only trying to do something good, trying to help. Go figure. I should have bought my Parmigiano Reggiano and got the hell home because I’m not up to these maternal, hormone-infused games. I understand it ALL now…the same way I understand I haven’t the foggiest clue about how to deal with them.

Turns out, I miss the comments. I really enjoy reading what you have to say, and I’m beginning to think I shot myself in the foot taking everything out when what I was looking for was CONTROL. So…a little apprehensively, I’m opening THIS area for comments.  To tell you the truth, I STILL haven’t figured out what to do about the spam problem, but this way at least, it will be more manageable.  AC

I really love the idea of freely allowing comments on this website. I’m a big believer in letting people speak their mind, and I thoroughly enjoy reading them…even the critical stuff…but lately I’ve had to re-think that point of view. For the past ten days, three or four sociopathic guys have been mercilessly spamming it. Overnight a couple of days ago, I had more than 500 comments, all spam, and when I implemented spam controls, they started spamming with trackbacks and pingbacks…450 this morning.
I’m well into the process of finding an agent for my novel, Demon Moss…while doing re-writes and even working on a new one, so I really don’t have HOURS to sit at the computer deleting stupidly annoying stuff while looking for honest and sincere comments. Consequently, I have CLOSED coments, trackbacks, and pingbacks on ALL posts. My plan is to allow them on new things I write…until those idiots see an IN and start abusing it…then they, too, will be closed.
If you have something you’re ABSOLUTELY DYING to tell me, use the email form in the Contacts section. I can trace spammers that way, but if they even THINK about trying to gum things up again, that’s closing, too. It’s a pity…limiting the free exchange of ideas just because you’re a jerk…or you hate everybody…or a quirk of statistics has made you a hostile sociopath…or your penis is too small. You might laugh, but I think micropenisia (my word) is always in there somewhere when you’re talking about people like this…little weewee, BIG resentment.
Internet spammers…GET A LIFE. Go annoy your neighbors out in the REAL world. You’re ruining a good thing in the electronic version. We keep hearing about impending government monitoring and control, and guys like you will almost ENSURE it. I tend to keep saying guys…I suppose there could be a few gals doing it, but born and reared in the deep south, I have too much respect for women built in. To me that’s just not a REAL LADY’S style, but…these days?…who knows?
Someday…if I lose my mind or something…I might open up a few posts at a time and hope the assholes have moved on…but I wouldn’t put money on it. They haven’t won, but they’ve DEFINITELY pissed me off…while damaging the best quality of the internet, its best hope, really, the unfettered exchange of thoughts and ideas. By the way, as you might suspect, comments, trackbacks, and pingbacks are also closed on this notice.
Albert Corne

When I was practicing medicine and saw everything going down the tubes, I got out. It all started when a poweful BUREAUCRAT told me I had to do things the way THEY wanted me to, not the way I had always done it, not the way I was TAUGHT to do it, not the way I KNEW would work…the way THEY wanted it…didn’t take a Ouija board for me to decide. Our house was paid for and we had enough to live on…so we got the hell out of Dodge. And…you know what? It hasn’t been nearly as tough as I feared. With my lady always there to support me…even when she was frightened, I KNOW we did the right thing, and I can only love her more for what she’s meant to me during such a disturbing and difficult time.
The sad thing is…afterward, I realized I had been practicing medicine at the pathetic end of medicine’s golden age in America…and on Earth, the end of good and promising things. Think about THAT, you overweight guys, or you people with stains in your genome or a bad family history. Today’s merciless actuaries consider you EXPENDABLE! Insurance companies, medicare toadies, government bureaucrats, and the tyranny of their paid, true-believer “nurse co-ordinators”, will see to it you haven’t a prayer. I hold those nurses in greatest contempt…traitors to a beautiful, promising, and incredibly useful profession. If you ask me, those women (and a few men) have a LOT to answer for.
Almost singlehandedly, they stepped in line, sat down, picked up their earpieces, and killed a magnificent and successful health care process.  I’ll leave it to history to tell them what they’ve done, but to tell the truth, most of them will probably be dead long before that. I bet they got a lot of perks and raises, and in the eyes of their overlords, I’m sure they earned them. Killing a system isn’t easy, but they figured out just how to do it…with a LOT of oversight, I imagine. I’m sure the most enthusiastic got ENORMOUS bonuses, but they better pray they don’t develop a debilitating disease. Even those huge rewards won’t be enough…and the system they and their masters left in place won’t cover it.
These days I’m also beginning to believe I’ve lived through the end of America as the shining beacon on a hill. When I think of how many people DIED to preserve that concept, it sickens me, particularly when I see how many now clamor to suck on the biggest government tit they can find, attach, and keep sucking voraciously no matter what happens, no matter the cost, no matter the debt incurred. Almost all of us live on a budget. We KNOW if we spend more than we take in, there’ll be a reckoning, but that’s only us at the bottom of the political food chain…not governments caught in the endless spiral of ever-increasing, unpaid-for largesse, mostly to cream their opponents in their next election, I suspect.  Just now, I think it’s time for a little Shelley…and Ozymandias…one of my FAVORITE poems.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Most scholars believe Ozymandias was another name for Rameses the Great, who ruled Egypt through at least five generations of his subjects. Absolutely powerful, rich, prolific, and successful, he was revered as a god, but he could NEVER have seen how he, too, was living at the pathetic end of a good thing. After Rameses II, there was a succession of increasingly weaker pharoahs, ultimately leaving the door open to invaders from the north culminating with the ROMANS, the rapacious Romans, who killed Cleopatra, the last pharoah (pharoahette?), locked the whole place down, and sort of kept Egypt as their own personal larder…which they sucked DRY. Old Ozzy didn’t see it coming, but it was out there nonetheless…waiting to destroy what he had built, planned, hoped for, and thought would last FOREVER.
Dazzled by endless reassurances of his primacy, Rameses never saw it, and you know, to me he sounds a lot like those idiots in Washington. Like him, they don’t know or see it, but it’s out there…and IT’S COMING! I’ve lived through the end of so many good things: the end of innocence, the end of trust, the end of social civility, the end of freedom to proclaim your beliefs without scorn, the end of common, proper English, the end of FAMILY as a central, stabilizing hub, the end of excellence as a goal for education, the end of promise, the end of fiscal responsibility…and the end of hope.  The ”lone and level sands” are swirling in; I just pray there’ll be another poet like Shelley somewhere out there in the future to document our fall so eloquently.

First of all…and you gotta understand this…I’m not a RESOLUTION kind of guy. I live in a fluid world, my life a river not a succession of speed bumps, but on January first everybody starts talking about them…and asking you what yours is…like it’s going to make a huge amount of difference to ANYBODY. I’m slowly beginning to realize they’re mostly just nosey people who haven’t made up their minds yet or don’t have the mental wherewithal to do a whole lot more than annoy others.
When they ask, I usually tell them I’m resolving to work more diligently for world peace…like that’s EVER going to happen…but it shuts ‘em up, which was what I had in mind in the first place. Still…late at night with Angel at my feet, my lady at my side, the ceiling fan going full blast, Baxter unconscious somewhere out of sight, and delicious quiet everywhere, I tend to catalog my unfulfilled goals, and you know what? I don’t really have a whole lot of ‘em! I’ve been blessed with an amazingly INTERESTING life so far…and I know it.
Oh, yes, I’d LOVE to clean Gordo’s clock on the disc golf course, and to tell you the truth, I ALMOST did it yesterday. We TIED. For a couple of weeks he’s been beating the crap out of me, so it was incredibly fulfilling for me to see him sweat a little. Of course, my brother, the BIG PRO, wiped the floor with both of us, but Gordo and I learned long ago to IGNORE what HE’S doing…just like we ignore his obscenely low scores. Actually, if it weren’t for us, he wouldn’t be playing recreationally at all. I think he should THANK us because nobody else I know wants to play him for fun.
I guess I gotta start working on trying to DISCIPLINE Baxter, but that’s not really a resolution, more like a necessity. Our problem is…he’s SO adorable we tend to forgive him…WHATEVER he does. This evening when I walked into the bedroom, I found a mountain of sticks, leaves, and other stuff he had found out in the yard, and standing next to it, eyes dancing, tail wagging, he seemed to be saying, “LOOK WHAT I BROUGHT YOU! Isn’t it COOL?” I mean…how can you fault a little guy for something like that?
Of course, when I took it out, he followed me, and when I tossed it into the trash bin, I swear I thought I could see tears in his eyes. He’s a LONG way from quiet walks with me in the evening, and to tell you the truth, they’ll probably NEVER HAPPEN; those are for me and Angel…forever. Maybe…if he EVER calms down, I’ll think about a tandem lead and bring him out with us, but I said THINK…not do! If you knew him, you’d understand.
I’m happy, my lady’s happy, Angel’s happy…and Baxter’s NUTS! Who the hell knows what he considers happy, smiling like that all the time…whatever’s going on? We have a small folding barrier at the garage door, through which we come in from the supermarket. It keeps Baxter from charging at us and getting out, and when we’re at home…if he gets TOO obstreparous…we yell, “Time out!” and put him in that little enclosure.
Lately, he’s been doing it all by himself when he gets too off the wall, but you know…if you can figure out a way IN, you can also figure out a way OUT…and he has. He seems to think fifteen minutes is appropriate punishment, so he stays in there about that long and then calmly strides out. He’s also a big kisser…been watching Angel, I guess. We have a set of “doggie stairs” we set up next to the bed. Our bed is REALLY high, way beyond jumping up on, but when the stairs are in place, it’s constant running up, kissing, cutting up a little, then running back down.
When I’m trying to watch TV in the bedroom and Baxter’s doing his thing, I yell for my lady to come get him down and take the stairs away, but when his route up is gone, he just kind of SITS there staring at me with the saddest look on his face. When Angel’s curled up at the foot of the bed, the ceiling fan’s going, and my electric blanket’s on 1 or 2, I try to ignore him and go to sleep, but if I EVER wake up during the night, he’s STILL down there like one of those Chinese dog statues…just looking up at Shangri La, the forbidden territory. I TOLD you he was cute!
Okay…back to resolutions…I’m a writer who LOVES writing but HATES all the bullshit imbedded in publishing, and editors are WAY UP at the top of my list. You gotta explain EVERYTHING to them, and sometimes…I swear to God…it seems like they haven’t even READ the book they’re editing. They ask, “Why did you say this?” and when I explain it, they say, “Okay…that’s nice.” NICE? But they didn’t understand until I told them? What the hell’s going on here?
I’ve since learned it’s not about QUALITY but MONEY…what will make a bundle and what won’t…and it seems to me I’m kind of on the PUNY end of that equation, at least to those people who publish things. A couple of years ago I told my lady how I felt about all of this, and she said, “You like to write…so write; forget about publishing. Do what you LIKE!” She’s a wise woman and wonderful; I would die for her if I had to…and there was no other way of saving her.
Happily, I wrote like hell…six novels, total…but when I wrote “The Assassin’s Wife,” things changed. I really liked what I had written about Rose, the assassin’s wife, but I made the HUGE mistake of showing it to her. I left the printouts with her in the den and returned to my computer man-space…only hoping for approval, but in a couple of minutes, she invaded my sanctuary. “This is GOOD,” she said. “You GOTTA get this published!” It was a classic OH, SHIT moment.
These days she’s unbelievably interested in what I’m writing. I keep feeding her snippets from time to time…but she LOVES them, too! And…she’s an incredibly smart woman, an ICU nurse with an impeccable scholatic history and a keen eye for good literature…and husbands, I hope. So…it’s come to this. I have to jump back into the meat grinder again, a world peopled by cynics, greed, and diffidence…a scary and predictably frustrating world.
So…what with the new year and all…I’m gonna do it, God help me; it’s my New Year’s resolution…to jump back into the razor-studded maze I hate, mostly to preserve PEACE in my own, personal haven. To tell you the truth, HER liking what I’ve written is enough, but she seems to want more…mostly for ME. She seems to think I’m worth it, and even though she’s slowly pushing me toward the horror I despise, I’m going to roll with it. They never really scared me you know, mostly only pissed me off.
I wrote something somebody I love liked a lot, and as I said years ago on a dreary, rainy January day in Orange, Texas…for better or worse. I’m gonna give it a shot and try to publish “Demon Moss,” set in Louisiana in the nineteen-fifties, and from what I’ve seen on this blog, you guys seem to LOVE stuff about Louisiana. Pray God the rest of the world agrees…and pray God those AWFUL people in the publishing industry agree, too.
I’d be perfectly happy to go on writing and never publishing again, but…you know…my lady, Angel, Baxter, and all that…gotta keep peace at home when you can. I’ll keep you posted.

Driving through our subdivision early in the morning is like driving through a cemetery…all those dead blow-up snow-globes, Rudolphs, carolers, and saddest of all, SANTAS. Santa deserves special treatment because he’s in essence our modern-day interpretation of a SAINT, St. Nicholas, who did good things and became inextricably associated with Christmas. Of course, nowadays, he’s only a fat guy in a red suit who’s visit salivating children greedily anticipate on Christmas Eve.
When it’s light and people are moving about, all those decorations glitter and stand proud, but late at night when nobody’s looking they grow dark, deflate, and die. I find house decorations pretty…but kind of silly…I mean…ICICLES? In Louisiana? I haven’t seen anything like a real icicle since I was a boy. We had a coulee behind the house…for you sophistocates, a coulee is a slow moving, and I mean SLOW moving stream. Anyway, we had one, and every winter my brother and I eagerly watched it to see if we could ice-skate on it.
Of course, we didn’t have skates…IN LOUISIANA, way down at the bottom of our country…just a SHADE above tropical? Hell, sometimes even the deciduous trees didn’t answer the call, but If the ice EVER got thick enough, we flew across it in leather-soled shoes. Most of the time we kind of broke through, but now and then…NOW AND THEN…when it was an inch or two thick, we did our best to imitate those figure skaters we had seen on TV…just not nearly as gracefully.

And on those days we had icicles…REAL ICICLES…eight or nine inches long at least, and broke them off, coated them with sugar, and ate them, but these days they’re only memories. We haven’t seen a decent icicle down here for years, but that doesn’t stop the house decorators…only now they’re PLASTIC, electric, and disturbingly FAKE. I have a REALLY heavy coat…arctic capable…but the only time I’ve ever worn it was in northern Arkansas. It just doesn’t get cold enough down here anymore.
It seems appropriate for all those tacky icicles to dim at night and all those snow globes and Rudolphs to die, but the SANTAS, our last link to what this season really means? In Christian theology, Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus, but these days the image-makers choose to shun Him, pissing off Christians and I suspect some Moslems…because Islam reveres Him too, deeply actually, along with the Holy Family. They don’t see things EXACTLY the way we Christians do but reverence is reverence…and worthy of respect from EVERYONE. Of course, there’s no chance in hell the faith cops see it that way.
Driving through the early morning carnage, I can’t help remembering those living manger scenes on church lawns: Mary, Joseph, Wise Men, angels, sheep, and cattle acting out the first Christmas beneath a star put way up high, usually in a tree…with a little spotlighted manger containing a beautiful Jesus doll. I mean…what did you expect…a BABY? It got COLD in those days, and parents don’t like to let their babies suffer…certainly not in the name of Christmas.

Usually there were carols piped in, and the participants moved back and forth completing the whole re-enactment in about thirty minutes. We loved it…because we loved the story…and because sometimes it was funny, particularly when the wise men turned too quickly and you could see a flash of long johns just above their colorful boots…but mostly because it reminded us that Christmas was a lot more than present-getting season. It was also about the birth of Jesus, the personification of love.
Jesus is all about love…SURELY not all about freezing newborns…even though He nearly did that Himself…if His parents hadn’t found a warm manger for Him…kinda steamy, I always picture it, with smells of the Earth enveloping, welcoming Him. Believe what you will, but I choose to thank God for Jesus and honor Him on His birthday. I mean…what else is a Christian…or a good Moslem to do? Both religions keep Him way up high, and I suspect they’re as annoyed by all this foolishness as we are…you know…people trying to expunge the name of the Being who BOTH religions reverently believe presides at the Last Judgment.
Somebody’s going to grouse about calling Christmas His birthday, so I’ll address that pre-emptively. I know December 25th isn’t REALLY His birthday; the History Channel never seems to tire of telling us that date was originally a pagan winter holiday confiscated by the Church, and I THINK I can vaguely remember reading somewhere that Jesus was PROBABLY born in the spring…mid April…ties in with the historical record of the census…like that matters a big whoo.  It’s not about the DATE, people; it’s about WHO was born then and what HE means to the world.
Even more than love, Jesus has been the purest expression of PROMISE I’ve been able to find on my journey, and to tell the truth, I RESENT the faith cops’ decision to try and SEPARATE Him from Christmas, constantly at it, always ready to POUNCE on some poor minister, religious group, or even innocent children when they DARE try and honor His birth. I can’t help wondering what those awful people actually believe in, but the answer’s most likely NOTHING, locked in the illusion of CONTROL and POWER. The only thing they seem to lack is hobnails, but don’t worry. They’ll be wearing them soon enough.
Got a flash for you faith cop people. YOU’RE going to die, too, and even if you’re the most DEVOUT athiests the world has ever seen, wouldn’t you like your legacy to be a LITTLE BIT more than having destroyed a soft, beautiful, and reverent holiday zillions of people cherish? Let’s see…you’re against crosses, Baby Jesus in his manger, those poor Magi, angels, ANY expressions with the REMOTEST religious connection. What’s next? Stars? Carols? Cattle? SHEEP? Maybe even gifts…no, not gifts…they KNOW they’d lose that one…and those gifts help the economy. Faith cops are ALWAYS worried about things like the economy.

So I say keep those Santas on the lawn blown up all night….they’re the last remaining PARTICLE of real Christmas those faith cops seem willing to allow…however prostituted it may be. Let them stand defiantly all night and NEVER DIE…even if it kicks up the December electric bills a little, and personally, I hope people don’t surrender to political correctness and give up on Nativity Scenes. FIGHT for them. They were charming…and INNOCENT…and I, for one, mourn their passing, whatever those horrible people might think.
YOU…FAITH COPS…PAY ATTENTION! You gonna get COAL in your Christmas stockings, but I think you already KNOW that…and don’t give a rat’s ass about any of it…you, the self-styled guardians of truth, despite CENTURIES of philosophers, visionaries, luminaries, historians, novelists, artists, and physicists who haven’t been able to decide EXACTLY what that truth is. And you know what? I’m gonna piss you off even more…because I’m gonna PRAY for you and your silly, artificial posturing and politically-correct ways. Millions of blow-up lawn Santas keep telling me that’s EXACTLY what I should do!
Civilizations grow from what they build upon, not what they DESTROY.