short tan and teddy

 I was born a poor white boy- it went downhill from there. I was the shortest dude in third grade- I had to stand at the back of the line because the teacher had us line up according to height. That was my first sign someone was bulking up on the Miracle Grow. 

In fourth grade I found out I was “white.” Someone called Felipe Lopez “brown,” and I questioned why they did that. The pale kid with the missing tooth said, “Because you’re white, man.” I never knew that. I went to look in the mirror and I swore I couldn’t figure out what in the world he was talking about. I grabbed a Crayola, but there wasn't one crayon, even the factory-reject tan one, that came close to my skin color. 

Enter the age of Puberty. My Puberty Bowl problems were bigger than the Crayola box. The taller, gangly-looking guys, uglier than sin, were the object of intense giggling from the females in class. You could be too tall and have a zit the size of Montana, and some buxom blonde thought you were a "hunk." I was never tall, except to my stuffed animals, and kids that still drooled. Rarely did being short have its advantages, except when trying to hide from bullies. 

As I passed into adolescence, things did not seem to improve. Some of the girls started showing some shape, but I was not keeping pace with the boys who got their attention. I could still crawl under the school desk. I was a bigger hit with the teachers, who enjoyed my adolescent naivety, when I did my Carnac the Magnificent (Johnny Carson) impressions, with little understanding of what made them so funny to an adult man.

Then, one day, after doing the voices of Richard Nixon, Jimmy Stewart,  and Ed McMahon, I told the latest Carnac line to a shocked Math teacher, some tall boys, and some cute girls. That math teacher ordered me into the hallway and gave me a lecture that seemed to last all afternoon. I was banned from stand-up comedy...and even sit-down comedy. He took away my only talent for getting the girls to notice me. I left class feeling about a foot high...

...because I was told to go upstairs to the office of the weirdest woman I ever met. She asked me ludicrous, insane questions. I determined that my teachers had ended up getting me in trouble instead of implicating themselves. Frankly, the psych woman was so off her rocker that I left her office feeling like I had just met the most unstable woman in the world.

Well, I won't do that again.

That did not stop me from telling jokes or doing impressions, just not around the teachers. I found out I could be myself and the female race would actually pay attention. As I aged, and grew facial hair, a few found me "teddy-bear like" enough to want to be my girlfriend, and even hug and kiss. You're the cutest little teddy bear in the whole wide world...

So eventually I gave up trying to be tall, dark, and handsome, and settled for short, tan, and teddy. I did not grow up to be the most handsome man in the world, but thank God, I did grow up to be cuddly.  

Ginger Curry Chicken

Chicken can be bland, even boring. One way to maximize the flavor of chicken is to pair it with spices and herbs- in that order. Garlic, ginger, french tarragon, mushrooms, butter, curry powder all contribute to this dish to make it a tasty meal. The recipe below serves two people, or as I like to say, three people with the appetite of a small bird.

1 pound of chicken

Three or four mushrooms

fresh ginger root

 French tarragon

fresh cilantro

fresh parsley

1/2 cup plain whole milk yogurt

2 scallions

Broccoli

olive oil

butter

3 cloves of garlic

black pepper

curry powder

rosemary

Large sauce or frying pan

knife

fork

In a large pan, usually used for preparing a meal over a stove or fire, drizzle olive oil in the pan. Wash chicken pieces and place in the pan. Cut up three cloves of garlic, a large piece of ginger, 2 scallions, small pieces of broccoli, and three or four mushrooms. Place in pan around chicken pieces. Cut up cilantro (and parsley if desired) and add black pepper, rosemary (to taste) and curry powder and place on top of the ingredients. Cover with lid and heat on low to medium level flame, so as to keep from burning the chicken. Let cook about 15 minutes, then add 1/2 cup plain whole milk yogurt, and spoon in more curry powder with that yogurt. Cook about 20-25 minutes on low heat, checking to see when finished. With a knife and fork check your chicken a few times to make sure the chicken is cooked and not overdone. Overcooked chicken is your enemy as much as making sure it is cooked and tender. When finished, dish out on plates and add a generous amount of butter to top each meal. Bon appetite!

                                                                                                                                          

 

Forgotten Places

 

Deep in the folds of the foothills, a window of America is in decay. The last remnants are metal, concrete, and stone. All the wooden buildings, wooden siding, door handles, and slate roofs lay downstream from the present. 

Along the backroads, even the edges are decaying...rusting road signs, rusting pipelines, rusting oil wells...

...and abandoned gravestones, missing heads and bodies, like the characters they commemorate, buried beyond history.

This is a window into a rural America that tells a tale of death and rebirth...the disappearance of a community, and the advancement of young growth...twisted, wiry trees in a bottom land along a creek bank...

the streets missing, the houses missing, the people missing...

their memory fading with the signs...

The majority of this town along Dye's Fork disappeared with the 1913 flood, washing away hopes and dreams. The rest of the town died when the Pauls, Raceys, and Blackburns began inhabiting the two cemeteries, rather than the village, and culminated when a coal company bought the land around the general store. Finally, in 1972, that store closed. The structure collapsed in on itself, and only a skeletal bridge, a historical sign (that has faded), and part of a stone wall survive.

This town, Renrock, Ohio, reflects the story of many rural towns in the hills of Ohio, passing from a time when pioneers settled, through natural disasters, and into oblivion, aided by death, real estate agents, and the passage of time.

There are many Renrocks in this country. It is my intention to discover many of these forgotten places, to unearth their history, and showcase  their remains as warmer weather comes to the edge of Appalachia.

Join me in the coming months as we explore forgotten places in Appalachia and the Midwest.

Egg and Avocado Burritos

In this new improved world we live in, we have a better understanding of the necessity of supplying our bodies with good fats to maintain a healthy body. I have added a recipe to feature some of the finer fats and eggs to make a "light" dinner.

Daithi's Egg and Avocado Burritos

Ingredients:

Three soft-boiled eggs or three scrambled eggs in butter

One Avocado

Pico De Gallo

Butter

Black Pepper

Dill Weed

French Tarragon or Cilantro

Dona Maria's Napolitos

Queso Blanco

Two tortillas

Medium or large frying pan or saucepan

Spatula

Knife, Spoon

In a pot of water, boil the eggs about 6 minutes. In a small bowl, mash the eggs and add ground black pepper to taste, with a pinch of french tarragon (or cilantro), and a few sprigs of fresh dill weed.

Or, in a medium sized frying pan/saucepan, scramble three eggs in butter, ground black pepper, a teaspoon of french tarragon (or cilantro), and a few sprigs of fresh dill weed. 

Put the egg mixture aside on a warm plate. Slice the avocado in half, and remove the seed. Spoon out, or remove with a knife, all of the avocado and place it on the same warm plate, or bowl, as the eggs. Add a tablespoon of napolitos (cactus) and stir the mixture. Extract two tortillas from a package, and place them on another plate.

Put the egg-avocado mixture into the tortilla, add desired pico de gallo, and shredded or cut queso blanco to taste. In the frying pan or saucepan, add enough butter to saute the burritos. Wrap the ingredients into a blanket-like burrito and put carefully into the pan. Turn the flame on low and saute them. Using a spatula, press down on the burritos as they cook. Flip each burrito over once each side is colored, but not brown. When each side is colored- 5 minutes or so, turn off the flame, and remove the burritos from the pan to a plate. Enjoy!

Country Fried Hockey Pucks

 if you’re on a quest to find the worst processed pucks this side of the mountains, I believe I know where they might be found. I don’t want to give away the exact location, but it is probably residing…still deteriorating…in that oasis of fine cuisine known as "the other Ohio." This pocket of foothill cuisine is best known for the birthplace of Bob Evans' Sausage Spaghetti and the local delight, "The Breakfast Mess." 

It was in this neck of the woods that I found the worst food ever invented. In a household of five poverty-rich students, we pooled our meager resources to fix a weekday dinner. It was up to one of us to go get the food at the store and bring back what was on the list.

Now, we were relatively poor, but when we had more money, we'd order food like Super beef Hoagies, Fried Chicken, and Gyros. So, when you're a college student, living in a one-pot-pissing run-down residence, with an out-of-town landlord...and you're feasting on ramen, hot dogs, and Rosebud Margarine...a chance to find an affordable frozen breaded meat was an upgrade over the ramen regime.

So that one Wednesday afternoon, I sent a housemate, with the money and the list, to the grocery store down the street to find some beer-battered fish and fries.

My housemate returned with tartar sauce, chips, and a box of what I thought were Mrs. Paul's Fish Sticks. When I turned over the box, I discovered "Mr. Fritter."

The worst chicken sandwich I have ever had, “Mister Fritter,” a now extinct prepared pre-frozen patty, resembled a country fried hockey puck with a sledgehammer-like hint of fish.

While baking, the fritter emitted such an odoriferous fog of stench from the cavern-oven, that I hurried to get everything else ready before they were done.

On my first attempt to sample one, I bit into it, but it was so hot, it fell out of my mouth onto the floor.

On my second attempt, I discovered a spoiled-fish-like coating with a hint of aluminum pan. After painfully retching…I ordered the items dispersed in the back yard in order to keep the cockroaches, mice, and other vermin away from the house. After several days, they remained untouched by weather or critter, and the potent breaded grease pucks remained unchanged.

When the chicken patties refused to deteriorate, we hid them deep within a trash bag and sent them to patty hell, otherwise known as the county dump. 

Knowing what I know now...if I were a betting man, I would bet that they are still there, years after disposal, unchanged and unfettered. Long live Mister Fritter!

 

Stoner Dogs Never Walk Alone

 it was long and narrow, but wide enough for a counter, and a decent donut display case. Behind that customer counter, we had to maneuver through a narrow walkway between a hot dog bath with hot dog sauce and hot nacho cheese containers near the side wall. A lone "flurry" machine made the counter area much more treacherous, until it opened up near the sparse seating area. 

There were a handful of tables near the back of the retail area. This is where I found Megan, a girl drunk as could be, sitting with her legs up showing the world her white underwear. I left my place and sat on the opposite bench to talk sense into her.

She was a young blonde freshman, not the most beautiful in the world, and seemed to suspect it. How she was still vertical was a mystery, and I even encouraged her to rest, put your head on the table talk...assuring her that I could walk her home when I got off my shift. 

But somewhere in the night, she disappeared. A quirky young man dropped in to ask about her whereabouts. I walked out into the street with him, feeling like I had lost my little sister. She was invisible beyond the streetlights, and I had to go back in and finish my shift.

Another night she came in, all smiles, and at least slightly inebriated. Most of our customers were, especially after midnight, as many left the bars to come in a for "stoner dog."

When you're drunk, you'll eat anything, including a footlong hotdog, loaded with sauce, onions, and jalapenos. The latter were so potent smelling, it was a wonder they did not get up and walk away. For the compromised, the modus operandi was to order food meant to relieve your inside of all the beer you drank. And many did, and many found relief, often just beyond the business sign out in the street.

It is not the most romantic thing, watching an 18-year girl vomit into the gutter. Nor is it sexy to offer your arm and stability to walk the lass, smelling of beer and jalapeños to her dorm at 4 o'clock in the morning.

The weekends followed, but I rarely saw her inebriated again. Her friend approached me in the street, in the donut shop, and even in the theatre to ask about her. I rarely saw her. I began to wonder if she "flunked out," went home, and forgot about college. 

So many did. So many could not cope with the oncoming lights of the big bad world beyond college. That short time between childhood and paying for everything narrowed with every new month. 

The donut shop was a lamppost in that half-light. A refuge from the storm. A place where even the drunkest of characters could share in some stability...where no one would be alone.

  

fresh from your neighborhood

 When you’re four years old, an upset tummy can make the world feel like an out-of-control merry-go-round. But when you’re in your older years, a troublesome bloated tummy can make you feel like you swallowed a small elephant…

So, I sit here waiting for it to subside and wonder what caused this dispepsive state. Was it breakfast, served hot and fresh, according to the lighted menu board…or, was it the coagulation of fat from my veal parmigiana with feta and linguini in a light sun-dried tomato pesto? Or, was it a tapeworm, hiding in infantile form, microscopic and miniscule? 

And if it was a tapeworm, does it have a personality? Is it religious? Does it prefer frying in butter or beef tallow? More importantly, does it have a girlfriend? Or is it a girlfriend? Could it be just one in a plague of streaming tapeworms cascading through the recreational rides of my colon? God help me, maybe I have a whole colony down there. Maybe they’re having a particulate party…maybe I should go to the bathroom to wait for the consequences...maybe I should write my will and consider a lawyer. After all, if I do have a tapeworm invasion, it’s only a matter of…and what if they have a well-funded building program?

Should I try a celery-scented colon cleanse? A blueberry enema? A fixed probiotic diet? Should I become a fruititarian, swearing off all highly oxalated greens? Engage in the holy act of carnivore, with a side of four eggs at every meal? What say you, Bobby Kennedy?

It is no wonder why my gut...and maybe your gut...is kind of like a washing machine on the spin cycle. all those vegetables piled high on crates in the regional distribution center have more miles on them than a four-time divorcee. They've been sitting around for weeks and weeks, far from their source of origin. 

They've had time to decay, like the fish I smell in most restaurants, thousands of miles inland from the ocean, meat decaying so rapidly the owner knows your meal has more in common with Russian roulette than a fresh meal. Like a run-on sentence, the after-effects will go on and on and on...

Have you ever tasted fresh fish...from the morning's catch? If you have, you may never eat a farm-raised fish the rest of your life. 

Have you ever tasted fresh cider? You may never drink canned apple juice again.

And you may never have a sick stomach again....if you choose what is fresh from the fields, fresh from the ocean, and most importantly, fresh from your neighborhood.

an encouraging word

Life has a habit of waking us up when we least expect it. one day you wake up and find that the path you’ve taken hasn’t turned out quite like you anticipated, and you wonder, just wonder, if it is possible…just a teeny-weeny bit…if that dream you hid in the deeper parts of your heart all these years…is ever going to “come knocking on your door.” 

If the figure who opens that door looks like Gandalf, you have been indulging too much in Middle Earth or some fantasy game and need to look in the mirror to make sure you have not gone through a Shire-inspired metamorphosis. Please check your feet, they’ll be hairy if you have.

And while looking in the mirror is good for actors practicing lines without a partner, that glance can be a shocking revelation to those who go about their lives a little too fast in the daily diddle-daddle of life. Spending too much time observing your hair, your wrinkles, and the color of your teeth does not bring you one more day closer to that dream. 

Like an obnoxious movie line I recall, the best action requires "baby steps." You can be sure that 99% of the time that it will not be in the “I’ve won the lottery” category, but rather, a choice followed by another choice. 

You'll have to ignore the naysayers and step out and do it. Write something. Paint something. Draw something. Fashion some object. Just dance. Just sing. 

I admit to having an Eeyore moment now and again, but most normal people have had a few of those, especially on days when the car won’t run, everything glass breaks in your kitchen, and the postman brings you mail resembling “the black spot.” As you probably realize, I didn’t get where I am today by listening to people behind office desks telling me what to do. I just went out and did it-

I walked into a newspaper office and carved out a job. I walked into a publication office and offered a feature "on spec." What followed were several articles. Then, years working in publications.

And now, beyond that work-frame, I am slowly living out that dream one step at a time.

You have to start somewhere. You cannot think about it for days. Do it, then evaluate your progress. 

 

on wintry days like these

On wintry days like these

When cold grey covers my pointed hood

when Wind’s icy fingers grow

I think back to the sweetest Spring

to where my heart would go

down among the fragrant pines

in hollows steep with trees

I go there still within my heart

on wintry days like these

a tribute to Souvlakis

If I were Greek, I’d want to lounge around, drinking Retsina, consuming baklava all day...eating juicy black olives, watching the fishing boats in the bay...and having a good time. 

I'd eat souvlakis every day, with that Grecian delight, feta cheese...which sounds kind of stinky, I know, but you have to name cheese like it smells. Goat cheese smells like sweaty feet, so “feta” is a great name. And nothing smells more Greek than a salad or souvlaki with grilled lamb and lots of feta. 

I was introduced to souvlakis and all things Greek during my undergrad years in a town with a noticeable Greek immigrant community. The center of that world was an uptown restaurant simply known as "Souvlakis."

Mama P, co-owner of Souvlaki's, introduced me to gyros and super beef hoagy. She had such a way with stuffing the pita, it made you drool. Tzatziki, fresh tomatoes, onions, olive oil, lettuce- Mama’s souvlakis were almost as amazing as the Central Gyros Girl.

Now, I looked far and wide for the Central Gyros girl, but never found her, or I would have married her on the spot. She was the perfect blonde, with the perfect smile, holding a tempting gyros in her perfect hands. She was my favorite pinup girl, even if she was plastered on the wall of a run-down looking restaurant.

Anyway, Mama had a partner, Mister P. His name was something like “Vasilios.” It sounded more like “Vaseline” to me. He wasn't a slick character though unless Mama had her head turned away from him while he was "cutting" the baklava. 

We college boys often studied the smile of the Central Gyros Girl as we waited for our food. She provided more than a few minutes of useless questions, intense daydreaming, and an occasional search for more clues on the poster about her whereabouts.

Alternatively, Mister P provided interesting entertainment. In between “Opa!” and the sound of a knife on a cutting board, he could string together more run-on sentences than a twelve-year-old Grammar student having a meltdown in English class. Inevitably, whatever he said would irritate Mama P, who carried her own cutting knife, which she flashed in defiance of the five-foot-tall tyrant in the Greek fishing hat. 

Strangely enough, they had a small, old style TV set hanging from the corner of the place near the front door. Every time I was there, they seemed to have old sitcoms or reruns of game shows. With all that went on in the restaurant, it was a slow night when we found ourselves watching a program.

The food was good, but usually a bit salty. I used to purposely interrupt the two when they argued, to ask Mama P for more “Pepsi.” I could never ask for Mountain Dew or Coke or anything else because Mama didn’t know any other word for "pop" or "soda pop" in English. She would smile when she served me, probably because she did not understand half of what I said. 

And now, many years later, Mama P and Papa P have passed on, their children have moved on to other ventures, and the Central Gyros girl no longer smiles from the walls of any Greek restaurant I frequent. But I still wolf down the gyros, eat olives like candy, and enjoy all the things that Mama P introduced to me back when I was a hungry college student.

valuing human experience

our experiences are like trees that bud, blossom, and leaf into beauty, providing a character sketch for our lives. These develop into mature

figures of nature, with lines of distinction, and shades of seasons. 

in that forest of trees, none are alike, yet each reflects a type. None are perfect, each is flawed in some way, like a human being...

just as our figures appear as less than desirable when we look in the mirror. 

it is this humanity that sets us apart as creators of literature. we are destined not to live up to the laws of computer-generated logic, or artificial intelligence... 

which is a good thing. we will never be the robotic mind because we have a soul, we have the DNA of a creator. 

so, everything that we compose, everything that we write, cannot be adequately predicted by AI. Calculations can only give us soul-less alternatives based of a machine-logic construct.

what robotic intelligence will ever be able to express love like one who has been tested by heartache...or feel the impending crossover from this life to the next? 

unfortunately, the "new toy" is out of the box, and it seems like everybody wants to play the game. like the infantile Trash-80 computer was in the 70's, it is trendy, we can do some things with it...but it cannot give us insight into the feelings of our old girlfriend, or our boss, or the man who collects our garbage on Monday mornings.

it is imperative that we qualify the human experience in the words that only a human would write...with imperfections that only a human could relate to. our audiences are the hearts, minds, and souls of human beings. no machine will ever be able to feel what we feel; they will only be able to synthesize, postulate, or copy what has already been written.

writing from the heart, from the soul, will always be more valuable than what is artificially produced. none of us, who value humanity, should ever compromise those feelings released into words with artificially developed fodder. 

 

create anyway

we live, in the post-Pandemic age, in the first and second world, in a society of consumption. what we see, we consume. what we hear, we consume. we are followers of this one, followers of that one. we strive to be relevant to someone. our followers. our audience. even ourselves. 

but we must produce to be relevant. if we create nothing, if we only re-post content, we are not creative, we are still a consumer.

creativity reflects the single, most unequivocal characteristic of God, that is, the first creator. The prime creator. The one who does not consume, the one who creates. 

if my goal today, tonight, is to consume, i have ignored the dream God placed within me. it is challenging most because i have expectations of myself that i may not meet. today. tonight. tomorrow. 

the answer to these earthly thoughts is to create anyway. write what is in your heart, your mind, your soul. let God do the work in you. it may not reach the stars, but it may reach one who is changed. and that will make all the difference, if it is done in the love of the Father.

create anyway.

 

yearning for freedom

 the traditional storyteller, the keeper of family histories, character asides, and the essence of the very fabric of our lives, told stories for us and for our children. they told stories for our grandchildren. they told stories that one day would touch and be a conduit to the old ways, the old country, the old ones who have passed before us.

and now, that task has passed to me. the line is not my responsibility, but the story of our line is. and no matter how vocal my predecessor was, it is my time to speak, to rhyme, to reason- to tell the history as it was told to me. and maybe make it a little more interesting in the approach to it, without sacrificing the truth.

because in that line there were character models, there were people striving to touch the tops of mountains, to settle safely in their valleys, to be free in a crooked land... 

to be a character yearning for freedom.

such was the story of little Jimmy, a man with a pike, and a hoe, an axe, and a rake. a man of the land he did not even own. a man, who, oppressed as he was, looked out upon his fields yearning to call every foot, every yard, between the rock walls...his own.

his neighbors...most of them...had a similar story. and some of them looked around and saw the injustice and called for action. the kind of action you could do without losing everything you owned. and then some.

when you work yourself tired every night, to sit by the fire in the thatched house and wonder where your life has gone, surely, that in itself, may become a burden. not just for yourself, but for the wife, the child in her rocker, and your neighbors. when you are all afraid to act, because the history against your own has been brutal, you tend to steep in anger or relax in defeat.

but little Jimmy refused to sit still. he was neither little, nor in a mindset of defeat. he spoke the language of the sod with his neighbors- the one his oppressors could not understand- and as time passed, small measures became bigger measures until little Jimmy joined some of his neighbors by the light of the moon. 

in the dark farm country of rural Ireland in the 19th century, the British had a singular disadvantage- they lacked the same desire for freedom.

i have no idea how many times my ancestor Jimmy showed up at the meeting by the ford or at the clump of holly trees, but the meetings were frequent enough that he, and his fellow Moonlighters, up to mischief in the eyes of his masters, finally found themselves bound in chains and heading for Australia. 

many a man, yearning for freedom, found himself on a boat for the penal colony on the other side of the world. many lost ties forever with their kinfolk. the branch of Jimmy's line disappears in a mist of history, the details forgotten by the ones who have passed beyond.

but the story reminds those who now live, and who will follow me, that there was a character within our family who fought oppression the best he could and suffered a life of exile because he fought to free his family from tyranny. my children, my grandchildren, and my cousins should know what i know, that the story passes on, that we remember that our line has always fought for freedom, for a better life for our families. it is a story reminding us that we should never take our freedom for granted, because what we have, they did not have.

in the storyteller's voice

if you leave something for a while, and then come back to it years later, that idea you conceived should make more sense now. that is, if it is a dream, or if it has been placed within you by a higher power. 

i put aside a novel for several years and came back to it today. my memory of it has not changed. the setting is still the same. i can still picture the main characters. but some make no sense anymore. 

when you have less noise to work through, your focus sharpens, and the writing moves to a higher level. what you thought worked before, does not work now. not because the world has changed so much. but because you have changed so much. or, at least, i have changed so much.

when writing was a passion but not a more tangible part of a successful future, the story journey was exciting just for the journey. just for the creative process. just for the "writer's high."

now, as i work toward fulfilling dreams, the finished piece is now workable, because i have an actual framework from start to finish, without sacrificing the quality of the storyteller's voice. when you start a piece with passion but without fashioning the finished product, it is a little like putting out to sea in a boat a bit too small for the bay. before you finish a third of the way, you'll be heading back to shore because you can't make it to the island without a bigger boat.

so, it is with a different mindset that i type letters to a page now than how i did ten years ago. when a recent snowstorm became a blessing, rather than an impediment, it allowed me to reconsider how i approach those longer pieces that have remained unfinished. i must, like Saul Bellow, quote "carpe diem," seize the day, and follow it wholeheartedly, rather than take a two-hour break to work on it. instead, i can take a whole day here and there, apart from the cares of this world, and tell the story, with story fresh in my mind.

a window on character development

 in the course of my experience, i have read a variety of dialogue and description of some of the most beloved or infamous characters in novels written in the last 200 years...from Holden Caulfield to Frodo Baggins. as a writer, i not only read the story, but digest the story...chew on it, like a dinner, digesting the essence of what is written and allowing imagination to create those characters in my head. it is that image that becomes part of the narrative as it moves along. 

however, a vast army of notable authors of the twentieth century had a skeletal description of the characters, clothed with a blanket of dialogue. Although Gollum is described in short but excellent detail, it is his dialogue that sharpens our understanding of what Gollum looks like, and, even smells like. ask anyone to describe Gollum and a hundred readers would give you remarkably close descriptions, adjusted for the reader's own interaction with cultural influences and the reader's command of the language and nuances associated with it.

that is all good and fine, but when i take my readers into the mind of a character, i want more succinct descriptive words. in a world with millions of imaginations, i attempt to narrow those choices by paying attention not just to words and phrases but to word combinations. 

In the first scene of a new book i am writing, a character wanders through/ encounters a "shrub-boulder maze." this can be interpreted in many ways, however, there is, in every reader's mind, images of a shrub, boulder, and a maze. His or her imagination, images, may contain vast or small numbers of shrubs and boulders, but it must be a "maze." this maze would have an effect on the character encountering the "maze." the character's personality is reflected by a reaction when encountering that "maze." and you, the reader, choose this from your treasure chest of experience and imagination.

sure, even my dialogue adds fiber to the personality of any created character. but, unlike many of my predecessors in the twentieth century, even dream sequences, and thoughts - placed within the narrative- i hope fashion a robust figure that my readers will picture in their minds as they read beyond the initial appearance of that character. i want to fully clothe these characters so my readers can formulate more specific images in their minds, even if the word combinations i use may seem unorthodox. 

i have paused in the writing of the aforementioned piece now to pen these thoughts because i want to give you, the reader, insight into one hallway of the creative process in the Post-Pandemic world. hopefully, in the future, when i am able to publish such longer works, you will have a better understanding of the thoughts that go into the creative writing process to compose a piece of poetic fiction.

famine in the land

the average American child forty years ago could create pictures in his head when reading a written story. That child could easily elaborate, with descriptive details, on that story.

today, an alarming number of young children cannot paint any picture with words when they read a written story. they have no imagination. they possess no skills, no tools, to translate or communicate that written word. 

it is this fact that has changed the way some generations in America now value, or value less, written creations... and the author is no longer valued as a contributor of culture, entertainment, or values. 

when asked what children want to become when they grow up, the category "author" is no longer mentioned. children mention careers they know nothing about, valuing those that they have heard are the highest paying professions. 

where are the dreamers?

where is the imagination? 

how can we engage a generation of video-addicted children to expand their minds to create visual pictures in their heads as they read a series of words on paper or screen? 

this is one of the most important under-reported stories in America today. we need to intervene, to mentor, to bring children back to a place where they can imagine, they can picture, where they can create a story within their minds from the words and sequence of words presented to them on a page.

we need to address the famine in the land. 

there are many pages, many books, many written stories... but until a child knows how to convert those words within these books into images that create pictures within, they will lack critical skills needed to be imaginative, productive, problem-solving innovators. 

without a vision, the people perish.

A Far Fine Country (the first paragraphs)

 

He sniffed the musky air, broke off the bark of a pine, and darted through the bushes...as if looking for it. A wail, from somewhere on the ridge to the right...the reverb echoed inside his soul. He slipped through the shrub-boulder maze, passing rusty-red rhododendron, to the rock ring before his canvas green tent. 

Distributing bark and twigs inside the ring...blowing one last length of light, tinder crumbling before the whisper-like wind threatened to cool the pit...suddenly a drizzle descended, a mist bathing him. And with it, the sounds of the forest deteriorated into discord. In this dissonance, his heart raced, his head pounded, and his frame stiffened.

But deep in the gray green forests of the gathering darkness, the presence lingered, ever elusive. And though the mountains and the sky melted into the night, the presence hid where no man could hide, between the realm of the known and the unknown...

A canopy of tears emptied from the leaves above, and the hiker wiped his face. The cascade of drops caught the last embers unprepared, and doused his hopes...the fire died, and another stepped in to where the shadowlands had been. There were eyes behind the pines, red bullets that pierced the night...

in the space above

 The Ukraine-Russia War, the advancement of recreational drone technology, and the awakening of a people to their basic human rights, threatens to bring domestic havoc to the landowners of America.

The concept of domestic American air ownership, which was defined by the Chicago Convention of 1944, insinuates that every landowner owns 500 feet above the land they own. In this decade, however, drone technology is being used by some corporate entities, to assess and investigate property, as well as deliver goods to and from that property. 

My involvement in this argument for and against the use of drones in this privately-owned space came about in the last decade when a number of real estate and insurance companies decided that inspection and analysis by drone should be the new methodology for more accurate information gathering. Several companies I knew were aggressively planning for a drone-filled tomorrow, with camera-equipped drones buzzing around targeted properties, with or without the landowner's knowledge. As one engaged in property photography, in contract with various entities, I found this assumption that drones would be acceptable, if not preferable, to any commercial operation, a human relations nightmare. In the land of the litigious, this thinking could bring more lawsuits that anyone could handle or afford. It reflects bad business practices, not to mention a complete ignorance of air rights. 

Yet today there are commercial firms using drone technology as a method of information gathering and analysis. Not the majority, but a minority. While it may be a good idea in some countries, or even some cities, in my part of the world, it is a profoundly bad idea. 

We are, it appears, still living in the formative stages of the concept of domestic residential air property rights. But with the technology becoming more pervasive, those who want to use drones to investigate private property, will push the limits of the fair use of air space. The more invasive, the more private landowners will push back. And the more they push back, the more difficult it will be to investigate private properties for use for information gathering requiring assessments and damage reports that other technology cannot provide at scale, nor in a specific time frame.

Knowing what I know, having interacted with thousands of landowners over the years, I have not yet met one individual who would be pleased with a drone flying close to their windows, doors, roof, and dogs...in the USA, that technology is liable to be destroyed by the more irritated owner. 

If I showed up at a property, without an appointment and a legally binding contract allowing me use of a drone in their air rights, to photograph a property for a client, would I be using common sense? Would I be producing better quality analysis with less irritation to the landowner? No, of course not. I would be stirring up a hornet's nest- figuratively...and maybe literally.