The following story is entirely made up. Nothing actually happened. The point is the point, and that, my friends, is the point.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was practicing piano one day when a guest strolled into the parlor. He listened to Mozart roll through scales and arpeggios for a couple minutes, and then ten seconds after the master began playing his latest piece, the stranger cleared his throat.
"Excuse me, sir, you're doing it wrong."
Mozart stopped, hands frozen above the keyboard. "I'm sorry?"
"You're doing it wrong, sir. Your left hand is playing all these weird notes on the bottom of the keyboard, and your right hand is way to high. There's too much distance between them."
"Is that right?" said Mozart. "Can you tell me how you knew this?"
A smug grin spread across the intruder's face as he continued to explain that he'd read a book once about how to play piano, and though he hated piano music, he knew all he needed to about how to play piano. "And," he concluded, "that is why I know you're doing it wrong."
"So you've never taken any lessons?" asked the master.
"No, I despise the sound of a piano, myself."
"But you've read a book about piano music?"
"Yes, sir." The grin disappeared, replaced by a wimpish pout. "In addition, if you really want people to enjoy your music, you're just going to have to play on a more elementary level. All these fancy notes and runs and things just make less talented people feel bad that they can't keep up with you. We have to make it fair for others. You're just not inclusive enough." And with that, he produced a pair of handcuffs and slapped them across Mozart's wrists.
Mozart stared at his hands. Who was this man anyway? He hated piano music, but he had the gall to come into Mozart's own study and tell him how to play. Mozart reflected back on his years as a musician, learning the mechanics of sound, chord structure, music theory, all the hours and years he'd spent perfecting his craft, living his love for music out loud in every piece he wrote. And to top it off, he restricted the master's ability to play the way he best knew how!
But, as he looked again at his hands, Mozart decided to take on this challenge, to defy this upstart and prove him wrong once and for all. He started to play again, and true to form, he worked around the restraints placed on his ability. Even though he couldn't spread his hands to play the full length of the keyboard, he used the range he had to play a beautiful, sad concerto in G minor.
He no sooner played the last notes when once again the stranger stepped in. Hauling a wire cutter from his pocket, he then proceeded to snip and remove every third string from the sound board of the baby grand. As he cut and pulled, he said through gritted teeth, "You're doing it wrong. You can't play those notes again. I'm afraid we'll have to step in and make sure you play the right way."
"What's with this 'we'," asked Mozart in frustration. "Do you have a mouse in your pocket? I don't see a 'we' anywhere in here!"
The intruder wheeled and waved his handful of wires under Mozart's nose. "We are those who know best, Mr. Mizzart. We have to show you, you don't have a monopoly on the right way to play music." Tossing the collection of strings into a corner wastebasket, he added. "We've arranged for you to take oboe lessons, by the way. If you don't understand other instruments, you'll never be a musician worthy of performing."
Then he walked out.
We spend way too much time telling others that we know better than they do about how to live their lives, how to conduct their faith, how to run their businesses, how to raise their children, even how to write their own stories, that we have no idea how much a hypocrite we're proving ourselves.
My bible tells me every man (and woman) must work out their own salvation between them and God. Yes, there are certain things that are laid out as basic. As a Christian, I profess faith in Jesus Christ as my God and Savior. Jews have their own faith system, Muslims their own. Even atheists have a faith system, though getting one to admit it is like pulling teeth.
So why is it that people who have no faith spend so much time lecturing people of faith how they need to conduct that faith? So you're going to tell me who I can worship, how I'm supposed to worship Him, what worship standards are acceptable to YOU? I don't go into a Baptist church and start prophesying in tongues. I don't march into a synagogue and demand everyone bend their knee to Jesus. Don't tell me you've read a bible and then tell me what Christianity is, when you have no concept of the Spirit of God working miracle after miracle in your life, when you have no appreciation or idea of the life that I find in these words and promises from a Being beyond all our comprehension.
And then I see people screaming at each other on Facebook these hate-filled, ignorant memes, heaving vitriol at each other across the aisle.
Whatever happened to civil discourse?
Maybe it's just me, but our world has grown less kind in the last thirty or so years. What do we do to fix it?
I'm open to suggestions.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Man Up!
Greetings, fellow castaways on the distant shores of the mind. This week, I want to take a look at a lost art, a form our modern culture has told you is "old-fashioned," "out of style," "archaic," or out of line with this modern, "enlightened" culture. It's art of being a man. More specifically, a gentleman.
Gentlemen are labeled these days a male chauvinists. Groups like Promise Keepers are dragged through mud, nit-picked to death, bullied and scorned. The going image is one of knuckle-dragging brutes, dominating and overlording their spouses and children, perpetuating male domination to the detriment of everyone else.
Well, I've been to a Promise Keepers function, and I can tell you it's nothing like that. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. It's a holding accountable of every man to a high standard of conduct honoring and cherishing his partner and children. Paul's letter to Ephesus lays it down in no uncertain terms: Ephesians 5:25 says this: "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her." Loving my wife in that context means laying down my entire life to protect and honor her. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Being a gentleman is NOT outdated. It's more important than ever that every man learn what it means to be a man. Androgyny may be the fashion, but it's not conducive to a functional society. There are rules for courtesy for a reason. They keep a society from falling apart and devouring itself like a suicidal cannibal. And if there is going to be a United States, or any other country, left in fifty years, we need to reestablish rules of courtesy by which we can get along. And we all need to get along. Look at Facebook if you don't believe me.
Change has to start somewhere, folks. It can be a little thing in the beginning, and it can grow. So, to quote Michael Jackson, I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror. That means I'm defining to myself what it means to be a gentleman. I'll let you see why in a moment.
1.) A gentleman knows when to hold his tongue. That means clamping my mouth shut rather than respond to the latest hate-post from Bernie Sanders. As much as I growl and seethe, Sometimes I just have to clench and look away. Especially if saying something would be the same thing as throwing a diamond to a gorilla. Some people will not be convinced, no matter what I say or how many times I repeat it. So I'm just going to shut up and walk on. Some fights just are not worth the headache and backlash you're going to generate by jumping in. If everyone on Facebook would just shut the hell up one extra time per day, the internet will be a safer and more civil place by at least 1%.
2.) A gentleman honors and protects a woman's dignity. Period. Not that a woman can't defend her own honor. It's a respect thing. And while we're talking respect, how about I respect other men as well? Everyone is worthy of honor and respect, until they prove themselves to be otherwise. That means no name-calling, period. Terms like "stupid," "wacko," "nut-job," and "clown" will not cross my lips, as much as I want to launch out.
3.) A gentleman won't take the first punch, unless his life or safety is in direct jeopardy. If he does have to take that punch, he makes it count. A gentleman is not a wimp. He knows when to walk away, which is always. If he's cornered, he takes every option necessary to win his way out of it, for his own safety and anyone else with him. He fights to get out of the situation, and knows rules of engagement are out the window when lives are on the line. He will always place himself between evil and the innocent.
4.) A gentleman places others before himself. He lays his own life down for the sake of his wife and children. He provides for them, protects them, and makes himself accountable to them.
5.) A gentleman allows room for disagreement without condemnation. He does not judge people on what they do or don't believe, on their appearance including skin color, or on their actions. He allows room for the Ultimate Judge to render judgment. He does not compromise his own beliefs or faith, but he does not appoint himself as the Last Prophet, standing on the hilltop and pointing fingers. Because he himself is no better a person than anyone else.
The bottom line is this: I'm talking to that man in the mirror. I'm holding him accountable to a higher standard of behavior, one that makes peace with those with whom he deals, on all fronts. It might mean he has to be a little less opinionated, a little more restrained. But if I'm going to make this Civility thing work, I have to start somewhere.
Who's with me?
Gentlemen are labeled these days a male chauvinists. Groups like Promise Keepers are dragged through mud, nit-picked to death, bullied and scorned. The going image is one of knuckle-dragging brutes, dominating and overlording their spouses and children, perpetuating male domination to the detriment of everyone else.
Well, I've been to a Promise Keepers function, and I can tell you it's nothing like that. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. It's a holding accountable of every man to a high standard of conduct honoring and cherishing his partner and children. Paul's letter to Ephesus lays it down in no uncertain terms: Ephesians 5:25 says this: "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her." Loving my wife in that context means laying down my entire life to protect and honor her. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Being a gentleman is NOT outdated. It's more important than ever that every man learn what it means to be a man. Androgyny may be the fashion, but it's not conducive to a functional society. There are rules for courtesy for a reason. They keep a society from falling apart and devouring itself like a suicidal cannibal. And if there is going to be a United States, or any other country, left in fifty years, we need to reestablish rules of courtesy by which we can get along. And we all need to get along. Look at Facebook if you don't believe me.
Change has to start somewhere, folks. It can be a little thing in the beginning, and it can grow. So, to quote Michael Jackson, I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror. That means I'm defining to myself what it means to be a gentleman. I'll let you see why in a moment.
1.) A gentleman knows when to hold his tongue. That means clamping my mouth shut rather than respond to the latest hate-post from Bernie Sanders. As much as I growl and seethe, Sometimes I just have to clench and look away. Especially if saying something would be the same thing as throwing a diamond to a gorilla. Some people will not be convinced, no matter what I say or how many times I repeat it. So I'm just going to shut up and walk on. Some fights just are not worth the headache and backlash you're going to generate by jumping in. If everyone on Facebook would just shut the hell up one extra time per day, the internet will be a safer and more civil place by at least 1%.
2.) A gentleman honors and protects a woman's dignity. Period. Not that a woman can't defend her own honor. It's a respect thing. And while we're talking respect, how about I respect other men as well? Everyone is worthy of honor and respect, until they prove themselves to be otherwise. That means no name-calling, period. Terms like "stupid," "wacko," "nut-job," and "clown" will not cross my lips, as much as I want to launch out.
3.) A gentleman won't take the first punch, unless his life or safety is in direct jeopardy. If he does have to take that punch, he makes it count. A gentleman is not a wimp. He knows when to walk away, which is always. If he's cornered, he takes every option necessary to win his way out of it, for his own safety and anyone else with him. He fights to get out of the situation, and knows rules of engagement are out the window when lives are on the line. He will always place himself between evil and the innocent.
4.) A gentleman places others before himself. He lays his own life down for the sake of his wife and children. He provides for them, protects them, and makes himself accountable to them.
5.) A gentleman allows room for disagreement without condemnation. He does not judge people on what they do or don't believe, on their appearance including skin color, or on their actions. He allows room for the Ultimate Judge to render judgment. He does not compromise his own beliefs or faith, but he does not appoint himself as the Last Prophet, standing on the hilltop and pointing fingers. Because he himself is no better a person than anyone else.
The bottom line is this: I'm talking to that man in the mirror. I'm holding him accountable to a higher standard of behavior, one that makes peace with those with whom he deals, on all fronts. It might mean he has to be a little less opinionated, a little more restrained. But if I'm going to make this Civility thing work, I have to start somewhere.
Who's with me?
Monday, April 13, 2015
I Yam What I Yam
I'm tired, folks.
I'm tired of being labeled. I'm tired of trolls coming out of the woodwork to level accusation against people they don't know from Adam, whom they have never met and about whom they know nothing, aside from a single statement with which they disagree, and so they heap derision and vitriol instead of bringing value to create a civil discourse.
So here's the deal, folks:
1.) I am an American, and I refuse to apologize for it.
The United States went from a ragged collection of subservient colonies, to the world's greatest superpower, in less than 200 years. No, I'm not proud of the way certain people groups were treated throughout our history. Remember, I was around when they were using fire-hoses and German Shepherds against people for just being black. But I didn't wield those hoses, nor release those dogs, and I refuse to be held accountable for it. Nor do I have any ancestors who forced the Algonquin to march the Trail of Tears. I live in a village who has been at peace with our tribe for nearly 200 years. So don't even go there, bucko.
This country is exceptional: First to mass manufacture. First in Flight. First to the Moon. First to harness the Atom. This nation leads the world in cleaning our air and water, preserving our natural resources. We feed the world. We played major parts in settling two world wars. The last thing I need is to hear our own president (or anyone else) trying to tear down the great accomplishments of our citizens, our entrepreneurs, our inventors, our doctors and heroes of all trades. Americans have done great things for the world. Yes, wonderful things happened in other countries as well. But America is exceptional for an abundance of reasons, and I will debate anyone who thinks otherwise.
2.) I am a man, and I refuse to apologize for it.
I'm not just a male of the species Homo Sapiens. I'm a man, which means more. I believe in keeping my word to the best of my ability. I don't haggle; make me your offer, and make it a good one. Don't waste my time. And don't even think you can dishonor my family or friends with impunity. I love my family, and I lay my life down to provide for and protect them. I believe in a man's right to take care of his own problems within the bounds of the law, and I believe in a law structure that allows a man the freedom to do so, as necessary to address the situation.
Now, if someone differs with me on those platforms, you're free to do so. Yay you. But if you come after me in a way that attacks me as a person, or pours vitriol into a conversation without making a sound point, I will call you on it. I'll stay civil, but I'm going to start calling trolls out for who they are.
Now, let's actually have some discussions.
I'm tired of being labeled. I'm tired of trolls coming out of the woodwork to level accusation against people they don't know from Adam, whom they have never met and about whom they know nothing, aside from a single statement with which they disagree, and so they heap derision and vitriol instead of bringing value to create a civil discourse.
So here's the deal, folks:
1.) I am an American, and I refuse to apologize for it.
The United States went from a ragged collection of subservient colonies, to the world's greatest superpower, in less than 200 years. No, I'm not proud of the way certain people groups were treated throughout our history. Remember, I was around when they were using fire-hoses and German Shepherds against people for just being black. But I didn't wield those hoses, nor release those dogs, and I refuse to be held accountable for it. Nor do I have any ancestors who forced the Algonquin to march the Trail of Tears. I live in a village who has been at peace with our tribe for nearly 200 years. So don't even go there, bucko.
This country is exceptional: First to mass manufacture. First in Flight. First to the Moon. First to harness the Atom. This nation leads the world in cleaning our air and water, preserving our natural resources. We feed the world. We played major parts in settling two world wars. The last thing I need is to hear our own president (or anyone else) trying to tear down the great accomplishments of our citizens, our entrepreneurs, our inventors, our doctors and heroes of all trades. Americans have done great things for the world. Yes, wonderful things happened in other countries as well. But America is exceptional for an abundance of reasons, and I will debate anyone who thinks otherwise.
2.) I am a man, and I refuse to apologize for it.
I'm not just a male of the species Homo Sapiens. I'm a man, which means more. I believe in keeping my word to the best of my ability. I don't haggle; make me your offer, and make it a good one. Don't waste my time. And don't even think you can dishonor my family or friends with impunity. I love my family, and I lay my life down to provide for and protect them. I believe in a man's right to take care of his own problems within the bounds of the law, and I believe in a law structure that allows a man the freedom to do so, as necessary to address the situation.
Now, if someone differs with me on those platforms, you're free to do so. Yay you. But if you come after me in a way that attacks me as a person, or pours vitriol into a conversation without making a sound point, I will call you on it. I'll stay civil, but I'm going to start calling trolls out for who they are.
Now, let's actually have some discussions.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
A Better Me, A Better You
Those of you who have known me through the years have seen a lot of changes. Forty years ago began the darkest times of my life, a period that would last ten years. For you math whizzes, I was fourteen then, beginning the most awkward part of the most awkward part of any kid's life.
I found shelter from the world in drinking, and smoking cigarettes and dope. Yep, started early, I did. About the same time, I discovered hard rock. The big acts then were Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Queen, Pink Floyd, Nazareth, and others. I'd get home from school, go to my room, get stoned and listen to the rock station from Chicago while I did my homework. And then I'd spend the rest of the night reading science fiction and fantasy, or drawing in pencil, hidden from the world. I just couldn't see myself fitting in with what anyone else was doing, saying, wearing, or being.
Always a day late and a dollar short, I just couldn't keep up with my peers. I didn't play sports, didn't belong to any clubs, and had no interests that meshed with theirs. When I had to join in conversations, as in group discussions in class, anything I said was met with blank stares, as if I'd just announced I was from Mars and had come to vaporize the town. Later, I realized that very few of my audience understood what I was saying because of my advanced vocabulary.
Later, in my last two years in high school, I found a circle of friends with whom I did share an interest, and that was theater. We were the classes that put together the plays and musicals, provided tech support. Even then, I felt I was on the fringe, outside the group as a whole.
I was in my mid-twenties when I figured out that the only way to stop feeling so miserable, so marginalized, was to simply be myself and stop apologizing for the way I spoke, the way I dressed, or the way I believed. By then I was able to quit smoking, I fought to victory over my addictions and found a better way to live.
What this week's post is about is getting along, with yourself and others, by ceasing to apologize for being you. I haven't walked in your shoes, and you haven't walked in mine. I can't ask you to understand what operates in my mind when I'm around certain types of people, because you don't have the same experiences I have. Scars remain, and though these particular individuals may mean me no harm, they may dress like, or have the same mannerisms or appearance, or the personality types of those who have done me grievous harm on the past. I may even have the same effect on you. And as humans, we tend to carry those scars in such a way that it effects our ability to interact with anyone who brings fresh light to those wounds from the past.
But we can't let scars dictate our peace. We can't let past hurts forbid us to be civil and courteous with others, no matter who they are. I may never be your friend. But I can sit at the same table and share a meal with you. I may not like you as a person. But that is no excuse for not treating you with respect and kindness. You don't have to prove yourself to me any more than I have to prove myself to you.
The key point is, I don't have to change myself for you, and you don't have to change yourself for me. But what we do owe each other is simple courtesy. And if you can't say something to my face, don't say it to my Facebook. You'll notice by my own Facebook posts that I live by my words. I don't post Bernie Sanders memes, and I don't launch attacks on anyone's beliefs. That's not just because I want to sell books (I do, but that's beside the point), but because the web is a hostile enough environment, and I'm just trying to be a little more peaceable in my corner of it. It doesn't mean I don't involve myself in discussions. But it does mean I will refuse to behave like a troll, and I think I'm right in expecting like behavior from those with whom I interact.
We can disagree without being disagreeable. But the key is to be yourself, and respect others being themselves.
Turn on the Light.
I found shelter from the world in drinking, and smoking cigarettes and dope. Yep, started early, I did. About the same time, I discovered hard rock. The big acts then were Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Queen, Pink Floyd, Nazareth, and others. I'd get home from school, go to my room, get stoned and listen to the rock station from Chicago while I did my homework. And then I'd spend the rest of the night reading science fiction and fantasy, or drawing in pencil, hidden from the world. I just couldn't see myself fitting in with what anyone else was doing, saying, wearing, or being.
Always a day late and a dollar short, I just couldn't keep up with my peers. I didn't play sports, didn't belong to any clubs, and had no interests that meshed with theirs. When I had to join in conversations, as in group discussions in class, anything I said was met with blank stares, as if I'd just announced I was from Mars and had come to vaporize the town. Later, I realized that very few of my audience understood what I was saying because of my advanced vocabulary.
Later, in my last two years in high school, I found a circle of friends with whom I did share an interest, and that was theater. We were the classes that put together the plays and musicals, provided tech support. Even then, I felt I was on the fringe, outside the group as a whole.
I was in my mid-twenties when I figured out that the only way to stop feeling so miserable, so marginalized, was to simply be myself and stop apologizing for the way I spoke, the way I dressed, or the way I believed. By then I was able to quit smoking, I fought to victory over my addictions and found a better way to live.
What this week's post is about is getting along, with yourself and others, by ceasing to apologize for being you. I haven't walked in your shoes, and you haven't walked in mine. I can't ask you to understand what operates in my mind when I'm around certain types of people, because you don't have the same experiences I have. Scars remain, and though these particular individuals may mean me no harm, they may dress like, or have the same mannerisms or appearance, or the personality types of those who have done me grievous harm on the past. I may even have the same effect on you. And as humans, we tend to carry those scars in such a way that it effects our ability to interact with anyone who brings fresh light to those wounds from the past.
But we can't let scars dictate our peace. We can't let past hurts forbid us to be civil and courteous with others, no matter who they are. I may never be your friend. But I can sit at the same table and share a meal with you. I may not like you as a person. But that is no excuse for not treating you with respect and kindness. You don't have to prove yourself to me any more than I have to prove myself to you.
The key point is, I don't have to change myself for you, and you don't have to change yourself for me. But what we do owe each other is simple courtesy. And if you can't say something to my face, don't say it to my Facebook. You'll notice by my own Facebook posts that I live by my words. I don't post Bernie Sanders memes, and I don't launch attacks on anyone's beliefs. That's not just because I want to sell books (I do, but that's beside the point), but because the web is a hostile enough environment, and I'm just trying to be a little more peaceable in my corner of it. It doesn't mean I don't involve myself in discussions. But it does mean I will refuse to behave like a troll, and I think I'm right in expecting like behavior from those with whom I interact.
We can disagree without being disagreeable. But the key is to be yourself, and respect others being themselves.
Turn on the Light.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Now in Paperback: Critical Mass!
Wow, has it really been a full month since I came by? I am so sorry, folks. Truth is, there are several good reasons. Life threw us a wicked curve ball last December that we had to take care of. But the issue is good now, the outlook is awesome, and I give full and complete credit to a dedicated team of doctors who saw a red flag for what it was, and used God-given wisdom and skill to slay four horrible dragons in our household. Being as these dragons were chewing on other parties and I don't have specific permission to share, I'll remain discrete about details. But suffice to say, we've been very busy for the past several weeks, and the results are very good.
However, that's not what I came by to talk about. Many of my readers have been asking when the third installment of The NADIA Project is going to release in print form. There have been delays upon delays for which I apologize to you and lay no blame on circumstances beyond control, but now, here she is... (Drum roll... Curtain rising... Brass fanfare...Release the cheerleaders...Drop the confetti!)
Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to make her face
charges for her involvement in The Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.
After years spent hiding from The Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she
never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a
matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter
a chance to live free.
In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common
enemy, and The Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…
Critical Mass
The nurse gave him a running report as he followed her down one hall after
another. “Your suspect is in recovery now. He’s waking up. The wounds were
severe, but he’s going to make it.”
Jon followed her through two sets of double doors that opened when she held a
card in front of a scanner. “In here,” she droned, “Bed 17—” She stopped dead in
the center aisle, her hands limp at her sides. Three federal officers and the staff
nurse lay sprawled on the floor in widening pools of blood. Along the wall on the
right side of the ward, a conspicuously empty spot where a bed should have been
was strewn about with the refuse of haste: blood smears on the floor and walls,
supplies spilled from their drawers and cabinets, an IV stand lying on its side.
Jon’s hand leapt to the radio microphone clipped to his collar. “Pete, Will!
Lock the hospital down, now! We have an incident.”
His shout knocked the nurse out of her shock. She sprinted to a small panel on
the wall and punched a large blue button. Before she reached the first victim, a
smooth tone sounded through the PA, followed by a female’s calm, practiced
voice: “Code Blue, Station Two.”
Kneeling down next to another of the inert bleeding forms, Jon checked the
wounds: a single, deep slash across the throat. Bright red arterial blood was still
pulsing onto the floor, though the strength of the spurts was weakening at an
alarming rate. “This one’s alive, but barely. How’s that one?”
The nurse’s voice was choked, hoarse, as if she’d been screaming inside her
own head since they’d walked into this nightmare. “He’s gone.” She looked over at
Jon. “Use your finger and thumb. Press on the arteries on either side of his
windpipe. I’ll be right there.” She stood and yanked the top drawer open on a crash
cart against the nearest wall. A second later, she was crouching next to Jon on the
floor, tearing open a suture kit. “Okay, get out of the way. Check on Susan.”
The doors burst open. In reflex, Jon rolled over. His pistol slid easily from his
shoulder rig. The group running into the ward stopped dead, their hands raised as
they saw the 9mm. Jon’s heart pounded in his throat. As he recognized the scrubs
and uniforms, he lowered his weapon, hands shaking.
Pandemonium erupted as the team flew into action. Jon stumbled over to a
wall. His left hand came up to his face to cover the tears rising in his eyes, but he
stopped when he saw the red blur. His hand was covered in Isaac Simpson’s blood.
His legs collapsed and he slid to the floor amid the voices of the crash team,
working on Isaac and the staff nurse. “O-negative over here, I need blood now!”
Another voice came from the other side of the room. “Susan? Susan, come on. Stay
with us, hon. Dammit, breathe!”
The radio on his hip broke squelch. “Shots fired! Shots fired on the front lawn,
officer needs assistance!” In the background, Jon heard the bark of pistol fire.
That snapped Jon back to reality. Dammit, I’m done being helpless. Let’s get
these bastards… He fought back to his feet. The weight of the pistol in his hand
reassured him as he walked, then ran toward the front of the hospital. Anger
spurred him on, faster and faster. His feet pounding in the halls matched his racing
pulse as he burst through the foyer and out into the front lawn.
Two agents were down, but they’d accounted for three of the enemy. Will
Houghmaster hunched behind a low brick wall, ducking down as another hail of
bullets flew from the two remaining Pinnacle attackers in hospital garb. A third
was helping a gown-garbed man into the back of an SUV.
Jon never broke stride. He dashed across the lawn, making a beeline for the
vehicle. The enemy agents turned their fire on him. He might have ducked, might
have even run away, but now, he was too mad. He ran harder, his anger turning
into a furious, heart-pounding rage. The man helping the other into the SUV was
just closing the door when Jon crashed into him. The door slammed shut on the
man’s arm. He screamed at the loud, harsh crack as the bone gave way.
Kicking back from the SUV’s side, Jon fired into the driver and ducked as
bullets whined around him.
A loud wet slap to his left caught his attention, and he turned his head to see
one of the remaining gunmen hit the ground under Will’s fire.
Jon snapped off two more shots at the lone remaining Pinnacle agent. One of
them hit home, and blood sprayed from the man’s chest as he fired back.
Something punched Jon in the thigh. A moan crawled from his throat as he
dropped to the grass. The dull pain in his thigh rose to a screeching crescendo as
his own hot blood spilled over his hands.
Footsteps hurried across the grass. More than one strike team… another attack
— Jon tried to raise his weapon, but it suddenly felt so heavy, he couldn’t lift his
arm. His vision closed to a tunnel. Hurts…
However, that's not what I came by to talk about. Many of my readers have been asking when the third installment of The NADIA Project is going to release in print form. There have been delays upon delays for which I apologize to you and lay no blame on circumstances beyond control, but now, here she is... (Drum roll... Curtain rising... Brass fanfare...Release the cheerleaders...Drop the confetti!)
Critical Mass
Jenna Paine is a super spy, genetically enhanced to be more than human. Nadia
Velasquez is a living weapon of mass destruction. When the secret organization
who built them both decides they are no longer useful, two enemies are thrown
together for the only purposes they could have in common: survival and revenge.
There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna
lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people
who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet.
Velasquez is a living weapon of mass destruction. When the secret organization
who built them both decides they are no longer useful, two enemies are thrown
together for the only purposes they could have in common: survival and revenge.
There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna
lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people
who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet.
Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to make her face
charges for her involvement in The Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.
After years spent hiding from The Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she
never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a
matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter
a chance to live free.
In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common
enemy, and The Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…
Critical Mass
And what would a rollout be without an excerpt?
A slim young nurse came in through the side door and
motioned to Jon. When he stood, she drew back, inviting him to follow. Jon looked
back at Irving, checked for the rest of the security team, and went through.
motioned to Jon. When he stood, she drew back, inviting him to follow. Jon looked
back at Irving, checked for the rest of the security team, and went through.
The nurse gave him a running report as he followed her down one hall after
another. “Your suspect is in recovery now. He’s waking up. The wounds were
severe, but he’s going to make it.”
Jon followed her through two sets of double doors that opened when she held a
card in front of a scanner. “In here,” she droned, “Bed 17—” She stopped dead in
the center aisle, her hands limp at her sides. Three federal officers and the staff
nurse lay sprawled on the floor in widening pools of blood. Along the wall on the
right side of the ward, a conspicuously empty spot where a bed should have been
was strewn about with the refuse of haste: blood smears on the floor and walls,
supplies spilled from their drawers and cabinets, an IV stand lying on its side.
Jon’s hand leapt to the radio microphone clipped to his collar. “Pete, Will!
Lock the hospital down, now! We have an incident.”
His shout knocked the nurse out of her shock. She sprinted to a small panel on
the wall and punched a large blue button. Before she reached the first victim, a
smooth tone sounded through the PA, followed by a female’s calm, practiced
voice: “Code Blue, Station Two.”
Kneeling down next to another of the inert bleeding forms, Jon checked the
wounds: a single, deep slash across the throat. Bright red arterial blood was still
pulsing onto the floor, though the strength of the spurts was weakening at an
alarming rate. “This one’s alive, but barely. How’s that one?”
The nurse’s voice was choked, hoarse, as if she’d been screaming inside her
own head since they’d walked into this nightmare. “He’s gone.” She looked over at
Jon. “Use your finger and thumb. Press on the arteries on either side of his
windpipe. I’ll be right there.” She stood and yanked the top drawer open on a crash
cart against the nearest wall. A second later, she was crouching next to Jon on the
floor, tearing open a suture kit. “Okay, get out of the way. Check on Susan.”
The doors burst open. In reflex, Jon rolled over. His pistol slid easily from his
shoulder rig. The group running into the ward stopped dead, their hands raised as
they saw the 9mm. Jon’s heart pounded in his throat. As he recognized the scrubs
and uniforms, he lowered his weapon, hands shaking.
Pandemonium erupted as the team flew into action. Jon stumbled over to a
wall. His left hand came up to his face to cover the tears rising in his eyes, but he
stopped when he saw the red blur. His hand was covered in Isaac Simpson’s blood.
His legs collapsed and he slid to the floor amid the voices of the crash team,
working on Isaac and the staff nurse. “O-negative over here, I need blood now!”
Another voice came from the other side of the room. “Susan? Susan, come on. Stay
with us, hon. Dammit, breathe!”
The radio on his hip broke squelch. “Shots fired! Shots fired on the front lawn,
officer needs assistance!” In the background, Jon heard the bark of pistol fire.
That snapped Jon back to reality. Dammit, I’m done being helpless. Let’s get
these bastards… He fought back to his feet. The weight of the pistol in his hand
reassured him as he walked, then ran toward the front of the hospital. Anger
spurred him on, faster and faster. His feet pounding in the halls matched his racing
pulse as he burst through the foyer and out into the front lawn.
Two agents were down, but they’d accounted for three of the enemy. Will
Houghmaster hunched behind a low brick wall, ducking down as another hail of
bullets flew from the two remaining Pinnacle attackers in hospital garb. A third
was helping a gown-garbed man into the back of an SUV.
Jon never broke stride. He dashed across the lawn, making a beeline for the
vehicle. The enemy agents turned their fire on him. He might have ducked, might
have even run away, but now, he was too mad. He ran harder, his anger turning
into a furious, heart-pounding rage. The man helping the other into the SUV was
just closing the door when Jon crashed into him. The door slammed shut on the
man’s arm. He screamed at the loud, harsh crack as the bone gave way.
Kicking back from the SUV’s side, Jon fired into the driver and ducked as
bullets whined around him.
A loud wet slap to his left caught his attention, and he turned his head to see
one of the remaining gunmen hit the ground under Will’s fire.
Jon snapped off two more shots at the lone remaining Pinnacle agent. One of
them hit home, and blood sprayed from the man’s chest as he fired back.
Something punched Jon in the thigh. A moan crawled from his throat as he
dropped to the grass. The dull pain in his thigh rose to a screeching crescendo as
his own hot blood spilled over his hands.
Footsteps hurried across the grass. More than one strike team… another attack
— Jon tried to raise his weapon, but it suddenly felt so heavy, he couldn’t lift his
arm. His vision closed to a tunnel. Hurts…
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Review: The Burned Bridges Protocol, by Abigail Borders
Good evening, fellow castaways. It's not every day I get to discover a new author for whom I'm excited to see their next work, but here she is, Ms. Abigail Borders.
First off, I do need to let you know I've been acquainted with Abigail for better than a year, and we swap critiques on a pretty regular basis. That said, Abigail Borders' first published work The Burned Bridges Protocol was not one I'd seen other than a cursory glance and beta read of the first chapter. And I'm glad it was that way, so I could appreciate the final product without having already seen any of the previous rewrites or versions.
Seven hundred years ago, disaster forced humanity to abandon Earth. Life
on the colony ship New Edinburgh is all sixteen-year-old Lilliane, the
best programmer in her year at the Institute, has ever known.
Enjoy it I did. First off, it's an easy read. And by easy, I mean the words flow so easily through my brain that it's not work to read. I finished this in just a few hours. It's a short work, too at just over 200 pages, and the print is a bit larger than many other recent works I've read. It's marketed as a novella, which is just shy of a full novel-length work.
Which leads into my one minor criticism of the book: It could be longer. One or two scenes, in my opinion, could have been filled out just a fuzzy more. But don't let that stop you from diving in head-first and devouring it.
I promise no plot-spoilers, but it's not easy. I want to tell you all how it starts with a "What the..." and ends with an "Oh, wow," and fills the pages between with more than one "I did NOT see that one coming!"
I can guarantee your mouth will drop open when you get to the reason for the title of the book. It takes a lot to surprise me like that, but she did it. I think what I like the most is Abigail's sense of humor, a twisted, tongue-in-cheek kind of style that reminds me of a fluffy pink bunny riding a werewolf's shoulder and pointing at Elmer Fudd while screaming "There he is: Get him!"
I should have expected this from Abigail, but with an imagination as lively as hers, it's hard to know what to expect at any given time. And in this case, that's a very good thing.
Five thumbs up.
First off, I do need to let you know I've been acquainted with Abigail for better than a year, and we swap critiques on a pretty regular basis. That said, Abigail Borders' first published work The Burned Bridges Protocol was not one I'd seen other than a cursory glance and beta read of the first chapter. And I'm glad it was that way, so I could appreciate the final product without having already seen any of the previous rewrites or versions.
 |
Click the image for the buy page. |
A week ago, Lilliane woke up in a
life-pod. Its destination? Earth itself. Because it's time to rebuild.
It's up to Lilliane and the four other survivors of the New Edinburgh to
reclaim humanity's ancestral home.
Today, the life pod arrived at
Lady Diana--the lunar holding station that was once the luxury holiday
destination for Earth's super-rich. It's supposed to be a good place. A
safe place.
Not anymore.
Today, Lady Di is a battlefield.
Because while Lilliane and her friends thought they they were the only
humans left, somebody else got to Lady Di first.
And he will stop at nothing to keep Lilliane from ever getting to Earth.
Enjoy it I did. First off, it's an easy read. And by easy, I mean the words flow so easily through my brain that it's not work to read. I finished this in just a few hours. It's a short work, too at just over 200 pages, and the print is a bit larger than many other recent works I've read. It's marketed as a novella, which is just shy of a full novel-length work.
Which leads into my one minor criticism of the book: It could be longer. One or two scenes, in my opinion, could have been filled out just a fuzzy more. But don't let that stop you from diving in head-first and devouring it.
I promise no plot-spoilers, but it's not easy. I want to tell you all how it starts with a "What the..." and ends with an "Oh, wow," and fills the pages between with more than one "I did NOT see that one coming!"
I can guarantee your mouth will drop open when you get to the reason for the title of the book. It takes a lot to surprise me like that, but she did it. I think what I like the most is Abigail's sense of humor, a twisted, tongue-in-cheek kind of style that reminds me of a fluffy pink bunny riding a werewolf's shoulder and pointing at Elmer Fudd while screaming "There he is: Get him!"
I should have expected this from Abigail, but with an imagination as lively as hers, it's hard to know what to expect at any given time. And in this case, that's a very good thing.
Five thumbs up.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Tried and True: You Are A Weapon
"Tried and true." Has anyone ever thought about the origin of that phrase? We all know what it means. It means the person in question has proven themselves to be loyal, truthful, and trustworthy.
But it has another connotation as well, and it comes from the very origin of the phrase. It comes from many sources, among which are listed as in woodworking. "Trying" a board was to work it to a straight edge which was found to be "true" when it was perfectly straight and ready to be joined. "Trying" is also used in the practice of smithy. At least, I heard my father use it (He was a machinist) in the context of testing a metal for purity by heating a sample in fire, watching for a change in the color of the metal as it melts as well as a color change in the flame around it. A metal was "tried and true" if it was pure and could be made into a straight blade. But that second definition is, I will freely admit, apocryphal at best. You can choose whether to accept it or not. But I'm going with it for the purposes of this post, and you can determine in your own mind after I've made my point whether it's suitable.
So whether you're working with wood or metal, "tried and true" has similar context: A working, a chipping away of what doesn't fit, a shaving off of substance, a burning out. A highly uncomfortable situation, worked at the hands of a master craftsman, to make something suitable for use. If you are willing to see yourself as a piece of wood or a piece of metal, see yourself in the hands of a master carpenter or a master smith. One who wants to work you into a "tried and true" condition.
Some of the finest swords ever made were found in Viking tombs or found buried at ancient battlefields where Viking warriors, among the best fighters in history, made their mark. The best of these had one thing in common: they bore an inlaid maker's mark on their blade: "+Ulfberh+t." The mysterious Ulfbehrt who made these was never identified in person, but his legacy was the mark left on the world by fearless warriors who carried these highly-sought blades into battle. They were lighter than their contemporaries, and were very flexible as well as strong. When they met strong side forces, they flexed and sprang back rather than bending or breaking. This led many to believe they had magical properties. But they were just better made than anything else in their day.
You can check out this video if you want, but I'm going to save you an hour and explain it my own way. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeGv_PU4ZkA
First off, the blacksmith had to start with the right iron. Metal used in Ulfbehrts was found to have a higher carbon content and be more pure than most other metals used in weaponry of the day. This is because the iron was smelted at a much higher temperature than other weapons. So the craftsman started with superior stock. This high-quality iron most likely came from somewhere in central Asia or the middle east, via one of the Viking trade routes. The point here is that the material is sought specifically. The steel that came from these far places was called crucible steel.
This steel was harder to work than most other types, because if the smith wasn't careful, the metal would crack and the whole slug would be worthless. It had to be heated in the forge and hammered out on an anvil over a period of hours, just to get it formed into a basic shape. We're talking about eight to twelve hours per blade.
Then the tip was formed. The Ulfbehrt was given a longer, more tapered tip, which gave it more penetrating power through mail armor. That meant more hammering, another three to four hours' work.
Then the master put his name on the work. Using a cold chisel, he carved out his trademark into the side of the blade, and then filled it by hammering iron wire into the grooves. It was then heated again to set the letters in place. After this, the fuller is hammered into the blade. This is a groove that runs the length of the blade. This lightens the blade and strengthens it, the way that an "I" beam is stronger and lighter than a straight steel beam in buildings.
The next step is to harden the blade. It's heated again until it glows a consistent orange color, and then it's plunged into a pool of oil to quench it, or quickly cool it. It actually affects the steel on an atomic level, making it even stronger. This is a critical point in the process, and the blade will either harden into a spring-steel masterpiece, or crack into a useless hunk of metal.
Then comes the polishing. It gets tempered first in another heat treatment, and then polished for several more hours. It's burnished to a bright gleam, and then the craftsman washes it with a mild acid to bring out the letters of the inlay and to seal the surface.
Then it's applied to a stone for sharpening, and fitted with a handle. The end result is a high-quality weapon for use in any battle.
Now, are you ready for my point?
You are that metal, sought after and precious to the Craftsman who forges you. You go through the ordeals of life like a crucible, the heating, the melting, the bonding and the additives in that closed, sealed place in the fire.
Then you are broken from the crucible, and the crucible itself is destroyed in making you free. But you're not done yet. All the ordeals in your life have brought you to this point, where you're ready for use. The Master puts His name in you, and the process isn't comfortable. You wonder when it's going to be over, because the fire, the heat, the stoning, turns minutes into hours, turns days into years.
But you're here now. You're here to war for others, not against flesh and blood, but war emotionally, spiritually. You have wondered why you had to go through it. But when you are there for someone else, and you can be strong for them, you know. So don't despise the trials of life. Don't hate the furnace. It's doing its job to shape you into a weapon against despair, against hatred, against the darkness in someone else's life
I know what I'm talking about. I have lost ten people, mostly family, through cancer. One brother is dead from a drug overdose. Two of my family right now struggle with life-threatening situations, and another is awaiting test results that could tell them whether they have the same type of cancer that killed my younger sister five years ago.
But I'm good. Because I know my craftsman. I trust Him to forge me, to polish and hone me into a tool, a weapon against darkness.
So I write this to encourage you, who are going through your own mill, your own crucible experience. I want you to know, you got this. Because somewhere, someone down the line, someone else is going to need your strength, your sharpness, your flexibility.
You're good. Now go get'em.
But it has another connotation as well, and it comes from the very origin of the phrase. It comes from many sources, among which are listed as in woodworking. "Trying" a board was to work it to a straight edge which was found to be "true" when it was perfectly straight and ready to be joined. "Trying" is also used in the practice of smithy. At least, I heard my father use it (He was a machinist) in the context of testing a metal for purity by heating a sample in fire, watching for a change in the color of the metal as it melts as well as a color change in the flame around it. A metal was "tried and true" if it was pure and could be made into a straight blade. But that second definition is, I will freely admit, apocryphal at best. You can choose whether to accept it or not. But I'm going with it for the purposes of this post, and you can determine in your own mind after I've made my point whether it's suitable.
So whether you're working with wood or metal, "tried and true" has similar context: A working, a chipping away of what doesn't fit, a shaving off of substance, a burning out. A highly uncomfortable situation, worked at the hands of a master craftsman, to make something suitable for use. If you are willing to see yourself as a piece of wood or a piece of metal, see yourself in the hands of a master carpenter or a master smith. One who wants to work you into a "tried and true" condition.
Some of the finest swords ever made were found in Viking tombs or found buried at ancient battlefields where Viking warriors, among the best fighters in history, made their mark. The best of these had one thing in common: they bore an inlaid maker's mark on their blade: "+Ulfberh+t." The mysterious Ulfbehrt who made these was never identified in person, but his legacy was the mark left on the world by fearless warriors who carried these highly-sought blades into battle. They were lighter than their contemporaries, and were very flexible as well as strong. When they met strong side forces, they flexed and sprang back rather than bending or breaking. This led many to believe they had magical properties. But they were just better made than anything else in their day.
You can check out this video if you want, but I'm going to save you an hour and explain it my own way. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeGv_PU4ZkA
First off, the blacksmith had to start with the right iron. Metal used in Ulfbehrts was found to have a higher carbon content and be more pure than most other metals used in weaponry of the day. This is because the iron was smelted at a much higher temperature than other weapons. So the craftsman started with superior stock. This high-quality iron most likely came from somewhere in central Asia or the middle east, via one of the Viking trade routes. The point here is that the material is sought specifically. The steel that came from these far places was called crucible steel.
This steel was harder to work than most other types, because if the smith wasn't careful, the metal would crack and the whole slug would be worthless. It had to be heated in the forge and hammered out on an anvil over a period of hours, just to get it formed into a basic shape. We're talking about eight to twelve hours per blade.
Then the tip was formed. The Ulfbehrt was given a longer, more tapered tip, which gave it more penetrating power through mail armor. That meant more hammering, another three to four hours' work.
Then the master put his name on the work. Using a cold chisel, he carved out his trademark into the side of the blade, and then filled it by hammering iron wire into the grooves. It was then heated again to set the letters in place. After this, the fuller is hammered into the blade. This is a groove that runs the length of the blade. This lightens the blade and strengthens it, the way that an "I" beam is stronger and lighter than a straight steel beam in buildings.
The next step is to harden the blade. It's heated again until it glows a consistent orange color, and then it's plunged into a pool of oil to quench it, or quickly cool it. It actually affects the steel on an atomic level, making it even stronger. This is a critical point in the process, and the blade will either harden into a spring-steel masterpiece, or crack into a useless hunk of metal.
Then comes the polishing. It gets tempered first in another heat treatment, and then polished for several more hours. It's burnished to a bright gleam, and then the craftsman washes it with a mild acid to bring out the letters of the inlay and to seal the surface.
Then it's applied to a stone for sharpening, and fitted with a handle. The end result is a high-quality weapon for use in any battle.
Now, are you ready for my point?
You are that metal, sought after and precious to the Craftsman who forges you. You go through the ordeals of life like a crucible, the heating, the melting, the bonding and the additives in that closed, sealed place in the fire.
Then you are broken from the crucible, and the crucible itself is destroyed in making you free. But you're not done yet. All the ordeals in your life have brought you to this point, where you're ready for use. The Master puts His name in you, and the process isn't comfortable. You wonder when it's going to be over, because the fire, the heat, the stoning, turns minutes into hours, turns days into years.
But you're here now. You're here to war for others, not against flesh and blood, but war emotionally, spiritually. You have wondered why you had to go through it. But when you are there for someone else, and you can be strong for them, you know. So don't despise the trials of life. Don't hate the furnace. It's doing its job to shape you into a weapon against despair, against hatred, against the darkness in someone else's life
I know what I'm talking about. I have lost ten people, mostly family, through cancer. One brother is dead from a drug overdose. Two of my family right now struggle with life-threatening situations, and another is awaiting test results that could tell them whether they have the same type of cancer that killed my younger sister five years ago.
But I'm good. Because I know my craftsman. I trust Him to forge me, to polish and hone me into a tool, a weapon against darkness.
So I write this to encourage you, who are going through your own mill, your own crucible experience. I want you to know, you got this. Because somewhere, someone down the line, someone else is going to need your strength, your sharpness, your flexibility.
You're good. Now go get'em.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
The Times, They Are A-Changin'...
Okay, I never thought of myself as "old." But looking back on my life, it seems I've seen a few things.
I was born in 1962 in the Middle of Everything: The middle child of five kids, in a small industrial town in the middle of the country, just off the southern tip of the middle Great Lake (okay, maybe not the dead center lake, but not on either of the ends, anyway).
My earliest television memory was the man on the screen saying that President was dead. For some reason, I thought they were talking about Lincoln. What does an eighteen-month-old know, after all? My second memory from TV was watching police dogs and fire hoses being used on Americans for the sole reason of their skin color. I grew up watching war come into my living room as teenage boys huddled behind earthen berms in rice paddies far away, occasionally rising to fire blind bursts of automatic fire at invisible enemies.
And I saw my country turn its back on its heroes. Soldiers returned home from jungles and paddies to a nation of people who spat on them for doing the job they were sent to do. Journalism transformed from the reporting of facts and the chronicling of the events of our time, to agenda-driven, passive-aggressive, scandal-rag grandstanding for the purpose of pouring gasoline on whatever fires the media could find to further an editor's views and garner ratings.
I've seen changes in me as well. I transformed at one point in my childhood from an outgoing, confident little boy to a painfully shy introvert. I went from candid and open to silent and withdrawn, and that picture dictated my life for years, internalizing until it exploded in my teen years to make me an angry, depressed and destructive young man. After my term in the Air Force, I bottomed out. You know you've bottomed out when you grieve for road kill. I was ten minutes away from my appointment with a bridge when God intervened, in a way that told me in no uncertain terms that 1.) He exists and 2.) He actually cared enough for me to call me by my name when he spoke to me. That has a way of getting a person's attention.
My family went through a mountain of change too. When I was little, I saw my world through the rose-colored lens of innocent childhood. That got shattered when my mother left, and Dad had to raise all five of us kids, plus a granddaughter, all on his own, in a house on the East Side of La Porte, Indiana. I was ten when the divorce became final, and thirteen when we moved from the nice, sheltered neighborhood on the north side to literally the other side of the tracks. When I was sixteen, Dad was diagnosed with cancer. Nine years later he died, and the lynch pin of my family disappeared. We were never quite the same since, never as close-knit as we once were.
I guess the point of this post is that we all see things, behold history, share experiences that change us fundamentally. No one can honestly say they are the same person they were when they were three, and I suppose that's a good thing. Hardships make us more independent. They also shape us into people who can be there for others going through their own mill. I don't have to have a police dog grafted onto my leg to know it hurts. I don't need a fire hose turned on me to know it's wrong. I can reach out to people who have, because I have seen their struggles and rejoice in the progress made, all the while thumbing my nose at the race-baiters who derive their power by making others believe that Martin Luther King's dream is no where nearer its fulfillment that it was in 1968.
I guess it's a matter of perspective, from an older pair of eyes.
I was born in 1962 in the Middle of Everything: The middle child of five kids, in a small industrial town in the middle of the country, just off the southern tip of the middle Great Lake (okay, maybe not the dead center lake, but not on either of the ends, anyway).
My earliest television memory was the man on the screen saying that President was dead. For some reason, I thought they were talking about Lincoln. What does an eighteen-month-old know, after all? My second memory from TV was watching police dogs and fire hoses being used on Americans for the sole reason of their skin color. I grew up watching war come into my living room as teenage boys huddled behind earthen berms in rice paddies far away, occasionally rising to fire blind bursts of automatic fire at invisible enemies.
And I saw my country turn its back on its heroes. Soldiers returned home from jungles and paddies to a nation of people who spat on them for doing the job they were sent to do. Journalism transformed from the reporting of facts and the chronicling of the events of our time, to agenda-driven, passive-aggressive, scandal-rag grandstanding for the purpose of pouring gasoline on whatever fires the media could find to further an editor's views and garner ratings.
I've seen changes in me as well. I transformed at one point in my childhood from an outgoing, confident little boy to a painfully shy introvert. I went from candid and open to silent and withdrawn, and that picture dictated my life for years, internalizing until it exploded in my teen years to make me an angry, depressed and destructive young man. After my term in the Air Force, I bottomed out. You know you've bottomed out when you grieve for road kill. I was ten minutes away from my appointment with a bridge when God intervened, in a way that told me in no uncertain terms that 1.) He exists and 2.) He actually cared enough for me to call me by my name when he spoke to me. That has a way of getting a person's attention.
My family went through a mountain of change too. When I was little, I saw my world through the rose-colored lens of innocent childhood. That got shattered when my mother left, and Dad had to raise all five of us kids, plus a granddaughter, all on his own, in a house on the East Side of La Porte, Indiana. I was ten when the divorce became final, and thirteen when we moved from the nice, sheltered neighborhood on the north side to literally the other side of the tracks. When I was sixteen, Dad was diagnosed with cancer. Nine years later he died, and the lynch pin of my family disappeared. We were never quite the same since, never as close-knit as we once were.
I guess the point of this post is that we all see things, behold history, share experiences that change us fundamentally. No one can honestly say they are the same person they were when they were three, and I suppose that's a good thing. Hardships make us more independent. They also shape us into people who can be there for others going through their own mill. I don't have to have a police dog grafted onto my leg to know it hurts. I don't need a fire hose turned on me to know it's wrong. I can reach out to people who have, because I have seen their struggles and rejoice in the progress made, all the while thumbing my nose at the race-baiters who derive their power by making others believe that Martin Luther King's dream is no where nearer its fulfillment that it was in 1968.
I guess it's a matter of perspective, from an older pair of eyes.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
Coming to Print: Critical Mass!
Great news, fellow Castaways:
The Third (and NOT final) installment in my award-winning series The NADIA Project is going to be available in time for Christmas! I just finished proofreading the galley proof for my publisher and sent the final corrections in to my fabulous publisher, Lea Schizas at MuseItUp Publishing.
Now, I'm not going to go on about why books make awesome gifts, but it's something cool to remember ;-)
I feel like ahsring a bit this week, if that's okay with everyone. So without further ado, let me introduce Critical Mass:
There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet.
Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to make her face charges for her involvement in The Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.
After years spent hiding from The Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter a chance to live free.
In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common enemy, and The Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…
Critical Mass
Consciousness sifted back into Jenna’s mind along with the searing pain in her
abdomen. The fire grew in intensity as she became more aware, drawing an
involuntary moan from her lips. The pain became a monster, feeding on her body
bite by bite until she began to writhe in spite of her best efforts to control it on her
own. Her wrists and ankles came up short against stops. In her semi-conscious
state, fear shook free from its bonds in her mind, and the writhing turned into
thrashing. Every movement made the pain worse, and every twinge of pain brought
on an involuntary jerk of an arm or leg.
A woman’s voice reached through the torment; a hand on her shoulder pressed
her down into the bed. “Jenna? Jenna, stop. Listen to me!”
The sharp order got Jenna’s attention, helped her to focus. She stilled, sank into
her training, and opened her eyes. After fighting the pain tiger back into its cage,
Jenna ran down her checklist. First, evaluate your surroundings. The light in the
concrete block room was dimmed to a comfortable level. A faint musty odor stung
her nostrils. I’m underground. A basement…?
A plump, freckled woman in her thirties with curly auburn hair hovered above
the bed, both hands on Jenna’s shoulders. Wrinkled blue scrubs rustled softly as
she turned her attention to prepping a syringe filled with an amber liquid. “Do you
need something for pain?”
Jenna forced herself to remain calm. I was with Jon. I’m still alive; they didn’t find us. Unless they did, and I’m going to just lay here and take a needle like a dog to be put down. No way in hell—
The other woman seemed to know what was in Jenna’s mind. She held up the vial from which she’d taken the serum so Jenna could see. “It’s okay, just morphine. Please, let me help you.”
Jenna didn’t look at the bottle. She stared at the woman’s face, reading everything she could. All she saw was open sincerity. Jenna finally nodded and sagged back against the mattress, sweat beading on her brow. The trembling in her limbs stilled as a warm sensation crawled up her arm. Seconds later, a fresh blanket was pulled up to her chest. As the painkiller took hold, she managed a weak “Thank you.” That was when she noticed how dry her throat was. She could barely croak, “Water, please?”
The other woman stepped closer. The look in her eyes betrayed a mixture of relief and fear. “Y-yeah, sure, hang on.” She stood and rapped on the door twice, paused, and then rapped once more. Jenna heard a man’s voice on the other side, old and hoarse, but strong. The freckled woman said, “She’s awake. Get Jon,” before pouring some water from a pitcher into a glass and inserting a straw. After she helped Jenna to a few sips, she sat back down. “How do you feel now?”
“Better, I guess. I suppose it’s out of line to ask where I am?”
The woman smiled a wide, nervous grin and said, “Why don’t we start with some introductions? I’m Beth.” She took Jenna’s hand in her own. Beth’s fingers trembled, but her smile was sincere.
“I guess you already know me.”
“You’re Jenna.”
“Why am I tied up like a pig in a poke?”
“I’m sure you can guess. You’re in a safe place, though.”
“How did everything come out?”
“We worked on you for quite a while. You had a couple close calls. You lost a lot of blood. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Is it okay if I plead the Fifth for now?”
“Sure. More water?” Beth held the straw to Jenna’s lips. Jenna drained the cup all the way down to the slurp at the bottom before she let go. “FYI, I’m not a cop. I used to work at the hospital in Twin Oaks Spa. On a scale of one to ten, how’s the pain?”
“Three,” Jenna lied. It hurt like hell, but she didn’t want to be all drugged out anymore. She would need a sharp mind from here on out.
Beth looked into Jenna’s eyes and stared at her for a few disturbing seconds. “Uh-huh.” She nodded and pushed a syringe into Jenna’s IV line. “I’m just going to give you a bump, anyway, to stay on top of it. Don’t worry. I’m halving the dose. You’ll still be reasonably sharp.”
“For what?”
A knock came at the door. Beth spoke loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear. “We’re good. Come on in.”
A deadbolt slid back, a second lock opened, and the door swung in to admit Jon Daniels. He closed the door behind him, and the locks clicked back into place. One nurse, Jon, and whoever is beyond that door. Probably a couple more upstairs. Outside, who knows? I might be on an Army base for all I know. Not that I’m in any shape to escape. A toddler could tackle me right now.
Jon stepped up to the bedside, placing his hands on the side rail as he did. “Hey, Jenna. Sorry about the straps. I’m sure you understand.”
“Under different circumstances, I’m sure it would have been fun. I guess I should thank you.”
“I guess you’re welcome. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”
Jenna stared at the ceiling. “Not like I had any other choice at the time.”
“Who shot you?”
What do you care? “I was cleaning my gun and it went off.”
“Nice try. The hit didn’t quite go as planned, did it? Who was the target?”
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Because the last I heard, you were a special agent for the FBI. As in, anything I say can and will be used against me—”
“You’re not under arrest, Jenna. That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what’s with the straps? Why am I being held underground? And who’s outside that locked door? I know when I’m being held prisoner.” Jenna tried to sit up. A spasm ripped through her torso. She squinted and flopped back down with a moan.
“You haven’t exactly proven that we can trust you yet,” said Jon, “and the stakes are too high to take any chances right now. Just take it easy and get better. We’ll have time to talk later.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Jon turned and left the room, leaving Jenna alone with Beth.
Beth checked Jenna’s IV, and then drew the covers back. “Let’s have a look at your incision.”
“Can I at least have my hands untied?”
Beth looked at Jenna, and in her eyes, Jenna saw fear akin to a bird looking into the eyes of a cat.
“You know what I am, don’t you?” asked Jenna.
Beth’s hands trembled as she lifted up Jenna’s gown and checked the dressing on her abdomen. “What you are doesn’t worry me. It’s what you can do that frightens the hell out of me.”
“Does it look like I can do anything in my condition? Believe me, if I don’t want to be tied up, I won’t be for long.”
“Did you kill Mark Boyle? The man who was holding us?”
The question took Jenna off-guard. She tried to find some safe way to answer, but couldn’t think of anything to say that couldn’t be taken the wrong way. Damn painkillers.
Beth broke the pause. “Because if you did, I’d say thank you. He…” Her lips clamped shut for a second. When she continued, her voice cracked. “He blew my friend’s brains all over the floor, right in front of me. And he was going to kill us, too. Nadia said it was you. I… I don’t want anyone to die. But he needed to die for what he did. So thank you.” She covered Jenna back up. “Dressing looks good for now. We’ll check it again in a couple hours.”
So what do you say to that, Jenna? “Sure, no problem. Anyone else you want wiped out? I happen to be between jobs right now, rates cheap.” Yeah, right. It was an order, plain and simple. He was being cut loose. Just like me. The only difference is I made it out alive. “Okay.” Jenna closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath, focusing all her energy on calming her pain receptors. With the added boost from the drugs Beth administered, she was able to quiet the spasms down, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.
The Third (and NOT final) installment in my award-winning series The NADIA Project is going to be available in time for Christmas! I just finished proofreading the galley proof for my publisher and sent the final corrections in to my fabulous publisher, Lea Schizas at MuseItUp Publishing.
Now, I'm not going to go on about why books make awesome gifts, but it's something cool to remember ;-)
I feel like ahsring a bit this week, if that's okay with everyone. So without further ado, let me introduce Critical Mass:
"On their own, they're deadly. Together, they could save the world—or destroy it."
Blurb:
Jenna
Paine is a super spy, genetically enhanced to be more than human. Nadia
Velasquez is a living weapon of mass destruction. When the secret
organization who built them both decides they are no longer useful, two
enemies are thrown together for the only purposes they could have in
common: survival and revenge.There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet.
Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to make her face charges for her involvement in The Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.
After years spent hiding from The Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter a chance to live free.
In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common enemy, and The Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…
Critical Mass
Excerpt:
abdomen. The fire grew in intensity as she became more aware, drawing an
involuntary moan from her lips. The pain became a monster, feeding on her body
bite by bite until she began to writhe in spite of her best efforts to control it on her
own. Her wrists and ankles came up short against stops. In her semi-conscious
state, fear shook free from its bonds in her mind, and the writhing turned into
thrashing. Every movement made the pain worse, and every twinge of pain brought
on an involuntary jerk of an arm or leg.
A woman’s voice reached through the torment; a hand on her shoulder pressed
her down into the bed. “Jenna? Jenna, stop. Listen to me!”
The sharp order got Jenna’s attention, helped her to focus. She stilled, sank into
her training, and opened her eyes. After fighting the pain tiger back into its cage,
Jenna ran down her checklist. First, evaluate your surroundings. The light in the
concrete block room was dimmed to a comfortable level. A faint musty odor stung
her nostrils. I’m underground. A basement…?
A plump, freckled woman in her thirties with curly auburn hair hovered above
the bed, both hands on Jenna’s shoulders. Wrinkled blue scrubs rustled softly as
she turned her attention to prepping a syringe filled with an amber liquid. “Do you
need something for pain?”
Jenna forced herself to remain calm. I was with Jon. I’m still alive; they didn’t find us. Unless they did, and I’m going to just lay here and take a needle like a dog to be put down. No way in hell—
The other woman seemed to know what was in Jenna’s mind. She held up the vial from which she’d taken the serum so Jenna could see. “It’s okay, just morphine. Please, let me help you.”
Jenna didn’t look at the bottle. She stared at the woman’s face, reading everything she could. All she saw was open sincerity. Jenna finally nodded and sagged back against the mattress, sweat beading on her brow. The trembling in her limbs stilled as a warm sensation crawled up her arm. Seconds later, a fresh blanket was pulled up to her chest. As the painkiller took hold, she managed a weak “Thank you.” That was when she noticed how dry her throat was. She could barely croak, “Water, please?”
The other woman stepped closer. The look in her eyes betrayed a mixture of relief and fear. “Y-yeah, sure, hang on.” She stood and rapped on the door twice, paused, and then rapped once more. Jenna heard a man’s voice on the other side, old and hoarse, but strong. The freckled woman said, “She’s awake. Get Jon,” before pouring some water from a pitcher into a glass and inserting a straw. After she helped Jenna to a few sips, she sat back down. “How do you feel now?”
“Better, I guess. I suppose it’s out of line to ask where I am?”
The woman smiled a wide, nervous grin and said, “Why don’t we start with some introductions? I’m Beth.” She took Jenna’s hand in her own. Beth’s fingers trembled, but her smile was sincere.
“I guess you already know me.”
“You’re Jenna.”
“Why am I tied up like a pig in a poke?”
“I’m sure you can guess. You’re in a safe place, though.”
“How did everything come out?”
“We worked on you for quite a while. You had a couple close calls. You lost a lot of blood. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Is it okay if I plead the Fifth for now?”
“Sure. More water?” Beth held the straw to Jenna’s lips. Jenna drained the cup all the way down to the slurp at the bottom before she let go. “FYI, I’m not a cop. I used to work at the hospital in Twin Oaks Spa. On a scale of one to ten, how’s the pain?”
“Three,” Jenna lied. It hurt like hell, but she didn’t want to be all drugged out anymore. She would need a sharp mind from here on out.
Beth looked into Jenna’s eyes and stared at her for a few disturbing seconds. “Uh-huh.” She nodded and pushed a syringe into Jenna’s IV line. “I’m just going to give you a bump, anyway, to stay on top of it. Don’t worry. I’m halving the dose. You’ll still be reasonably sharp.”
“For what?”
A knock came at the door. Beth spoke loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear. “We’re good. Come on in.”
A deadbolt slid back, a second lock opened, and the door swung in to admit Jon Daniels. He closed the door behind him, and the locks clicked back into place. One nurse, Jon, and whoever is beyond that door. Probably a couple more upstairs. Outside, who knows? I might be on an Army base for all I know. Not that I’m in any shape to escape. A toddler could tackle me right now.
Jon stepped up to the bedside, placing his hands on the side rail as he did. “Hey, Jenna. Sorry about the straps. I’m sure you understand.”
“Under different circumstances, I’m sure it would have been fun. I guess I should thank you.”
“I guess you’re welcome. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”
Jenna stared at the ceiling. “Not like I had any other choice at the time.”
“Who shot you?”
What do you care? “I was cleaning my gun and it went off.”
“Nice try. The hit didn’t quite go as planned, did it? Who was the target?”
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Because the last I heard, you were a special agent for the FBI. As in, anything I say can and will be used against me—”
“You’re not under arrest, Jenna. That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what’s with the straps? Why am I being held underground? And who’s outside that locked door? I know when I’m being held prisoner.” Jenna tried to sit up. A spasm ripped through her torso. She squinted and flopped back down with a moan.
“You haven’t exactly proven that we can trust you yet,” said Jon, “and the stakes are too high to take any chances right now. Just take it easy and get better. We’ll have time to talk later.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Jon turned and left the room, leaving Jenna alone with Beth.
Beth checked Jenna’s IV, and then drew the covers back. “Let’s have a look at your incision.”
“Can I at least have my hands untied?”
Beth looked at Jenna, and in her eyes, Jenna saw fear akin to a bird looking into the eyes of a cat.
“You know what I am, don’t you?” asked Jenna.
Beth’s hands trembled as she lifted up Jenna’s gown and checked the dressing on her abdomen. “What you are doesn’t worry me. It’s what you can do that frightens the hell out of me.”
“Does it look like I can do anything in my condition? Believe me, if I don’t want to be tied up, I won’t be for long.”
“Did you kill Mark Boyle? The man who was holding us?”
The question took Jenna off-guard. She tried to find some safe way to answer, but couldn’t think of anything to say that couldn’t be taken the wrong way. Damn painkillers.
Beth broke the pause. “Because if you did, I’d say thank you. He…” Her lips clamped shut for a second. When she continued, her voice cracked. “He blew my friend’s brains all over the floor, right in front of me. And he was going to kill us, too. Nadia said it was you. I… I don’t want anyone to die. But he needed to die for what he did. So thank you.” She covered Jenna back up. “Dressing looks good for now. We’ll check it again in a couple hours.”
So what do you say to that, Jenna? “Sure, no problem. Anyone else you want wiped out? I happen to be between jobs right now, rates cheap.” Yeah, right. It was an order, plain and simple. He was being cut loose. Just like me. The only difference is I made it out alive. “Okay.” Jenna closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath, focusing all her energy on calming her pain receptors. With the added boost from the drugs Beth administered, she was able to quiet the spasms down, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
And Ne'er The Twain Shall Meet
Good day, fellow castaways.
This week I want to expound just a little on something I said in my last post, just to reinforce a point. It occurred as I was writing that post that handing off our responsibility to the needy to a faceless government agency, isolates us not only from our duties, but from our fellow man. There are other factors as well that further isolate us one from another, and I think we can agree that isolation is not good for humans.
It's been said that Humans are communal animals. In this case, I do refer to humans as animals, because even though we are unique among all creatures on the earth, we in our basic definition, are animals as well. Which means certain conditions are so much a part of our nature that we cannot thrive without them. Interaction is one. Placing a prisoner in solitary confinement is considered among the worst punishments that can be inflicted upon a human. In fact, many studies have shown that a person can only be alone for a certain amount of time before their mind breaks, and death follows shortly thereafter. NASA even has numerous experiments on file that prove humans simply cannot survive long periods isolated from others. So at this point, I don't feel any need for posting evidence. You can simply google it and come up with page after page that prove my point. People need people. Period. Even teenagers.
Teens are strange creatures. I still remember when I was one, I sought isolation from my world. I hated being a teen. Hated being the awkward, shy boy who suffered panic attacks at the mere thought of asking a girl out on a date. Hated being bullied by those who sought to better their own social position by making others feel inferior. Hated being singled out and ridiculed for speaking out of turn or saying the wrong thing, always a day late and a dollar short. So I sought isolation in my books. After all, a good book never judges, is always there for you, takes you away into into world
where you get to be the hero and save the day, instead of the kid in the back of the class that no one understands.
I did have two friends, with whom I hung out as well, and what did we do? We spent our time roaming the woods in Soldier's Memorial Park or out back of Fix Park, riding our bicycles around Pine Lake, and shunning society as a whole.
Anyway, teens are odd critters, who seem to seek isolation in every way they can. They use their cell phones, iPods, and the internet to remove themselves from a cruel society that they create themselves every day in the school halls. A teenager would rather text with their friend down the block than to actually go see them. A teen would rather spend hours on Facebook than spend a minute with a real person, and it shows in the collective society that we've created online in the circus that passes for social media. Unfortunately, those patterns of behavior become habits, and habits follow us as we get older. So we become hermits in our own families, virtual recluses living together, yet alone in our own little worlds.
We say things online that would get us a fist to the face in person, and we get away with it because that other person isn't there to confront us. We have Usernames that further remove us from accountability. We can create personae that aren't even us at all. How many Facebook pages have names like "Stupid Things People Do" or "I Hate Democrats?" There are people behind those pages, and they refuse to be held accountable to anything they say, so they get away with saying stupid, hateful, and false things that get spread around the world in a mater of minutes. The more outrageous the claim, the faster the poison spreads.
In addition, look at what happens on our highways and streets. People in their cars, removed from direct interaction, tend to drive like idiots, in spite of a common belief on the part of most of us that we're doing just fine, and the other guy is the one who's wrong. Increased incidences of road rage bear this out. We feel free to gesture and yell and make ourselves a brain-dead zombie, because we're in our car and they are in theirs, and ne'er the twain shall meet.
So we have now officially created the most hostile, isolated culture in the world, two feet in front of our faces, and we're so ingrained in our habits that we can't break loose without intervention. We no longer feel the need to be civil with our communication, because we aren't interacting on a personal level anymore. You wonder why the internet is going crazy? Seriously, Sunshine, take a look at yourself.
So where do we go from here? How do we fix this? How can we come together as a united people once again, and do away with these factions, these divisions, this polarized isolation? I'm open to suggestions. Maybe just take an extra moment to consider the possibility that hitting "share" on that hateful rant in the form of a meme is helping or hurting. Maybe exercise the the right of other people to be wrong, and you don't have to correct everyone or everything that doesn't agree with your sensibilities.
To quote that able philosopher and all-around weird guy Floyd (I know, just go with me here), "I mean, good manners don't cost nothin' ya know."
Maybe the best thing we can do is stand up from our computers, put down our phones, and actually place ourselves in personal contact with someone on a regular basis. In a restaurant with friends, stack your phones in the middle of the table. The first person to pick theirs up gets to pick up the whole tab. Quit playing Clash of Clans long enough to share kindness with someone down your street who has a need. Rake their leaves, shovel their walk. Breathe fresh air.
We can do this, people. Make kindness a priority, and maybe we can all start getting along again.
This week I want to expound just a little on something I said in my last post, just to reinforce a point. It occurred as I was writing that post that handing off our responsibility to the needy to a faceless government agency, isolates us not only from our duties, but from our fellow man. There are other factors as well that further isolate us one from another, and I think we can agree that isolation is not good for humans.
Credit: Isolation, by Neriak, posted on Deviantart
It's been said that Humans are communal animals. In this case, I do refer to humans as animals, because even though we are unique among all creatures on the earth, we in our basic definition, are animals as well. Which means certain conditions are so much a part of our nature that we cannot thrive without them. Interaction is one. Placing a prisoner in solitary confinement is considered among the worst punishments that can be inflicted upon a human. In fact, many studies have shown that a person can only be alone for a certain amount of time before their mind breaks, and death follows shortly thereafter. NASA even has numerous experiments on file that prove humans simply cannot survive long periods isolated from others. So at this point, I don't feel any need for posting evidence. You can simply google it and come up with page after page that prove my point. People need people. Period. Even teenagers.
Teens are strange creatures. I still remember when I was one, I sought isolation from my world. I hated being a teen. Hated being the awkward, shy boy who suffered panic attacks at the mere thought of asking a girl out on a date. Hated being bullied by those who sought to better their own social position by making others feel inferior. Hated being singled out and ridiculed for speaking out of turn or saying the wrong thing, always a day late and a dollar short. So I sought isolation in my books. After all, a good book never judges, is always there for you, takes you away into into world
where you get to be the hero and save the day, instead of the kid in the back of the class that no one understands.
I did have two friends, with whom I hung out as well, and what did we do? We spent our time roaming the woods in Soldier's Memorial Park or out back of Fix Park, riding our bicycles around Pine Lake, and shunning society as a whole.
Anyway, teens are odd critters, who seem to seek isolation in every way they can. They use their cell phones, iPods, and the internet to remove themselves from a cruel society that they create themselves every day in the school halls. A teenager would rather text with their friend down the block than to actually go see them. A teen would rather spend hours on Facebook than spend a minute with a real person, and it shows in the collective society that we've created online in the circus that passes for social media. Unfortunately, those patterns of behavior become habits, and habits follow us as we get older. So we become hermits in our own families, virtual recluses living together, yet alone in our own little worlds.
Credit: Sylvia Hartman, 2010
We say things online that would get us a fist to the face in person, and we get away with it because that other person isn't there to confront us. We have Usernames that further remove us from accountability. We can create personae that aren't even us at all. How many Facebook pages have names like "Stupid Things People Do" or "I Hate Democrats?" There are people behind those pages, and they refuse to be held accountable to anything they say, so they get away with saying stupid, hateful, and false things that get spread around the world in a mater of minutes. The more outrageous the claim, the faster the poison spreads.
In addition, look at what happens on our highways and streets. People in their cars, removed from direct interaction, tend to drive like idiots, in spite of a common belief on the part of most of us that we're doing just fine, and the other guy is the one who's wrong. Increased incidences of road rage bear this out. We feel free to gesture and yell and make ourselves a brain-dead zombie, because we're in our car and they are in theirs, and ne'er the twain shall meet.
So we have now officially created the most hostile, isolated culture in the world, two feet in front of our faces, and we're so ingrained in our habits that we can't break loose without intervention. We no longer feel the need to be civil with our communication, because we aren't interacting on a personal level anymore. You wonder why the internet is going crazy? Seriously, Sunshine, take a look at yourself.
So where do we go from here? How do we fix this? How can we come together as a united people once again, and do away with these factions, these divisions, this polarized isolation? I'm open to suggestions. Maybe just take an extra moment to consider the possibility that hitting "share" on that hateful rant in the form of a meme is helping or hurting. Maybe exercise the the right of other people to be wrong, and you don't have to correct everyone or everything that doesn't agree with your sensibilities.
To quote that able philosopher and all-around weird guy Floyd (I know, just go with me here), "I mean, good manners don't cost nothin' ya know."
Maybe the best thing we can do is stand up from our computers, put down our phones, and actually place ourselves in personal contact with someone on a regular basis. In a restaurant with friends, stack your phones in the middle of the table. The first person to pick theirs up gets to pick up the whole tab. Quit playing Clash of Clans long enough to share kindness with someone down your street who has a need. Rake their leaves, shovel their walk. Breathe fresh air.
We can do this, people. Make kindness a priority, and maybe we can all start getting along again.
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