When I was a young child, perhaps 7, I attended a church service that affected me deeply. It was around New Year's, and the pastor read aloud the names of those in the congregation who had died the previous year. After he had read the list, a soloist sang a song that almost made me cry with its loveliness and sentiment; I made a point to memorize the song. It is my practice to think of this song at New Year's, and to think of those in my life who have passed on.

This year:

Irene Clancy
Roy Clancy
Madeleine L'Engle, my favorite author
Michael K., husband of my coworker
Pam Cole

Those from years past who are still on my heart:

Irene Pearcy
Gene Ledbetter, the teacher who inspired me to write
Rich Mullins, musician
Pope John Paul II
Frank Capra (yes, I pray for celebrities. Allow me my eccentricities)
Myles Connolly, author
Richard Omondi
Janelle Debris

The Abiding Love, to the tune of Auld Lang Syne:

It singeth low in every heart,
We hear it each and all-
A song of those who answer not,
However we may call;
They throng the silence of the breast,
We see them as of yore-
The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet,
Who walk with us no more.

'Tis hard to take the burden up
When these have laid it down;
They brightened all the joy of life,
They softened every frown;
But, Oh, 'tis good to think of them
When we are troubled sore!
Thanks be to God that such have been,
Though they are here no more.

More homelike seems the vast unknown
Since they have entered there;
To follow them were not so hard,
Wherever they may fare;
They cannot be where God is not,
On any sea or shore;
Whate'er betides, Thy love abides,
Our God, forever more.

moar funny pictures

Respect

I've been thinking lately about my co-worker. She is a very devout follower of a religion that I consider to be a false one, but I simply have to admire her actions. In the office she never participates in any of the holiday celebrations, since they are not observed by her faith tradition, but she never makes a big deal about it, either. The office radio is right behind her, and she never complains when it plays all Christmas music.

 

We all know her stance on these things, but no-one is inconvenienced or embarassed because of it. She quietly does what she believes is right, with no compromise on her part, but no forcing of her beliefs on anyone else here.

 

I find that immensely impressive. That's a tough line to walk.

Meeting the Master

Ok, I really am going to try to keep up with my blog.

 

For those of you who don't know, on Saturday, I went to a community theatre performance in South Pasadena. There were only 80 seats in the theatre, so it was a pretty intimate crowd. The plays performed were based on short stories by my favorite living author(and one of my tope three fav of all time), Ray Bradbury. Mr. Bradbury himself was present, and spoke to the audience about love and writing for about an hour. Afterwards, I got to have my copy of The Martian Chronicles signed by the master himself.

 

It is hard for me to express how much the experience meant to me. I've been reading Bradbury since I was about 8, and he had a huge influence on my creative style. His stories have made me laugh, think, and cry. To meet him was a huge honor, and to hear him talk so openly to the audience was quite moving. I know of no other author of his stature (he's one of the 2 living classic sci-fi greats) who is so generous with his time (he does this every few months).

 

I can't wait for the next performance!

What Color Is A Dark Night?

I met him on a blustery day in late October. I was sitting on a bus stop bench, reading the day's newspaper, trying to ignore the damp chill sinking into my bones. The South is incredibly beautiful, but humid beyond my usual tolerance. It was a gray overcast day, so I was surprised to see a thin young man wearing sunglasses walk out of a coffee shop across the street. His green scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, and hung down his back, contrasting with the dark grey of his jacket.

I have never thought of myself as a patricularly nosy person, but I am very interested in the things that happen around me. On a whim, I decided to follow this young man, though I was careful to stay a block or so behind him. He turned right and went up a small side street. He didn't seem to be aware of me following him, so I dared to come a little closer. At the next intersection, he turned left  around the corner, I lost sight of him, and quickened my pace a little in hopes of finding him again. I suddenly found myself at the street corner, looking up at a large spired building. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds for a moment, and the basilica's shadow stretched across the road for a moment, before fading back into the grey dimness of the afternoon.

One of the doors stood open, and I found myself drawn inside; there were few lights on, and the sanctuary was dim. My eyes took some time adjusting to the light, because I stumbled in the back of the room.

"It's unusual to find anyone else here at this time of day," came a quiet voice from one of the pews. I squinted into the gloom, and could just make out the gleam of candle light on two black lenses.

"Most people don't stop by here unless there's a Mass. And unless I'm mistaken, you're from out of town." I could see him now, silhouetted against the dimmed lights at the front of the sanctuary. He slowly removed his sunglasses, and looked at me.

"Yes, I'm just in town visiting. I'd heard about the basilica and wanted to see it. I guess I came at the wrong time, it's too dark to see anything in here. I suppose I'll come back when they turn more of the lights on." I got up to leave, embarassed at having been noticed.

"Actually, I like the santuary best at times like this. It's quiet now, and the lights don't hurt my eyes."

I let out a short laugh, which echoed around the room. "That's a bit of an understatement. It's so dim in here that I can hardly see. But I guess it would be gentler on the eyes in some ways."

He shook his head. "I see more than you do." He walked over to where I stood, and looked into my eyes. His eyes were almost black, the pupils wide and dilated. "I was born with abnormal pupils. They don't close right in bright light, so I don't go out much in the day." He held up the thick black sunglasses. "On cloudy days like today, I can just manage with my shades." The thin young man saw the look on my face, and laughed quietly. I guess I must have had a ook of pity, because he continued, "Don't feel sorry for me. I have a night job, and I live a normal life. Well, not normal as most people would consider normal, but a full life."

I nodded; my eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and I coudl see him more clearly now. He stood in the aisle, leaning against a pew, eyes fixed on the green carpet at his feet though he seemed to be looking at something much farther away.

I took another step toward the door, and he looked up again. "Can you look outside and tell me if it's still cloudy? I should be getting home, but if the sun's breaking through I can wait a while."

"What if it clears off? Will you wait till night?" I wished I had a car to offer him a ride, but I'd come into town on the bus lines, and walked anywhere I wanted to go.

"I won't have to wait long in any case. There's a storm coming up, I can smell the rain on the wind. Didn't you notice it? It's such a unique scent, almost a metallic tang, but so much sweeter. It'll be raining in another hour or so, and I can make my way home then, if I need to."

I went over to the door and opened it. "It's alright, the clouds are heavier now, it's darker than when I came in." He put on his sunglasses again, and joined me at the door. "Good. I shouldn't have any trouble getting home then. Thank you."

"What if it rains while you're walking home? Isn't there anyone you can call to come pick you up?"

"No, it's alright.  It's not that cold today, and the walking keeps me warm anyway. I like the rain. I can see more in the rain than I can in the sunlight, and even more when it rains at night." His smile looked strange, with his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. "If you come out in the storm tonight, I can show you a little bit of what I see. Believe me, it's like nothing you've ever seen in the light of day." He scribbled short set of directions on a slip of paper, and handed it to me. "I'll be there when the storm hits. Once you've seen what I see, you won't feel sorry for me again." He gave a slight bow, and touched the edge of his glasses like a salute. Then he turned and was soon out of sight among the buildings.

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my hotel room, pacing restlessly. Out of my window, I could see the street below; everyone seemed to be hurrying by, eager to complete their daily activities before the rain hit. Every so often a large drop would hit the window, but it didn't begin to rain in earnest until the sun went down. It peeked out from behind the clouds, red and swollen, for a few moments, then seemed to sink into the waters of the river.

Almost at once, the wind rose, and I heard the rain begin to fall. I shivered; it looked cold outside, and I had no raincoat. I wanted nothing more than to fix a pot of coffee, and settle down with a good book, but I found myself pulling on a thick sweater and a pair of boots, and setting out into the storm.

 

The first gust of wind took my breath away, and I wrapped my arms around myself. I was saoked through in a few minutes, and quickened my pace to try and keep warm. I stopped under a streetlight to check my directions, and continued down the street. In about half an hour I found the place; it was almost completely dark, away from all the street lights, and I felt a moment's hesitation. But then the lightning flashed, and I could see a thin form standing on top of a small hill, arms spread outward and face upraised to the sky.

"So you did come!" he called to me, as I walked up beside him. "I thought you might not; every so often I invite someone out here, but usually no-one comes."

His face was pale in the cold night air, and I could see the steam from his breath. "It's cold out here, and it's night. I can't see anything." I stepped up beside him, shivering.

"Here, stand on top of this little hill. Now face into the wind. Dont' worry, the rain might sting a little, but it won't put out your eye or anything. Look out there, straight into the wind."

I turned slightly, and felt the rain dash itself against my face, stinging the blood to my cheeks. Beside me, the young man lifted his arms to the sky again, and began to sing. The words were drowned out by the wind and the thunder, but the tune was wild and joyful, sad and sweet. As the lightning flashed, I could see the leaves caught up by the wind, swirling in a  mad dance, and the trees shone wetly green, but after an instant the sight was gone.

"What do you see," I called into the wind.

"I see red leaves so sharp-edged that you'd swear they drew blood, whirling in a crazy wind. The trees are throwing themselves against each other like giants wrestling. The grass shines in the lightning, and glows dimly green in the rain. The raindrops are like meteors blazing through the air, and I can see them flattening themselves against the asphalt."

The storm rose in fury, but I didn't notice it. The things I could see in the flashes of lightning could never compare to what my companion saw in the darkness of the night. I stood there for an hour while the storm spent itself out, listening as he called out the sights that passed before his wide-open eyes.

Finally, the wind died down, and the rain slowed to a steady drizzle. My companion had gone, disappeared into the night. I stumbled my way back to my hotel, drawing the stare of the desk clerk as I came through the lobby. I must have been quite a sight: soaked through to the bone, hair tangled by the wind, with bits of leaves caught up in it. I took a hot shower, but even after I was warm and dry, I couldn't sleep. I sat by the window, with all the lights in the room off, watching the rain. Finally, just before dawn, I fell asleep.

My bus left at 10am, and I barely made it. I had just enough time to fling myself into the last remaining window seat. I stuffed my bag under the seat in front of me, and looked out at the small town. I caught a glimpse of a few people milling around the station. Near the street stood a young man, thin t-shirt covered by a jacket, large black sunglasses protecting his eyes, and the looks of pity he received from those who passed by. He touched the tip of his glasses as the bus went by, and then he was gone.

I never found out his name. But even now, I go out and stand in my backyard when the rain comes, and sometimes I can see a little. 

An Announcment

Last night, at approximately 9:33pm, I hit the golden 100,000 words on my novel.

 

Oh. Yeah. Baby.

 

http://www.viddler.com/explore/SaintJoi/videos/63/ingroup/nanowrimo/

Sorry for absence...

...but I've been busy noveling. My current wordcount is 55,000 words. In 12 days. For anyone who doesn't know, that's flipping insane. My brain is starting to feel a little fried right now, but no more than usual for NaNo. That's kind of the scary thing--writing an average of 5000 words a day has not been that difficult. It takes effort of course, and some days it takes a lot to push through to the 5K, but it hasn't been much more difficult than usual.

 

so, hopefully blogging will resume in December...if my brain hasn't died....

 

 

 

So....many....ideas....

This is getting distracting...you ever see a fractal? I feel like my story is like that: whenever I look at a part of it that looks simple, it suddenly into this complex thing with way more history and story than will ever appear in the novel. Yikes.

 

I've decided what my novel is like: think Swiftly Tilting Planet meets Babylon 5. That sums it up oddly well, actually. I've got things very similar to Shadow technology, the Great Machine on Epsilon 3, and the telepaths. I've also got time travel, the importance of love over power, and the choice that changes the world.

 

How cool is that?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

14 HOURS

AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

I'm dying to start writing!

 

*headdesk*

 

If you like Richard Lederer

You'll love this book! http://www.lulu.com/content/1310566

 

NaNoisms, compiled by Wrimos.

 

NaNoism: to quote one Wrimo: "A cross between a typo and a grenade. A normal typo is just annoying, but a NaNoism is a typo that smashes everything in the vicinity into nonsense."

 

Wrimo: participant of NaNoWriMo

 

Examples: "Adam ran through the chicken and bumped into Justian. " "-- the highest ranking officers were made of sturdy wood…" "Isn't the world wonderful? Filled with sunshine, rainbows, flowers and puppy rabbits."

 

Go buy the book!

Pastafari!

I love the NaNo forums...

 

We have the Christian thread, the atheist thread, the agnostic thread....

 

And now the Pastafarian thread. All hail the noodley appendage!

 

I love the NaNo forums.

Squeeeeee again!

Payday! This means I can finally donate to NaNoWriMo and get a pack of merit badges! Huzzah for the halo!

 

Yes, I know I am making no sense. It's the pre-November incoherency.

After a lovely few hours in the kitchen earlier in the week, I've decided that I want to learn how to can fruits and veggies! Fortunately, it looks like the boiling water bath method will do what I need, so I won't have to mess with a pressure canner. Huzzah! I love the idea of making my own preserves! Even better if I can learn how to do it by Christmas and give some as gifts.

 

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

http://snarkerati.com/movie-news/pixar-developing-john-carter-of-mars-trilogy/

 

This makes me so happy! Dejah Thoris done by Pixar! John Carter on the big screen!

 

*bounces around in happy little circles*

One of the oddest pleasures of NaNoWriMo is that you have no life during November. This sounds weird; why is it so much fun to spend practically every spare moment working like crazy on a book that will almost certainly never be published, and only rarely seen by anyone else?

 

The death of your social life means that you end up very focused for one month. It's astounding what you can accomplish when you really put your mind to it. You end up discovering that inspiration is not really all that great as a motivator, and it usually only comes after you've been truding through dialogue and plot points for an hour. When you write yourself into a corner, you will discover wells of creativity in yourself that you never dreamed were there!

 

It also means that for a month, you get to try on the persona of a writer. Instead of being an accountant or a sales clerk or a student, you get to be a creative individual, producing a work of art from your own head! For one month, you are an artist, a creator in touch with the muse! But at the end of the month, you get to resume your normal life. You get the best of both worlds!

 

But the strange thing is, your normal life is never quite the same again. You overhear conversations, and think "That would make a great scene." You sit watching sunset when you're stuck in traffic, and start trying to describe it. Little plots and scenes crop up in your consciousness from time to time. You keep hitting the word count button, even on office memos.

 

NaNo: it's not just a month of insanity, it's a way of life.

 

(C'mon, November! Hurry up and get here!)

If any one ever needs a gift idea for me, I'm trying to collect the works of Chesterton, published by Ignatius Press. The only volume I have so far is the one with Francis of Assisi, The Everlasting Man, and Thomas Aquinas.

 

You know it's Friday when...

...your boss and the IT guy get into a war seeing whose little plastic Halloween witch has the scariest cackle.

 

So not kidding.