A long overdue apology

Blinded by Wrath

Dear President Bush,

I write to you today to apologize for wronging you in my thoughts for many years. For excoriating you with the most bitter and hateful thoughts I could muster. I apologize for hating you because, as I saw it, you invoked war and destruction on innocent people.

Eventually, I came to understand that whatever sins I may have attributed to you live within me as well. That, by succumbing to Wrath, I was your brother in folly.

And thus, we being brothers, I can no longer hate you.

God is great.

Please forgive me, my brother.

Sincerely,
Dade Ross Cariaga

Humbled by life

It is time

Flex, ye once-dexterous fingers! Reawaken faith in your granted puissance!

Are ye not those same that once skipped o'er keyboard? Articulating? Expounding? Positing? Did ye not, in your lent glory, give form to weeping angels, rioting demons?

There was a time when ye were not afraid; when, together, we would give voice to it all and damn the snarled lip, the pinched brow.

What, now? Has the madness of the time rendered mute our passion? Doth suffocating dread now rule our heart?

We have known, we do know, the solution. Which is to write. To write every day.

Arduous? Yes. Frightening? Yes.

But also vital. To write is to live. With humility. With sincerity. With peace.

Bring it.

The future of Sound and Fury

A serene stretch of the wild and raucous Deschutes River

Funny, isn't it, how things change?

The Sound and Fury blog has been running for nearly 9 years. As of this writing, there are a total of  1387 posts. However, over the past several years, posts have been a lot less frequent.

There are a number of reasons for this:

1. When first I conceived this blog, the idea was that I would produce 5 posts per week. I held more or less true to that goal for six and a half years. Frankly, I don't know how I did it. The burden to write something original, that revealed genuine insight, was huge. Sometimes I succeeded, as with this post: Witchery. Other times, I mailed it in, as with this post: Teem. Well, the truth of the matter is that, with increased responsibilities at home, in my social life, and at work, I simply don't have time to throw together (an accurate description of my writing technique) 5 posts per week.
2. Whatever it may say about my passions, much of the drive for this blog came from my utter rejection of Junior Bush. Anger and abhorrence fueled most of the political posts that I wrote. Some of the more successful political posts included these:
   Senator Gordon Smith: Moderate? Hardly!
   The Problem with Hillary
   Junior Bush: Still cashin' in on Iraq
   
   But Junior is gone now. And while an even greater demagogue is at the helm of the GOP, I (perhaps foolishly) view Donald Trump as a joke and the final nail in the party's coffin. (By the way, for what it's worth, I've been predicting the crack-up of the GOP since at least 2011: GOP Crumble.)  Watching the GOP die in such an ugly and obvious fashion doesn't inspire passion so much as disgust. And disgust is not the most inspiring of emotions.
3. This one is painful to admit: I committed so much of my credibility to writing and completing the story, River, that when I hit a creative roadblock that, try as I might, I could not overcome, my confidence as a writer plummeted. Everything I wrote after that seemed trite and empty.

However, I've made the decision to continue this blog. When it was going successfully, when I was producing mostly quality output on a regular basis, I had as much self-esteem and sense of purpose as I've ever had in my life. Further, certain folks (I guess I can accurately refer to them as "readers") have expressed disappointment in my decreased activity.

So, for those interested, look for new posts. They will appear less frequently than before. (I won't be producing 5 posts a week.) My goal is to produce on a weekly basis. Subject matter will be as it has been: Politics, movie and book reviews, verse, travel logs, Advanced Squad Leader replays, posts in Spanish, posts about family and friends, short fiction. I might even resurrect the River story.

And so, dear reader, please forgive the self-indulgent nature of this post. There will be more, and better, posts to come. In the meantime, please know that I am deeply honored by your interest.

With gratitude,
Dade

Writer's plaint

Brr...

Poorly clad, I made my exercise today. The ominously-forecast Arctic front's arrived. Unseasonable, sharp, and bright.  I kept a good pace by necessity, sticking as much as possible to the sunny parts of the street.

Hustling down the south side of Hawthorne Boulevard, heading west, I met a fellow heading east. His jacket flapped in the breeze and he ambled along easily, seemingly unaware of the bitter cold. His black curls, loose and long, started high back on his forehead. His mustachioed and bearded face held a mild expression. He reminded me of someone.

Much of my walk, I ruminated on my inability, of late, to write. To write anything.

River has grown --expanded, twisted, spread out --so that I no longer feel in control of it. In its current form, what exists of the story is rough. Too rough. Its deficiencies are so offensive to my writer's aspirations that I must daily resist the urge to go back and rewrite what is already there.

The rewrite will come, but for now it is more important to complete the story arc.

It's difficult. Although I have a fairly firm idea about where the story is going, my faith in it --and in my own abilities --is failing.

The unfinished story is the monkey on my back, the glaring light that I cannot extinguish. Failure, with all its sordid affirmations, looms.

Such were my thoughts as I walked. I was nearly home when I remembered who the fellow with the open jacket brought to mind: Dave Kocka.

The way Dave died, the way he went out --God forgive me --I resent him for it. It was such a half-assed way to go.

Dave never tried. He saw himself sinking and he didn't care. His friends cared more than he did and he knew it. He just didn't care. Or, worse, he destroyed himself purposely because he fed on our worry. Maybe he thought it validated him.

Well, there are failures and there are failures.

But I'm not giving up on River.

I can't.

What it's about

Five and a half years ago --1924 days, more precisely -- I started this blog.  In that time and with this post there are 1180 published pieces.   One post for every 1.6 days.  Some of them good.  Some of them not-so-good.  All of them from the heart and as true as I could make them.

It's been hard, lately.  Inspiration is a rare visitor these days, cold-blooded determination his poor substitute.  But if you're going to write, you've got to write every day.  So long as the pulse beats,  the body is not dead.

When people learn that I write a blog, they often ask "What's it about?"  But that's a question I can't really answer.  What's your favorite movie?  What's your favorite book?  Who's your favorite musician?  The question doesn't really make sense.

I can characterize some of the content.  Politics, of course, and social issues.  Books and movies.  Friends and family.  A lot of navel-gazing.  More than I care to admit.  One or two verses that I'm not ashamed of, and a lot more that I am.  And the stuff I like best and that is the most fun to write --the stuff about what it is like to live here, in this time, in this place.

That's what is in it.  That's what's in this blog.  But is that what it's about?  I don't know. 

It doesn't matter anyway.  Shakespeare's wicked and desolate Scottish thane will always say it best:

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death;

Out! Out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow,
A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And is heard no more;

It is a tale, told by an idiot,
Full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

How the hell do you write fiction?

So, I have this story I've been working on for over a year now.

And when I say "working on," I mean the story has been chewing on me, pushing me, not letting me rest. Perhaps foolishly, I published two episodes (see here and here) on this blog in the hope that the public "commitment" might impel me toward completion.  And while I have succeeded in imposing a tormenting sense of urgency on myself, I haven't so far made much tangible progress on the story.  In fact, if anything, the story has gone backwards.  I'm less sure of where it should go, what it should be, than I was when I wrote those first sentences for Ryan Blacketter's PCC class last July.

Most of the problem stems from a lack of faith.  When you read something as magnificent and unique as David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, or Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls, or Nelson Algren's A Walk on the Wild Side, the whole endeavor of creating fiction seems hopelessly beyond the abilities of a humble blogger.  How does one string together a series of words, phrases, and sentences to not only tell a story, but create a mood, evoke an emotion, confirm truths that readers will recognize?

I've read many books and articles.  I've conversed with writers.  I've read their interviews.  And from them all, I've concluded that no one can teach you how to do it.  All they can do is encourage you to try.

Well, fair enough.

I stumbled onto an article, recently, in the New Yorker.  It's written by Keith Ridgway, the author of some 4 fictional works (none of which have I read... yet).  The article is entitled "Everything is Fiction" and apart from revealing that Ridgway is a fantastic writer, it offers reassurance to those floundering souls who struggle with the magnitude of creating a believable, engrossing world:

I know how to wait until the last minute before putting anything on paper. I mean the last minute before the thought leaves me forever. I know how to leave out anything that looks to me—after a while—forced, deliberate, or fake. I know that I need to put myself in the story. I don’t mean literally. I mean emotionally. I need to care about what I’m writing—whether about the characters, or about what they’re getting up to, or about the way they feel or experience their world. I know that my job is to create a perspective. And to impose it on the reader. And I know that in order to do that with any success at all I must in some mysterious way risk everything. If I don’t break my own heart in the writing of a book then I know I’ve done it wrong. I’m not entirely sure what that means. But I know what it feels like.

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/08/everything-is-fiction.html#ixzz23RTECN8a

So, I'll keep on this story. I wish I had confidence that I might, someday, have it in a form that I can call complete and that is close to what I want it to be. But, lacking confidence, I'll have to go on faith. And just keep writing.

Hiatus 2012

The ink is spent.

All morning brief showers, hissing furious chastening of a petulant lover.  But bold afternoon sunshine would not be denied. 

In an Ishmael mood on the way up the mountain, I mused on the scribblings, tired and bitter. Nothing shines anymore.  No magic. 

"Do you want to see Venus?" said he.  She offered shaded lenses like those they give at the 3D cinema.

"Do you want to see Venus?"

I looked.  A perfect round sphere, miniscule, unconditionally black against the disquieting brilliance.  Just there near the circumference at 30^o.  "Oh my God, I see it," I said.

"There you go," he said.  "There's your once-in-a-lifetime.  It won't happen again until 2117."

Preposterously, she sought to console.  "Who knows?  You might live another 105 years."

We grinned.

"There aren't many people who have seen that," he said.

"We're the lucky ones," I said.  I thought about the oak tree.

Back in a couple weeks

I still believe that to write you must write every day.  But the ink is spent.  I'm taking a little vacation from the blog, to replenish the inkwell.

Honored, as always by your interest.  Back later this month, God willing.

Diez declaraciones que suenan profunda...

...pero que significan nada.  Para practicar el español.  Pués...

1. ¿Quién sabe adonde va el coyote cuando canta el búho?  La vieja sabe.  Pero ella no dice nada.
2. Leones pequeños se divierten en el bosque.  No hay hombres para comer.  Hoy.  El oso se lame los labios.
3. Cuando se encuentra en un cuarto llena de tontos, cerrar un ojo.  En esta manera, el mundo parece solo que medio malo.
4. El llave a las políticas y la guerra partisana es para continuar existir.
5. Si yo sería una jirafa, dolor en la garganta sería un problema muy grande.
6. No me culpa.  Yo no nací a ser rico y por lo tanto, nunca puedo ser excéntrico.  Desde no tendré dinero, siempre seré loco.
7. No es mejor nunca tratarlo la diferencia entre un hombre y un niño en la ducha.
8. ¿Por qué nos puso aquí para sufrir y morir?  
9. Si matar al rey, debe matar al rey.
10. Muchas veces el coyote es un brujo.

¡Esto es suficiente!  Mientras yo tengo una iota de orgullo restante.

Writer issues

Been having a rough go of it, lately.  Thinking of things to write about.  Sitting at the keyboard --nothing.  Every fitful start ends in disgust. 

Browsed through some Flannery O'Connor quotations.  Found some good ones.

This:  “I think it is safe to say that while the South is hardly Christ-centered, it is most certainly Christ-haunted.”

And this:  “She could never be a saint, but she thought she could be a martyr if they killed her quick.”

And this:  “Anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic.”  (This was my favorite of the three.  It made me laugh.  Sheepishly.)

But when my fingers hit the home row, inspiration fell dead.

Then I tried to write a post about a conversation I had with Dave Hauth on Sunday night.  We were debating the constancy of human nature.  His position was that technology was transforming humanity.  I argued that technology is just a tool; human nature is constant.  "But rate of advance!" he insisted.  "It's a matter of degree," said I.  I offered literature, with its eternal themes, as proof.  

It was a good conversation, and I banged out a few sentences about it, but the flame never took.  I might have another go at it one of these days.

So I find myself stuck here yet.  Still nothing.

The only way to get through these things is to write your way out of them.  That's how I've always heard it, anyway.   Keep pushin'.  Push on through.

Atando cabos

Atando cabos

Tying up a few loose ends today.

More about President Obama's State of the Union speech

That's a poll number that has got to strike cold fear into the heart of the Romney-for-President campaign.  Between that and the rebellion of the Know-Nothings, Mitt is in real trouble.

But not just Mitt, the GOP caucuses in both houses of Congress!  Consider these proposals, which the President outlined on Tuesday night:

• Passage of Obama’s proposal that millionaires should pay an effective tax rate of at least 30 percent on their income —a sort of alternative minimum tax. This is in line with the so-called “Buffett Rule” that no household making over $1 million a year should pay a smaller share of its income in taxes than middle-class families pay. Under current law, the wealthiest Americans technically pay a 35 percent rate on their income – but only 15 percent on earnings from investments and capital gains. While Obama did not detail how he would tax investment income, he did say he would eliminate millionaires’ ability to claim tax deductions for housing, child care, retirement and health care.
  
• Use half the savings from ending foreign wars to create more jobs and make the U.S. more competitive.
  
• End Senate filibusters and obstruction of judicial and “public service” nominations. The Senate would have to pass a rule that all such nominations would receive a simple up or down vote after 90 days of submission.
  
• Immigration reform, including legislation that would give responsible, productive and law-abiding illegal immigrants a pathway to U.S. citizenship.
  
  (excerpted from the Fiscal Times)

Fiscal Times writer Eric Pianin predicts that these proposals are going nowhere.  That's a pretty safe bet.  Even though they're popular,the GOP must oppose them in order to protect its true constituency (no new taxes) and not to rile their nativist base even further (no leniency for immigrants).  Tough times, GOP!

Stand fast, comrades!

In December, I wrote a post (Stand fast, comrades!) promising that Dave Hauth and I would be engaging in another Red Barricades battle with modified victory conditions.  In that post, I speculated that we would begin our game within the next month.  Well, it hasn't turned out that way.  Dave and I are both focused on other of life's multitudinous aspects and our Red Barricades engagement is deferred.

Eventually, the call of the perilous factories will lure us back.  And when it does, I'll be sure to post our experiences on this blog.  But, for now, Stand fast, comrades! is on hold.

So, ASL friends, don't despair.  The game will get underway at some point.  But not in the time-frame I'd originally imagined.  My apologies to those of you who (I've noticed) have been checking back in the hopes of seeing a new Red Barricades post.  Didn't want to leave you hanging.

Check back tomorrow

Tomorrow's a big day for me.  I'll be passing a milestone in life.  I apologize in advance for the self-indulgent nature of tomorrow's yet-to-be-written post.  But a guy only makes 50 once in his life.

That's all for now.

A note about this blog

According to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, people who live under materially and emotionally plentiful conditions (we lucky few) have a need to express themselves creatively.  Some cook; some perform music; some work with stone or wood. I write.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs

Creative expression creates vulnerability and I have, on occasion, been bruised by comments either made privately or left on this blog.  (The ugly, rabid comments that come from close-minded bigots bother me not a whit.  Those are good for a laugh.) 

But the gamble has paid out.  Because, far outweighing any hurt feelings, is the gratitude and love and humility I've experienced. 

I started this blog four and a half years ago.  Its primary function was (and is) to provide a forum for me to write.  But there is sublime pleasure in discovering that people enjoy my words. 

I've said all this before, but it bears repeating:  I am deeply honored.  Deeply.

Blessings.

Hiatus 2011

In order to have any chance whatsoever of writing well, one must never relent in the quest to improve, to learn, to discover.  With that in mind, I have this summer enrolled in a fiction-writing class taught by Ryan Blacketter at PCC. 

The chief assignment for the class is to write a short story.  Mr. Blacketter has firm and well-founded opinions on what constitutes good writing.  He's well-versed in great literature, referencing Hemingway, McCarthy, Flannery O'Connor, Melville.  Folks, let me tell you, I'm swimming in some deep water.

Works of genius set a very high bar for dabbling keyboard-tappers like me, but let it not be said, by God, that I'd back down from a challenge!

This windy and unnecessary preamble is just to inform visitors to this blog that posting will be less frequent over the next several weeks while I toil to create something that doesn't shame me in front of my classmates.  When I finish the story, of course, I'll post it here.  Hopefully, when you read it, you'll agree that my posting lapses contributed to something worthwhile.

Enjoy summer!  

Looking for a muse

In the evening, I planted lettuce and spinach, and laid two short rows of carrot seeds in the vegetable planter.  The garden is four paces deep and four and a half wide.  Three blueberry shrubs show much promise, adorned with bell-shaped white blossoms.  Raspberry canes, with sharp minty leaves, sprout everywhere, but mostly thrive along the south edge of the yard.  They make forays into the neighbors' rose beds.  Two pots grow strawberries.

Maty calls.

Springtime rain shower, mischievous imp, insists on a laugh at my expense, catching me hat-less and coat-less in my hotfoot to the market where I meet Maty to help her carry groceries.

It has been difficult to find words of late.  For anything.  I only know to keep trying.

One day, the whisper of her broom on the linoleum or the menthol scent of heat balm rubbed into an aching shoulder may seem miraculous.   Why not? 

Watching the world rise in springtime.  Dazzled by that old familiar light.

Call for writers in inner Southeast Portland

My old writing group from the '90s 
Jack (on the right) passed in 2002

Every craftsman, regardless of medium, has the responsibility to continue to improve his skills.  It is a charge conferred by his brethren, past, present, and future, in furtherance of the craftsman's chosen pursuit.

With that in mind, I'm making a call to other writers.

I'm looking for two to three writers willing to meet once per week somewhere in inner Southeast Portland to critique, edit, and comment on one another's writing.

There is a writing group format that I've used in the past with some success.  It works like this: 

• The group is composed of 3 or 4 writers. 
• Each writer reads, without introduction or preamble, a piece he has written.  The reading should take no more than 10 minutes, so larger pieces should be broken into episodes. The other writers listen, without taking notes.
• The writer reads his piece a second time.  The other writers listen again, but this time take notes.
• Upon completion of the second reading, each of the listeners, in turn, gives feedback to the writer.
• Rotate to the next writer and repeat.

With four writers, the meeting is wrapped up in 2 hours.

In my experience, there are several pitfalls to avoid with writing groups:

• Leave the ego at the door.  
• If a writer is prone to getting his feelings hurt when others offer criticism, the group will not succeed.  (Of course, it is incumbent on the reviewers to be fair, and to provide praise as well as criticism.)
• The purpose of the group is to improve one's writing. It is not ego gratification or validation.
• Avoid conversations that distract from the focus of the group until after each writer has had his work reviewed.
• Each participating writer must bring something to read.  
• Each participating writer must make the weekly commitment. 

In summary, for the group to succeed participating writers should be thick-skinned when it comes to their work, fairly prolific, and invested with a sense of responsibility toward the other writers.  We work together to hone our individual skills.

Although in this age of electronic communication, the stipulation that participants actually physically meet might seem an anachronism, I still believe that face-to-face communication and discussion is most effective for these kinds of exchanges.

So, I'm sending out a call.  Anyone out there interested?

Fate and destiny

fate n.  The supposed force, principle, or power that predetermines events; the inevitable events predestined by this force.
destiny n. The future destined for a person or thing.

Fate and destiny: two concepts that are closely related, but that differ subtly (at least, by the definitions listed above).  I find the differences between them fascinating.

Fate is an entity, an irresistible force, a vehicle.  Fate is not luck.  There is nothing random about fate.  Fate simply is.  "As well ask men what they think of stone," as Judge Holden said of war, in Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian.  Fate is the conveyance that brings you to your destiny. 

Destiny, on the other hand, is the state at which a person or thing must inevitably arrive.  Destiny is akin to a destination.  (Indeed, both words are derived from the Latin destinare, to determine.)  Destiny is the ultimate condition that the laws of the Universe impose upon you.

Perhaps a few examples will help illustrate the distinction.

How about a happy example?  Let's try this:  my destiny is to accrue a massive fortune.  My fate then, the vehicle by which I arrive at this destiny, might be to win the Megabucks Lottery for $200 million.

Or, go dark, if you prefer:  my destiny is to die on the side of a rural highway.  In that case, my fate might be to hit a patch of black ice while driving to Klamath Falls.

But the best example is probably the one that is true for each of us:

• My destiny is to be an infinitesimally small, but absolutely essential part of the greater consciousness of the Universal Mind.
  
  
• My fate is to experience life as a human being on the planet Earth.

(The Devil's Dictionary provides an alternate, amusing definition.

Destiny:  A tyrant’s authority for crime and fool’s excuse for failure.

What a nut, that Ambrose Bierce, eh?)

Writer's creed

What is truth?  Is truth unchanging law?  
We both have truths.  Are mine the same as yours? 

--Pontius Pilate, Jesus Christ Superstar

Yesterday morning at Peet's Coffee, I sat down with Dan, the writer.  We each held forth on this and that, but in particular, discussed what we believe to be the writer's creed.  Dan says the writer must serve as witness for humanity; that he must never waver from his duty to Truth.  In the moment that he devises a thought that is not True and presents that thought as the product of his craft, he is no longer a writer but a sophist or a propagandist or something else entirely.

Of course, hard and fast rules like this one are no sooner set down than immediately disproved.  As I've stated before, I don't believe human beings have the capacity to comprehend Truth.  But I agree completely with the spirit of Dan's assertion.

A writer does not create.  He transcribes; he illuminates; he documents.  He does it imperfectly, using his limited tools of perception and intellect which, when set against the incomprehensible vastness of the Universe, is less than minuscule.  But he is compelled to do it, nonetheless.

To the extent that I am able to meet this criterion, I rejoice.

Pity me, ye Muses!

Struggling right now;
I'm struggling; Write now!
Are there none of the Nine to come calling?

Clia, have thee no offspring to boast?  Calliope, no tale to tell?
Enterpe, thy silence abuses my ears!  Erato --perhaps just as well;

Thalia thy laughter has faded away; Malpomene's tears are run dry;
Terpsichore sits moping, Polymnia sleeps, Unrania's face turned from the sky;

Struggling right now;
I'm struggling; Write now!
Please!  One of ye Nine must come calling!

Musing on the rain and other stuff

I’ve lived in this climate, off and on, for over 20 years, and I can’t say I mind the rain.  It is cleansing and reassuring, and the days are long enough now that when the sun sets below the cloud line you get to see the bellies of the clouds lit from below and it is beautiful and reminds you of that thing beyond all understanding that brings tears to your eyes, just because it is so beautiful and irrefutable.  And you just know that you’re a part of it; a tiny, essential part of this whole thing, and that it is you, and you are it.  But no, you aren’t really, because it is so much bigger than that; so much bigger than this corporeal form that extends to the ends of your fingernails.  It is better to say that you are only a part of it:  essential, fully-integrated, and infinitesimally small.

This idea of oneness is a source of reassurance.  When you can know, even just for a second, that all those terrible things and those beautiful things and those insanities that are all around you, are all just a part of it…well, then you have something.  There are so many faiths that have grasped at this concept:  Catholicism and Hinduism and Islam.  But, being a human, I have to place my template on this truth, this concept of oneness and I have to turn my face up to the lit underbellies of the clouds in the late spring and mouth the word “Why?”  Yet, somewhere in my self I know that it is a meaningless question.

As I understand it, if one believes in karma, truly believes in it, the way one believes in one’s mother, or the sun, or the barrel of the gun pointed in one’s face, there is no reason whatsoever, to ever believe that anything can go wrong, there is no reason to be afraid.  There is no need for despair; it’s irrelevant.  And joy, though it is still available, is tempered somewhat , mellowed like the mind of a man that has one more beer than he normally would of an evening.  Joy comes in the sanguine knowledge that everything comes around, always and forever.

I feel my own personal development, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually, has brought me to believe in karma.  Or my version of karma; I’m certainly no Hindu holy man, no Buddhist monk.  My interpretation of karma leads me to believe in the inevitability of things, the ultimate (incomprehensible) justice of the One.  And, frankly, that belief has carried me through some raging tempests.

But, with regard to writing, every once-in-a-while, you get one of those fits of…something…I don’t know…call it inspiration, and the words just flow through your fingers and out through your pen and flow right onto the paper, as if there were channels cut in its surface because the nib of the pen just follows them and the words just come out.  And then, you look back later, with your red pen in hand, but you can’t bring yourself to mark any of it, because, maybe it’s not perfect, but it is exactly what it should be, and it truly reflects where you were at the moment you put your hand down and followed the invisible channels on the face of the page.  Those are the best ones.  The frequency of their birth seems to be in direct correlation to the amount of time you spend writing.  And you might write ten pieces of schlock, and then you get one of those good ones.  And, I suppose that’s why you keep doing it.

Onus of the empty page

It has been hard, lately, to fill a page.  Many ideas present themselves as I'm walking around the neighborhood, taking in the the infancy of spring.  I never doubt that one will prove worthy of a few paltry paragraphs. But as I pursue them, first one, then another, I discover that none is quite as rich as its promise.  And yet, my compulsion to write remains.

And so, here I am.

Each year, when the winter passes, human hearts tend to lift a bit.  Certainly, that is true for me.  But the winter through which we have just passed was not so dreary as winter's often can be, here in our temperate rainforest.  Or perhaps it just seems so.

It probably has to do with the so far unfulfilled expectations of disaster.  Accurate or no, one can only brace one's self for the worst for a short while.  Then comes the fatalistic shrug.

Blossoms are out now.  Nature's own Paxil.  And I just never get tired of this...

View from west slope of Mt. Tabor, just above the low reservoir

Sound and fury: Going forward

Two and a half years since the inception of this blog, I feel compelled to write my very first administrative post.  I beg indulgence for its narcissistic, self-absorbed nature.  (Every writer is a narcissist to one degree or another, no?)

First off, I want to express my deep and sincere gratitude to everyone who occasionally stops by and peeks in on whatever I may be blathering about on a given day.  I can't tell you how much it means to me.

Secondly, since readership has spiked in the last six to eight months (thank you, Facebook) I think it is wise to specify some guidelines that I will follow for posting and comment moderation.  So, here they are:

1. Readers may notice that I have removed the "Reactions" option.  No longer are the "Interesting," "Funny," or "Stupid" check boxes available.  One particular reader (and, yes, I know who you are) has felt compelled to click only the "Stupid" check box, which sort of defeats the purpose of the "Reactions" option.  And may I ask, my dear?  Why would one care to visit a blog whose every post is "Stupid?"
   
   
2. Please feel free to leave comments.  However, henceforth, I ask that commenters not engage in ad hominem attacks against each other.  One reader (and, I know who you are, too, Monsieur Le Marteau) recently resorted to name-calling when referring to another.  I deleted that comment and will delete any future comments of a similar vein.  Readers are free to call me names.  That doesn't bother me.  But please, no attacks against other commenters.  Heated disagreement is fine.  But no names.  No racism.  No incitements to violence.  Yadda, yadda, yadda.
   
   
3. As a rule, I do not comment on my own blog.  That is, I do not use the "Comments" feature.  But, if you leave a comment, be assured that I will read and consider it.  And, of course, you can email me directly at dadecariaga@hotmail.com, if you are uncomfortable in the "public" forum.
   

So, in closing, let me say "thanks," again.  This blog is a joy to me regardless of how many people read it.  If others enjoy it --well, that's just gravy.

All my best.

Dade