Written in Blood

Inspiration, Desire and Will... I'll take some of that please.

2012-02-16T09:49:00.001-08:00

This place always makes me calm down and look inward.

I think as writers our environment often dictates how much we write and maybe even the quality of the work we do.

If we are surrounded by chaos, noise, clutter, demands of our time, responsibilities to own, duties to honor, rules to follow, we might say that there is no room for writing, no room in our minds to create anything worth reading.

We might say that. I know I have. I fantasize about being out there, completely isolated, riding the wave of my own creativity to see what works of art, what masterpieces materialize.

We might say that. I do say that. But that doesn't make it true. For me, it's justification for the apparent unwillingness at the time to work hard to get what I want. I say "at the time" because I'm not always so quick to make excuses.

I once wrote the majority of a novel lying on my stomach in our long hallway in the front of my child's door. Why? Because said child had a couple of months where sleep was not an option and would spend a couple of hours a night trying to sneak back out into the living room. My job was to make sure this didn't happen. So, while this surprisingly difficult battle of wills played out, I wrote a novel. I rode my own wave.

I often go back to that experience and tell myself that if I can write under those circumstances, then I can write anywhere at any time.

So why don't I?

Why don't you?

What's your excuse?

What's the real reason?

I don't know. But for me I think this trip to paradise may afford an opportunity to find out.

Thanks for reading. Off to write?

Cheers,

Casey

P.S. Just saw a whale jump about halfway out of the water. I want THAT kind of will.

Monsters Under the Bed

2012-01-29T19:17:00.001-08:00

For a child, I imagine the worst thing about a monster in the house is the deep silence under stuffy confines of a big blanket, powerless, waiting for something sharp or something slimy to grab a toe until sleep overcomes fear. For an adult though, for me in particular, the worst thing is that I can’t tell anyone without coming off as a complete nut bag, a future roommate of Miss Maclaine herself.

It has occurred to me that at some point I did unwittingly purchase a ticket on the Looney Tunes express. No one would blame me, I’m sure. Dennis has been gone now for almost a year, the anniversary of his disappearance less than a week away. Considering his mystery, my new little visitor fits right in to a mentally fabricated reality.

Besides, whom would I tell?

I could call one of the kids, but what would they do about it?

Craig would listen or at least let me speak. But then I could almost hear the platitudes, could almost write his script as he threw out his momisms about getting out of the house, taking more walks, finding myself a friend or joining the church’s bingo crowd.

I might ring up Jeannie. She would listen, and might even drive up for a visit, come stay the night and bring the kids and fill the house. For those few precious hours the sounds of love and life would push that little bastard back into the shadows until they were good and gone.

I got a picture! He either didn't know that my cell took photos or he didn't realize he was visible. I'm thinking the latter because these types of monsters are no doubt masters of technology. I immediately sent it to the kids, right from my phone, which Craig probably thought was amazing.

Unfortunately Craig couldn't see it. Even after I directed his attention to the sofa, his only reply was that it looked nice and that I might think about upgrading my light fixtures. Jeannie threw me a small bone and said it looked like an eye and wasn't that weird and that I should send the picture in to a contest or something.

Maybe if I could get a recording of its voice someone would pay attention. Probably not. I think trick photography, computer graphics and digital sound has probably sucked the belief right out of just about everyone.

I miss Dennis more and more every day. It has occurred to me that my little monster friend represents a way to return to my husband. I don't think Dennis is dead, or that he has just finally gotten so sick of my nits and picks and decided to start a new life under an assumed name. This last bit was a suggestion from a neighbor who has always hated our happiness. I think his interest in what he called "unknowns" finally got someone's attention. Someone? Something? That may be six in one hand and half dozen in the other.

I've caught the little guy over my bed ad night. I'll just open my eyes and there he is, standing naked right on the bed near my feet, weightless, looking down at me and making that little cooing noise like an angry pigeon. I watch him for a bit, holding my breath, clinching my fists under the spread, my old heart beating much too fast. And then he seems to realize my awareness and slips away.

If I want to see Dennis again, I think I have to speak to my monster, call out my need. Maybe it's romantic, but I am starting to believe that free will is in play here, that I must request an E-ticket before this grey-skinned, oddball will act. This thought nearly makes me laugh because it's possible my weird visitor is nothing more than a cosmic cabbie waiting for me to tell him where I want to go.

Tomorrow is the anniversary. Dennis will have been gone a year. Jeannie has offered to come up with the kids, take me on a picnic, then to a movie. She said Joe will even come and they can all stay the whole weekend.

I told her no.

See, I'm no astronomer. But even an old woman understands that our planet is in basically the same spot every year relative to the sun. So if there is a chance that a cab or bus or ship or whatever is scheduled to head off towards galaxies unknown to all but the little grey, black-eyed men and possibly Dennis, I think it would leave tonight, the same night Dennis disappeared from our bed in a flash of light and noise.

We shall see.

handwritten notes discovered with doctored photo

I Should Really Start Writing Again

2012-01-06T14:24:00.001-08:00

As often happens when I have a strong run of words (30,000 in November) I bail almost completely in the subsequent weeks. That has been the case for Mighty Quinn. The book is about 2/3 done and I have come to a complete halt.

It makes me wonder if binge writing such as NANOWRIMO is good for my productivity. Maybe slow and steady really does win the race.

Isn't he cute?

But I'm not a turtle kind of guy. I type fast, I think fast, I work fast, I golf fast, I... do other things fast. I want to write my novels fast as well. But the faster I go the uglier my prose become. My mind has to sort of devolve to get into my writing brain. Maybe I need to start some sort of meditation routine before I start slapping those little keys.

Isn't he cute?

Regardless, these words do not write themselves. I'm very excited that Scrivener is developing an iPad app for their phenomenal writing software. But this is no excuse. Holidays? No excuse. New job? Well, maybe a little excuse. But really, if Anne Frank could write under her circumstances, what chance do the rest of us have of explaining away our procrastination? What about Woody Allen? He writes a screenplay every year without fail... on a manual typewriter!

Isn't he cute? Ha! Didn't think I was going there, did you?

Well, here's to a new year of writing, of appreciating the time we're all given to write, of taking advantage of those moments, of learning and growing in the craft and of putting our work out there for others to read.

Thanks for reading. Off to write... eventually.

Casey

Blogsy Review

2012-01-03T20:16:00.001-08:00

I thought it'd be fun to do a review of this new app, using this new app. It's called Blogsy and it cost $4.99. I didn't really need another blogging app. I'm an impulsive guy.

Here's my Dad. He was also an impulsive guy.

Blogpress seemed to be working just fine. But Blogsy claimed much easier use of links, formatting and media usage and Blogpress can, at times, be chunky, especially in the links category. So I thought I'd give it a try.

Starting with the photos. As you can see above I was able to get a pic of my dad on this post. I had to upload it to a photo account so it could link to the pic, but this is fairly easy thanks to the symbols on the right.

This is a little buggy, but within a couple of minutes I took this screenshot and had it uploaded to Flickr and then inserted in the post. I imagine it'll get better as I use it more. Let's consider the YouTube...

This is a video of my boy playing the piano for his Auntie. I'm very proud!

If you can, indeed see the video above, then I'll say that was extremely painless. Couple of tips... When you are dragging media into your blog, scroll to the bottom of the post. Once your finger has hold of that pic/video it's hard to make the post scroll. Also, if the pics are looking funky, triple finger swipe left, then back right. This resets the post to WYSIWYG happiness.

You can also do bullet points and numbers.
Good if you dig making top ten lists.
Or have several points to make.
Or just like to hit the enter key and see a new number waiting for you.
Okay, I'll stop...

One more thing. Links! It's extremely easy. One of those buttons on the right is a browser. Looks sort of like a Safari icon. Click on that and find your site. Then select the word you'd like to link to and drag the link from the browser to the post. In this case I chose the how-to video site for blogsy. You can view it here.

That's about it. Worth the $5? Sure, I think so, especially if they do updates and clear up some of the buggy jumps when getting photos into the post.

Thanks for reading. Off to write.

Cheers,

Casey

P.S. - After posting this I checked and the only real problem I see is the size of the blog and the size of the post don't match up. My blog is narrower. But I can't blame that on Blogsy because it's the same way on blogger. I'm off to look at resizing!

P.P.S. - As with apps, we learn as we go. Just got how to place pictures. Use your OTHER finger to place. As the late-great jobs might say, IT JUST WORKS!

Seven Things I Learned at Camp this Year...

2011-12-03T11:13:00.001-08:00

I am returning to the faceblogoforumtweetbook world this weekend. It's been just shy of two months and it's time to reconnect.

Here's what I learned while on hiatus:

1) My job is not who I am. I decided to resign from my position and leave the organization where I have worked for ten years. I start my new job on Monday and couldn't be happier.

2) Best steak in town is not the best steak in town. It is an empirical fact and I can only surmise that the emotional attachment to said best-steak-in-town causes one's taste buds to lie to one's brain. Still, the company was fantastic.

3) The leaf will fall, and fall, and fall. No matter how diligent I think I am, no matter how many times I fill the green bins with leaves off the front yard, there are always more. Yes, I'm going out there again after this post.

4) Words can be written. No, I didn't finish my first draft of Mighty Quinn. Yes, I did write. In fact, I doubled my words. I'm at about 62,000 right now and on the home stretch. Still hoping to finish before Christmas, but we shall see.

5) Siri interface rocks. Siri functions? Not so much. My new iPhone has Siri, the new voice recognition personal assistant software from Apple. Its ability to recognize what I say is nothing short of fantastic. And it can do some amazing things. When I say "Remind me to write 750 words on Sunday", it will actually remind me Sunday morning to write 750 words. If I say, "Call my wife's mobile," it will immediately call her. But say I'm driving and listening to a podcast and would like to pause it and restart it while I talk to the nice cop who pulled me over. While Siri knows what words I'm using, she apparently doesn't know how to carry out such a simple command.

6) I missed everyone. I'm so looking forward to reading the blog posts of the last two months, the poems, the stories, the humorous observations, the biting satire, the familial anecdotes... all of it.

7) In the end, it's really only about the people I love. It goes by so fast and every minute really does count. (This picture, by the way, shows my 22 year old kids when they were maybe 7? What the heck happened to those 15 years?)

Cheers to everyone!

Thanks for reading. Off to write.

Casey

Time for a Break...

2011-10-06T14:38:00.001-07:00

I think most of you know that I take a two-month hiatus from social networks and blogging each year. It's a way for me to refocus, remember and reconnect. (Hey, that wasn't bad.)

I will continue work on my novel while I'm away and will hopefully have a first draft by the time I come back.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

A Bicycle Built for Two

2011-10-02T12:04:00.000-07:00

I love the science fiction work of Peter F. Hamilton, Robert Charles Wilson, Neal Stephenson and Orson Scott Card... many others. But I think what I love about them is how they put the human condition in the extraordinary world.

I was reading this one I wrote a few years back and I think it succeeds in settling love down easy in another place and time. Tell me what you think.

Dawn broke suddenly across the dry, barren expanse, the mild, rolling hills like giant goose flesh on the arm of the Earth. A structure sat atop one of the unexceptional hills, seen easily from nearly a mile as a speck, not because of its size, for it was small, but because it was the only variance for a thousand miles. At five hundred yards, the home’s slanted roof defined its blackness against the brilliant whiteness of the mid-morning sky. At two hundred yards, a ring of greenery appeared like a wreath around the home and the building’s gray walls revealed darkened windows and a great silver door. A round, perfect tree grew in front of the home, producing a dark pink fruit shaped like a perfect tear. And at fifty yards, the light breeze carried the sweet chitter of the tiny purple birds living in the tree.

The man opened his eyes and stretched, yawning and growling at the morning. As a night of dreams quickly faded, he looked about the sparse room.

“Hello?” he called. “Love, are you about?”

“Love is not about, sir. Love is exactly where she would be at this time of day, especially today.” The manufactured voice spoke with calm emotion and patronized slightly. The voice was the man’s creation and specialty.

“I don’t like it when you call her Love,” he said. “Please reprogram yourself.”

“Make me,” the voice said.

“Be good.” The man rose from the pile of pillows and blankets crumpled on the soft, white floor.

“All right, then. I’ll reprogram if you clean your teeth. I can smell you from here.”

“A bargain. How about some music to start this momentous day with bliss.”

The music was bright and airy and full of strings and flutes and the man hummed along as he pulled his white robe over his dark, naked body. After a toilet and a thorough teeth cleaning, the man thanked the voice and exited out the back of the home through a tinted, glass tube and into the lab.

Like mirrors, the lab’s four alabaster walls reflected a ceiling of fierce lights, contrasted against the dull, black floor. An array of monitors flashed and stuttered against the far walls, underscored by panels of keys and switches. A glass cylinder, about ten feet across, rose from floor to ceiling in the center of the room. Within the case sat a gray chair and on the chair, perched with bare feet on the padded seat, bare back to the man, was the woman dressed only in white satin shorts. She was hunched over the back of the chair working with two narrow, pointed tools over a triangular panel of lights inside the chair’s back. Her crimson hair trailed straight down her back, far enough to brush the chair as she bobbed back and forth, studying and programming and switching and testing.

“If you’re going to dress that way, Love, we’ll have to go right here.”

She didn’t turn, but he heard her smile.

“I believe last night qualifies as an appropriate goodbye, John. I can hardly walk. You animal.”

John tried a purr, but had never mastered the rolling tongue.

“Will you miss me?” he asked.

“Of course, Hon, of course.” She looked over her bare shoulder at him, offering a buck-toothed smile, her bright blue eyes sparkling under the ceiling lights, which were more than lights, constantly scrubbing the environment, burning air-born particles and cooking unnecessary bacteria.

“Hockey. I can hear it in your voice. You’re so excited you can hardly breathe you little tramp. I’m just glad you get the long and I get the short or I would be suicidal.”

“Just a week for you, Hon.”

“And a year for you, Love.”

“Three hundred and fifty seven is all. Just shy.”

She jumped off the chair, squeezed through the glass door on the glass cylinder and wrapped her arms tight around John’s neck.

“I’ll miss you, Hon,” she said, her voice shaking and weak. He hugged her back, her body feeling too frail to survive the task at hand. He’d go for her, of course, if she’d let him, which she wouldn’t. He’d go with her, of course, if the machine could manage, which it couldn’t. So he held her until she pushed him away.

She looked up at him, her eyes so bright they seemed beams of bright blue sunshine.

They made love again, after all, before lunch.

After lunch the woman dressed in simple gray slacks and a simple gray shirt, soft, white shoes with ties over the top in the ancient fashion and a warm, black jacket. Hidden within her jacket were several gadgets that would protect and sustain and a holographic picture of John that would respond kindly to her no matter what she said. By the time they reached the lab again, she had a mild case of hyperventilation. Her hands tremored like the wings of the birds fluttering outside. But when he checked her eyes, they were brave and coherent and he knew she would never postpone the trip.

“I’ll be just down the way a bit, Hon,” she said easing into the chair as if she had never seen it, as if she hadn’t spent the last four years building it, coaxing it into reality.

“Three thousand years.”

“A hop and a skip really.” John leaned down and kissed her hard, wanting to bruise her already swollen lips so she would remember him more. She kissed him back with the same ferocity, her tongue tasting him as a final goodbye.

Then he closed the glass door in the glass cylinder and walked to the wall with the switches and dials and screen. With one hand on a large green button he looked to her for the go.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and he pushed the button, watching his mate vanish in a cloud of wet vapor and flash of purple light.

The week prior to her departure took all of thirty seconds, John following her around, touching her, smelling her, loving her whenever he could pull her away from her project. He knew he annoyed her but didn’t much care. He took countless photos of her while working, bathing and cleaning. His favorite shots were when she slept, absolute peace on her face, no brow furrowed with thought, no nervous nibble on her lower lip. He strained to soak up all of her so that her absence would seem trifle, though he knew it wouldn’t be.

The week after she left took a lifetime. He could not sleep at all, so every hour was eternal, every minute felt and accounted and marked off the great calendar in his head. The voice spoke to him often, trying to help as he had been programmed. It played the happiest music in its endless library and showed images of the shots he took of her in whatever room he occupied. At night when John couldn’t sleep, it sang softly to him the lullabies of another time. After a day or two John told the voice to stop, saying he wanted to feel the loss of her, that he wanted to know this in case anything happened to stop her return.

“If she were to fail on her return I would never forgive myself for any moment of happiness before I knew that to be a fact,” John said simply. So the voice stopped, for the most part. It still hummed to him when he did sleep, hoping to extend his time of rest.

He moved his blankets and pillows onto the cold floor of the lab the final night, not wanting to miss a second of her return.

Just before sunrise John jerked awake, his head up, his eyes staring into the predawn darkness at the cylinder reflecting dimly the low-lights emanating from the control panels across the room. Something had woken him, he thought, but the room was absolutely still. As he put his head back to the pillow, the room filled with purple light and a howling scream as if the metal beams of the lab’s construction were being torn apart.

He covered his ears and blinked against the fiery radiance of the strange light.

In a blink the room returned to near darkness, a damp haze billowing from the glass cylinder.

“Lights,” he whispered.

The room lit to its full intensity, instantly drying the vapor that surrounded the chair.

“John?” her voice sought him.

He jumped up and ran to her and lifted her and hugged her tightly.

“Oh, John, it’s so good to feel you again.”

He set her down and held her hands and looked at his love. She had cut her hair - which he warned her might happen if the style of the time required - to a short bob. Her slacks were a blue, thick fabric adorned with tiny copper-colored buttons, sitting low on her hips and exposing her beautiful stomach. Her top was now a thin fabric adorned with blues and greens and pinks of several different hues, held up by two thin straps over her shoulders. On her feet were sandals of a sort, just a bottom actually with a strap attached at the gap between her first two toes. She was different, older; some of the light in her eyes burned away over the year perhaps, but just as beautiful and just as much his love.

Later that night, as they sat together, cross-legged in their main room on the floor, and he listened to her adventure, and the people and places and machines and entertainments and sounds and horrors and wonders, he was struck dumb by the expanse of it all.

“So they decided to overpopulate?” he asked for the second time.

“I’m telling you John, they made the decision to put as many people on the planet as possible.”

“They did it to themselves,” he marveled.

“Absolutely. Families were huge. Not three or four, but sometimes six or seven or eight in one home. It was so loud, John. You wouldn’t believe the noise. They actually had a name for it. I heard it over and over again. ‘The more the merrier.’”

“The chaos of it all must have been maddening for you,” John said hopefully.

She became thoughtful, studying the floor.

“At first it was John. At first. But now, here.”

“What is it?” But he knew what it was.

She looked at him then, her light blue eyes full of love and hope and purpose.

“Tomorrow I start building,” she said.

“What, Love.”

She laughed and kissed him hard on the lips.

“A bicycle built for two.”

Thank You Girls for Your Gift

2011-09-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

A hundred years ago, when I was about 25 years old, I belonged to a writers' group called Aspiring Writers Club. (AWC) We lived on the old Prodigy service. I told you it was a hundred years ago. So, AWC still exists today. I think there are about a dozen of us.

I love them all.

I was going through my old poetry files and I came across this one. Well this is half of this one. I say half because it was a collaboration, and while I don't remember exactly where my words cut off and hers began, I think this is all my own original work. Her name was Kristen.

She and her buddy Melanie (not sure about that name) started AWC. They were teenagers at the time.I hope they are both doing well. They gave me a gift of some extremely special friends I will cherish my whole life.

Cheers and Enjoy!

Casey

NO ONE LEFT TO GREET

The moon is but a sliver
My heart is but a shiver
Awaiting for the maiden to reinstill the beat

But alas I am alone
The air as cold as stone
Around every corner there whispers a defeat

Desperate for resolution
Angry for evolution
Listen, now, it's time for you to move beyond your grief

A year passed by without me
Chained to Time's reality
It's latest Autumn now and I am the final leaf

I look closely at their eyes
For a glimmer of disguise
And lying quietly beyond love that I so need

I can only wait the days
And discover what fate says
And hope I don't lose it all in depths of lust and greed

The moon is but a sliver
My heart is but a shiver
Awaiting for the maiden to reinstill the beat

If I could I'd scream out loud
All alone amidst the crowd
Will there come a time when there is no one left to greet

Doing it 750 Pieces at a Time

2011-08-30T15:30:00.001-07:00

I wanted to talk a bit about what I’ve experienced with my recent writing challenge and why I think it’s working for me.

The challenge is simple enough. @sarahreede and I agreed to challenge each other to write a novel. We would commit to 750 words a day, every day, until our works were done. So you don’t need to do the math, that gives me a 100,000 word novel in about 4 ½ months. Well, a first draft anyway. Every Tuesday night we’re supposed to check in and see how we’re each coming along.

The results have been nothing short of amazing. I have hit my 750 words a day, every day for the last 14 days, which puts me at just over 10,000 words or 10% of my supposed goal.

750 words isn’t a lot. I can write it in an hour if I’m motivated and like what I’m putting down, a couple if I am struggling a bit.

But it seems that as I write this novel, 750 words is something more than just a goal. It appears to be the length (almost to the word) I need to do a short scene.

That’s right, as of today, I have written fourteen short scenes in a cohesive story. It’s a good, comfortable length for me. It urges me to begin each scene Medias Res and leave while the leaving’s good. Not only that, I have found that six scenes (so far) make a chapter.

You might ask yourself, “What if you need to do one longer or one shorter? Are you restricting your writing this way?” (You may have already tuned-out to my regurgitation of self discovery…)

Not at this point. I did have one very short scene and right after it (maybe to balance things out?) one longer one.

I think it has something to do with how I became a writer. I started with poetry. The structures of poems (yawn, I know) excite the heck out of me. I love trapping myself in a certain structure based on how I start a poem and then using that structure throughout. It really works both sides of my brain. But more than that, I need that structure to continue. I’ve never been good at free verse works, or at least they haven’t thrilled me as much. I think it’s probably because the accomplishment of meeting those structural requirements wasn’t part of the work.

Also, I wrote for radio for twelve years. In this gig I was required to write fifteen, thirty or sixty seconds of copy for a commercial or promo. This trained my brain to live within the structure of time/word count as I created.

Now I’m here with a task of writing 100,000 words in 750 word chunks each day. It’s actually not surprising that my brain is placing the story in these nice little bite-sized pieces.

But I’m concerned about what it will look like when complete. I’ve already got a list of places where I will have to go back and expound on one thing or another to make the tale more complete or simply more engaging. So the final analysis will not show the strange structure I am working with today.

But will it work? Will my method be too obvious?

One of my favorite authors is Dean Koontz. I’m currently reading the second Frankenstein novel he created with Ed Gorman. They are great fun and I believe there is something instantly attractive about a story that takes something that is part of our common lore and writes either a continuation of the events of the original or fictionally purports to know how things really went down. Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Chris Moore comes to mind here as well.

When it comes to Mr. Koontz, he is the master of short scenes. In his case, every scene is a chapter and they are short. This novel, which is about 80,000 words, is 80 chapters long.

As writers though, we simply cannot create unless we have found a comfortable skin in which to do our work. For me, structure of word count, structure of scene length, structure of chapter length side-by-side with a flagrant discovery writer’s lack of structure for story including theme, arc and development are for me.

And if it doesn’t work? Well, I’ve learned something then, have I not?

By the way, this post according to Word, is exactly 750 words long.

Cheers,

Casey

Wasn’t All That Long

2011-08-21T12:45:00.001-07:00

Hi! I haven't posted in a bit, but the good news is that is mostly because I'm working on my novel. I have a sort of double-dare going with @SarahReede that we each write at least 750 words on our books each day. It's been fun and so far I'm on schedule. But I thought I'd pop over here and share with you a piece of Flash Fiction I wrote recently. If you're interested I'm tweeting my word count at the end of each day. And if we're not following each other yet, I'm at caseyfreeland there as well as on Facebook.

And now... on with the story...

When he woke, she stood over him, the white room congregating in a halo around her shoulder-length, golden hair. She held his frail hand gently and smiled into his rheumy eyes.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice a thin gauze of comfort laid across his raised, convalescent bed.

“Already?” he coughed back at her, his own voice breaking the spell she had cast. But her smile didn’t deteriorate and even her dark blue eyes betrayed no hesitation in her devotion. He felt foolish, as he did often of late.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said and she gave his hand a little squeeze. “You are a rare one to stay with me this long.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said. “It’s a hard day. Let’s make the most of it.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, grateful for her unwavering support. He smiled halfway to his eyes, clapped his wrinkled hands together and said, “So what’s on the agenda for us today, anyway?”

Her smile broadened at the joke, and she held up her hand, lifting fingers one by one.

“Well, first we need to get you out of that bed. Then it’s the best breakfast credits can buy. After we’ll get you showered and dressed. And at one we’ve got front row at the matinee for Twelfth Night.” She left her pinky down, and after a moment dropped her hand. That pinky finger seemed to have planted the first seed of sadness on her flawless face. It was his turn to lift her mood.

“That is a perfect day,” he said, leaning forward as far as he could on his own. She responded with practiced assistance and soon his large, crooked toes touched the warmed, amber tile floor. He leaned heavily on his silver cane and let out a relieved sigh.

“One down,” he said and she took his elbow and led him to the bathroom.

As the car drove them through downtown - Shakespeare’s queer words still heady in his mind and a slight burn in his throat where the chorizo and eggs had left their mark - he stared out the window at the walkers, ironically feeling like a wide-eyed child. They all looked young and vibrant, steps light and laughter easy. And without exception, every face lacked fear, regret or loss. Of course real ages were impossible to guess anymore for all but the children and the few left like him. He felt grateful the sight of his own face was hidden from them by tinted glass.

He tried to halt the old bitterness creeping into his mood, but failed.

“I should have never married such a child,” he said.

She patted his leg through black slacks.

“Cradle robber,” she accused lightly, though even without looking at her he knew he had hurt her. “Four years isn’t all that long.”

“Wasn’t all that long,” he corrected. “But now it’s the whole, wide world. Day and night. Life and death. And I’m on the wrong side of it.” He was surprised to feel a cool tear slide down his wrinkled right cheek. He coughed to hide a sob and kept his eyes on the youths outside, ashamed at his own self-pity.

He turned sixteen around the time the tabloid media first started buzzing about Repression. Respected news groups didn’t take notice until he began his twenties. But even after the first treatments were successfully completed for the richest youth of the world two years later, an age limit was either not discussed or vaguely mentioned as an unknown.

“I would have married you anyway, my dear,” he said, steeling himself and turning his body towards hers. He saw a sheen of tears in her eyes as well. Suddenly, even though their young, marital lust had long since become uncomfortable and strange, he felt an urge to kiss her hard. But because he loved her, he only took her smooth fingers in his hand and caressed them.

“Don’t be sad, dear one,” he said. “This is much better than the alternative. We’ve waited years longer than most. My pride can only let me be so much of a burden. And you know I make the family uncomfortable.”

And then in mock anguish he raised his eyebrows and added, “Oh, no. Please tell me they aren’t going to be there.”

She shook her head, a bit of brightness returning to her face, eyes almost like diamonds behind wet regret.

“You know it’s only us, my man.”

Somehow working on her grief helped him face his own. This world belonged to her and his presence only kept her from enjoying it. He could blame no one in particular that he was twenty-six – one year beyond the limit of the drug’s apparent effectiveness – when the government finally released Repression treatments for the masses.

He did kiss her then, one last time, more passionately than he had intended. She met his enthusiasm with her own and they made out like school kids for the last few minutes of the ride to the incinerary, tears mingling and hearts racing together.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

The Final Reign

2011-08-02T18:45:00.001-07:00

found her here

Midnight comes a young heart thrums

A night unlike seen ages past

The moon is gone and dark is strong

Yet whispers vow to witness last

The icy breeze it wants to freeze

And blow the stars across the sky

Churning ground crawls as a hound

Mad from lack and soon to die

It sings the doom within her womb

The dawn of terror comes full term

And bearing down her scream the sound

That settles deep in man and worm

The very air before so fair

Now blinds with sable tears of pain

And it is born all hope is shorn

And thus begins the final reign

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Finding Homes for Prose

2011-07-30T22:38:00.001-07:00

this is our big, bad library
So, if you've been following along, you know I've been actively submitting flash fiction to online publications.

Over the last couple of months, I've submitted ten times. Six of those submissions are still in consideration and four have been rejected. All four of those rejected have been resubmitted to other publications. (I know. Makes me dizzy as well. I have a spreadsheet.)
isn't this comic hilarious?
I also have one story I wrote last week that hasn't yet left my iPad. Its a good one.

Bottom line is I am marketing seven new and original short stories. Not too shabby.

After my initial blitz, I'm trying to get smarter about where I send my work. And I'm considering some print publications. And I'm considering longer works of fiction. And I'm considering...

Too much time considering and not enough time writing.

What I'm probably going to do is let these stories run through several submissions while I work on my novel. My protagonists are getting pissed, and one of them is a pretty dangerous guy.

I haven't completely ignored the long stuff, but so far I'm still in first gear, or first chapter as it were. It's time to get some real daily word counts done.

I have a quick question for you. You can E-mail me at caseygfreeland (at) gmail (dot) com or just (if it works now) comment below.

Actually the question has two parts:

I have a Kindle I haven't touched since Padrick came along
1) How do you read novels? Do you prefer hardbacks, paperbacks, Kindle, iBooks, audiobooks, laptop, Nook, etc.? For me I would say 40% audibooks, 40% iBooks and 20% hardbacks.

with Padrick I always have a book handy
2) When do you read novels? Do you read before bed, lunch breaks, weekends, mornings, during commute, only on vacation, etc. For me it's mostly when I drive and before bed.

Okay, seriously, thanks for reading.

Off to mother effin write!

Casey

Writer Paralysis and Whiskeytown Falls

2011-07-17T16:07:00.000-07:00

Have not written a stitch (save the poem post below) since Hannah's passing. But I'm about to rev up again. In the mean time, here's a short-story inspired by an actual article I read regarding a waterfall discovered about twenty miles from my home. I played with present tense and one-sided conversations. I liked the effect and thought it fit this story.

Whiskeytown Falls

On Friday, August 12th, 2005 the Associated Press ran a story about a 400-foot waterfall discovered in a remote wilderness in Northern California. Doug Masterson, after fourteen failed attempts on foot, found the falls while searching a global satellite imaging system on his computer. He called a fellow wildlife biologist and friend, Mark Ferrier, who had six hours to live.

4:37AM
The phone rings insistently in the dark. Mark, still drunk, nearly tumbles off his bed reaching for it. His wife doesn’t move.

Hello?-
Doug?-
What the hell?-
It’s late.-
Early.-
Call me later.-
What?-
Doug, they aren’t there. I’m not going out again. Stay in San Diego ‘cause I’m not answering the door.-
What, right now? No, I’m out man. Sorry.-
Satellite? You’re kidding right?-
We covered that ridge, more than once. Falls just don’t appear, man.-
What are you drinking?-
Okay, okay. Must be me. Settle. I’ll go out tomorrow. It’s a Saturday. Jill and I can make a day.-
Now?-
Listen, bud, if I get my sorry ass out of this bed right now and go searching for your magic falls…-
Whatever.-
Okay, okay, I’ll go. E-mail me the satellite photo and coordinates. I think my GPS is charged.-
An hour. I need an hour to wake up. I just went to bed.-
Very funny. Up yours. You owe me big time, jerk.-

5:29AM
Mark is in the shower. Jill is packing a bag for him. His girls, Andrea, who is six, and Mannie, who just turned four, are still asleep.

I don’t know, Jill. He’s my guy. I owe him big time.-
Yes, forever. That’s how it works.-
This job, the job before this one. Work is slim, baby.-
Hey, you want me to keep you in diamonds, right?-
Well, it’s a good thing you love me then.-
What?-
Pack ‘em yeah. I should be back tonight though. My sleeping mat too.-
Would you do me a favor, lover, while I’m gone.-
Get started on the backyard.-
Just do the prep stuff. I’ll paint tonight.-
Just wash it down. Make the girls help. It’s for them anyway.-
Thanks.-
I smell coffee.-

6:40AM
Mark has just pulled off the main highway onto the dirt road, which leads to a trail, which leads to a spring, which is about six miles away from his destination, which may or may not exist. His head is hammering from the beer he drank the night before and he’s not looking forward to hacking through acres of stubborn manzanita. Mark gets out of his oxidized ’74 Chevy and picks up a green phone hanging from a sugar pine.

This is Mark Ferrier, George.-
Oh, fine, fine. They’re all fine. You?-
Andrea’s lost more teeth than you by now.-
Yeah, both growing like weeds.-
Jill’s good to. She’s been working long hours at the hospital lately.-
Yep, going in one last time looks like. Doug’s idea.-
He’s got a global imager on his computer now. Thinks he knows right where they are.-
Hell if I know. I’m just following orders. Doug’s the genius. He just picks on me ‘cause I’m close.-
Sure sure. So anything I need to know about? Bears? Lions? Rabid squirrels?-
No no, but I gotta ask.-
You know the answer to that, George. Nothing but my machete.-
Alright. I’ll give you a ring when I get back to the truck. Might go overnight, but probably not.-
Take care George. Tell Mary hello for me, okay?-

7:11AM
Mark is moving well on his first leg, which runs down the dirt road that his colleague Doug Masterson calls Alladin’s Alley. Mark never gets the joke, but Doug sees it as the gateway to something enchanted. Nothing more than an old logger’s trail, it is the quickest way to get close to the sectors where the legendary falls are said to exist. Mark is making notations in his digital recorder.

The kids have been out in force this summer. I found three party spots on my way in. Jill packed a bag for me though, so I’ll get the cans and bottles when I’m done. Guess I can’t blame them, but I sure hate the mess.
It’s quiet out here. Already pretty warm, near eighty-five, I’d guess. But the birds should be doing their thing. My headache is starting to ease up, thank God. It’ll probably come back when I start the climb.
Why did I agree to this? I should turn around and tell Doug I found nada. But the pic definitely showed white water, or something like it anyway. I’d hate for someone else to find the damn thing before me.
I gotta pee.

8:28AM
Mark is breaking at the spring, taking refuge under the towering old pines. The sun is getting high now and it’s getting hot. The water is fresh and cool, coming out of the ground and trailing down to Whiskeytown Lake. His lack of sleep and abundance of alcohol are affecting him. He’s winded.

I could drink this stuff all day. Jill needs to try it.
I just thought of something. If I find these falls, they might name them Ferrier Falls. Wouldn’t that be a kick? I wonder if there’s any money in that. Probably not, like most things I do. It’s not for the bucks, baby. But I could help build a trail out here. That might be profitable. God knows Jill shouldn’t have to bring home the bacon forever. Maybe I could write a book about the falls. Nah, I can’t write my own name.
Doug, if I give this to you unedited, just forget all this, would you? I don’t need any questions about my financial situation. We’re doin’ just fine thank you very much.
Guess I should make some observations. Let’s see, still very quiet. I don’t even see insects around the spring. That’s strange.
What else? Well, according to mister GPS here I’ve got about an hour to go if I hurry. Two, is probably more like it with the terrain and my brain feeling like a Ziplock full of old oatmeal. That’s pretty funny. Maybe I should write a book.
Another few sips of sweetness and I’m off.

9:15AM
Mark’s voice is breathy as he climbs the ridge. He’s close to his destination.

I forgot to make any more notations and I’m almost there. Just a few more seconds…here on the ol’ GPS.
I thought I heard something…earlier. Like maybe some running water. There is no running water…up here. The falls are supposed…to come right out of the ground, like the spring…and then disappear again. That’s the legend anyway. So I’m at least a bit hopeful. I think I’ll break here just a bit.

10:21AM
I found it! Them. The Falls. I can’t believe it. They run about forty-five degrees right up the ridge and drop a good seven or eight meters at the bottom. They’re frikkin’ beautiful. About five meters across. How did I miss this before? They are so loud.
I just realized I forgot to bring a camera. What a dumb ass. No one is going to believe it. Well I’ve got the coordinates right here.
What the heck? Looks like my GPS is fritzin’ out. I knew the charge was almost gone. Damn.
It’s cold here, ice cold. Not just the water. The water is positively arctic. I’m up to my ankles in it right now. But the air is cold too, almost icy. I think I can see my breath. Weird because the sun is right there, right above me.
Mmm. The water is delicious too. Better than the spring. It’s so cold it hurts my teeth. Mmm.
Looks like there’s a small cavern behind the drop. Either that or black slate, I can’t be sure. Damn it’s cold. I gotta get out of this water.
Wait. I think I hear something…
It’s a voice. Someone is talking, or maybe singing?
It’s behind the falls.
Singing.
Hey. Somebody back there?
Something’s moving.
Who’s there?
Hello? Oh God.

That was the last of it. My friend Mark disappeared after that, leaving behind his equipment, his pack, his shoes and his clothes, right down to his underwear. I found them Sunday after flying up from San Diego. Jill had called me Saturday night to complain about the job. She called me Sunday morning in a panic. I never told Jill I found his wedding ring, but it was right there, resting on top of his clothes next to his watch, recorder and GPS unit.
My name is Doug Masterson. It’s been six months now since Mark’s last recorded words. I’ve been up the ridge at least a hundred times and have found no trace of what might have happened. The police are clueless. The best they can give me is he became delirious.
Jill and the girls still cry every day.
And there is no sign of Whiskey Falls.

Our Hannah Bear

2011-07-09T21:27:00.001-07:00

hug your puppy for me
That first afternoon, a warm valley day
Into the heat of the Haven Humane
The scent of desperation in the air
The kids were bright and hoping she'd be there

From a litter of four or five, we picked
Girl who stuck snout through prison bars and licked
Little brown ball lifted into the air
And we brought home our sweetie Hanna Bear

Hard to believe that was fifteen years past
So unfair that our companions don't last
She brought laughter, love and life to the air
Impossible that once she wasn't there

We watched her grow before our very eyes
Our affection seemed to swell with her size
Like a deer she could spring into the air
Whether chasing squirrels or leaping at hares

Too soon body began to let her down
Never forgot the time she almost drown
Now with her gone there's stillness in the air
Though, I swear, I still feel our Hannah Bear

Thanks for reading. I don't think I'll write anymore tonight.

Cheers,

Casey

The Universe Conspires

2011-07-08T19:28:00.001-07:00

sometimes there is no direction to avoid disaster

Some days are different than others.

It's possible that, in 24 short hours, the following can occur:

the wheels are coming off this thing

My Love's car breaks down out of town. (Found a great mechanic to fix it thanks to a kindness from the tow guy. If it had broken down when my love and daughter were traveling north to Ashland on Saturday, they would have missed their play and likely been stranded in the middle of nowhere.)

our Hannah Bear

Our pet of fifteen years passes away. (She is no longer in any pain. We have fifteen years of wonderful memories.)

ouch

Got a short-story rejection. (An opportunity to send this publication another story and submit the one they turned down to someone else.)

freakin' freaky

Mud Daubers found in the garage. (There's no lemonade here.)

All of these things can and did occur, all at once. And if I didn't have my love and my kids I don't know how I would have survived it.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Old Man Winter

2011-07-06T18:49:00.001-07:00

This awesome "Old Man Winter" pic came from http://highspeeddirt-steve.blogspot.com/2010/12/take-hike-old-man-winter.html

It was about 108 degrees here today. Reminded me of a story:

It’s the sixth day of snowfall. The chimney and attic window are the only parts of the house not buried and I understand now that this is no ordinary storm. We are probably not getting out alive. I have to decide whether we were going to die in our home or meet our end while making our way down the mountain.

Four years. Four years we have lived in this cabin, isolated from “civilization” just enough to feel alone in the world, but not far enough that we can’t purchase our needs, take care of our banking, wire far-off family and get medical treatment six or seven times a year. The winter weather has been difficult at times, prone to high winds and torrential rain. But the snow rarely comes and never sticks more than a day or two. Until one week ago when the stranger came through.

I want to be clear that I am a trusting man. I made the decision early in life to expect the best from people and hell-be-damned whatever happens, happens. Most of the time, I am not disappointed, because most people are good. After Maye and I had Jeremy and then Marianne the next year I must say that some of the trust went out of me. And by the time we moved to the cabin I was ready for a break from my optimism.

When I heard the meek rap on our front door early one evening during a brewing rainstorm, my heart felt heavy. I opened the great, wooden door on its massive, iron hinges and I saw him for the first time. The clouds seemed darker and the rain heavier and, though I am not a man of psychic experience, I would say I had a foreboding.

Not that he was a menacing fellow. As a matter of fact, he appeared harmless, so much so, that Maye invited him in straightaway to get out of the coming weather. And he was injured.

This man, not five foot five by my reckoning, stood draped in a dirty, white robe that hung down far below his feet, dragging on the ground where it turned almost black from the abuse. His face was pale, some might say translucent, and heavily wrinkled, two small white-blue eyes peering over a white beard combed perfectly straight and traveling down to the middle of his chest. His tiny, pale, wrinkled hands poked out from the robe, one holding a small, hardwood branch he used to steady himself and the other grasping at his chest where a circle of bright red was increasing as I stood there, gawking.

He tried to speak but could not and Maye brought him inside, giving me a look with her giant, gray eyes that said, help or get out of the way. At first, I could only stand.

Once inside, the old man collapsed completely and we could not revive him for two days.

We put him in Jeremy’s bed and the children slept with us so he might have his privacy. Since Jeremy is only just seven, the bed seemed a bit small, but he fit well enough and there was nothing to be done about it.

Maye and I worked on his chest the best we could. He had been shot, clean through, in the back by some small caliber gun. The back seemed okay and closed up with only two stitches. But the front, where the bullet came out, was a mess. And his skin seemed paper-thin. As I sewed him up that first night, afraid he might die under my hand, I tried to be as dainty as any man could be. I lost track of the stitches, many inside and many out, and when I was done I collapsed next to him in Marianne’s bed.

When I woke the next morning, the snowstorm had begun. The flakes were big and thick, so much so the children caught them on their tongue as they fell out of the sky. They built five snowmen lickety split from the foot of new snow on the ground, the likeness of us and the old man. Jeremy begged and begged to go find a hill they might sled, but I said no, for which I’m glad. By that afternoon the foot of snow had risen to waist-high on me and up to Jeremy’s chest.

We were pretty well snowed in by that night, and on the second night, when the old man finally woke, I could no longer open the door to the outside, nor would I want to. But we had firewood inside for several days, even a week, and the snow had somewhat insulated our little cabin, making it warm like an igloo, so I did not panic.

We had all retired to the main room for dinner when I heard his voice, an almost female voice, like a grandmother might sound, from the other room.

“Hello?” he called. “Hellooooo.”

We all jumped up together. He was sitting in the bed, holding the blanket Maye had given him up to his neck, looking modest and meek. And again, I felt a dark strength within him.

“Helloooo,” he said again, looking at us and smiling through a perfect set of snow-white teeth. “You be the saviors of this old heart?” He tapped his mangled chest, the black stitches criss-crossing half-hazard like a child had drawn them there.

“Aye, that is me,” I said. “Not pretty, but I think I got all the pieces back in place.” I smiled though I didn’t feel like smiling. Maye smiled as well, pinning her long, brown hair behind her in a makeshift bun and going fearlessly to his side. She poured him a cup of water and handed it to his shaking fingers.

“Please, have a drink,” she said. He took it gratefully and finished the whole of it in one draught. She refilled it and he drank that as well.

“Your kindness is boundless and foundless,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t know how to thank ye.”

And so the niceties went and when he felt well enough the next morning he joined us in the main room for breakfast dressed in clothes of mine which looked like a sack on his frame. I asked him, because my own vulgar curiosity could not contain itself and because he had not offered any information, how he came to be bleeding from a gunshot on our front porch. He eyed me with my direct question, his stare palpable on the skin of my face, thick and dark. But then he smiled kindly and laughed.

“There are hunters in this wood,” he said. “They are careless with their aim. I was making my way through the thickest forest, hoping to reach a clearing where I might find my bearings. I imagine the man was far away because I didn’t hear the explosion of the gun until the damage was well done and over. I tried to cry for his aid but he did not hear me, or did not care to admit he had shot an old man.”

“Probably the Smithies down the ridge,” Maye said. “They get hungry early in the winter and don’t take much time to measure what they’ve got in their sights.”

I nodded, but the old man hadn’t answered the part of the question I most wanted to know.

“Why were you here?” I asked.

Again he looked at me. This time the cloud on his face was unmistakable, even Maye seemed to shiver from it.

“I was here,” he began, the smile gone from his face. “Because I lost my way. I come through here every year, but never this far south. I got misplaced, maybe in my age, and once I was on this side of the mountain, there was no getting back. I had to come through. I am sorry.”

“Why are you sorry,” I asked.

“You need to leave me here,” he said. “Get off the mountain now before it’s too late. But don’t take me with you. I must stay here.”

“You want us to leave our home to you and scuttle off the mountain?” I asked.

“We’ve only just settled here,” Maye said.

“You did me a kindness and I am trying to return the gift. If you do as I say you will escape the wrath of the storm. If you do not, I will not be responsible for your demise. I can tell you no more.”

With that he left us, stunned, to our breakfast and returned to Jeremy’s bed.

A fever took him that afternoon and he did not recover.

He is there, in Jeremy’s bed, sweating and shaking as the snow builds higher and higher outside. Soon, an escape from the house will be impossible.

Maye and I have decided to leave the home. We are going to leave him here because we cannot carry him out, small as he is, and we would all surely die with the burden. So we have brought the fire to a crisp blaze and made him as comfortable as possible. Marianne is crying, but I care more for their lives than this stranger and cannot abide her tender heart.

Once out on the roof we see nothing but white. The snow falls so heavily my feet are nearly invisible. I take the hand of my trusting wife and she has tied a rope to each of our children and we leave the chimney and the cabin roof’s slight peak, and head in the direction that should lead us down the mountain.

One hundred yards from our home the storm ends. It ends like a wall has been placed to keep it at bay. The snow is like and icy mountain and I can see bare dirt just a few feet ahead. We all run down the hill. I look up and see blue sky between gray and white clouds. And down the mountain I can see almost all the way to the town.

When I turn around I see the white, menacing storm over our cabin, burying it. I don’t understand, but I am too happy to pause. We rush down the slope and I feel the darkness of the old man fade behind me.

That was more than a year ago. When the old man died the storm disappeared. And now, it is nearly a new year and the rains won’t drop, the cold snap hasn’t hit and no snow falls from the sky. People in the town say it’s an unusual winter.

But I know the truth.

One of the Smithies shot Old Man Winter last November and the snow is not coming back.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Duff

2011-07-01T22:37:00.001-07:00

Close eyes and imagine the shot
Tempo, tempo, guts in a knot
Dodge the bunker, skip the water
Catch the snitch like Harry Potter

Dip it, Hook it, Skull it, Blade it
Pure it, Draw it, Crush it, Fade it
Tiny fairways hiding from view
Third ball lost and haven't a clue

What club would Lee Trevino use
Can the six take this rough abuse
Which wedge will get it to the green
Does this game make nice people mean

Birdies rare as molten gold
Bogies come as a double fold
Score as high as Jeff Spicoli
Each cup seems to have a goalie

And then, just when all hope is gone
The perfect swing, ball sweet and long
Lands soft just inches from the flag
And it will be hard not to brag

Volunteer for torturous rounds
Swing the clubs and stalk the grounds
You'll know you've gone around the bend
When you can't wait to go out again

Had a fantastic golf round today with my brother, my brother-in-law and my nephew. We didn't play that well, but we had an awesome time. Such is often the way with the game of golf. Inspired the poem. Thought I'd share.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Glutton for Something

2011-06-28T17:21:00.000-07:00

stole this from submitmma.com cause I'm tough

What do I do when the rejection comes in?

First I send the rejected story back out again (with a few edits) , this time to an online magazine generous enough to publish one of my stories a couple of years ago.

Then... THEN... in a show of writer bravery that even has me baffled, I write and submit another story to those who hath rejected the first.

Either I'm an absolute glutton for punishment, or I read some of the short-stories they publish, realized I had submitted the completely wrong story for their audience and wrote something I think is perfect for them.

I'm probably a glutton for something, anyway. Maybe negative attention. Certainly not punishment.

This is a bit exciting, isn't it? I wonder what will happen. I wonder if they'll like my second attempt. I wonder if they'll see my name and say, "What the hell does he think he's doing? We told him we didn't like his work last time." (They didn't actually say that...)

Bottom line is I now have five stories out there in submission land. I'm on schedule and already have another idea brewing for next week's story.

I was thinking that if I get three rejections on any one story I'll post it here and you all can tell me why it bites.

Just a thought.

Thanks for reading!

Off to write.

Casey

Mouse in the House

2011-06-26T19:53:00.000-07:00

I think we all eventually outgrow our places of peace and respite. Do you agree?

From above, the city was beautiful, great spires, towers reaching for the clouds, competing over centuries to be the tallest. The sun glistened off the city’s brightest buildings, their mirrored sides tossing the light back and forth, down, down onto the city streets. The streets looked like a crawling mass of vermin from the highest heights, choked with walkers and runners and bikes and cars, all moving with purpose to their destination with no patience for their fellow citizens.

From above it grew, blossomed like a flower, where there was once nothing but prairie wind and wheat stalks. The mass of humanity became its own world, too many millions to count, too many heartbeats to hear. And still they came, drawn to the city by its promise of wealth and opportunity. The city moved day and night, never slowing, never becoming any less active, the sun’s thousands of reflections replaced by a hundred million lights that turned the sky to dawn and blew out the stars as if they were a galaxy of timid candles.

One of the buildings, an older building but still magnificent, is topped with a playground, which is surrounded by a giant cyclone fence. The playground is painted green, but no grass grows there. All the best and safest pieces of kid pleasure sit waiting for the screaming, squealing mass of underdeveloped humanity to descend on them twice a day, nearly every day. The monkey bars and rings and slides and ladders. The giant tires and swings and teeters and boxes of synthetic sand. A hundred children could play on the top of this middle-of-the-road building and there would be room for a hundred more.

The school occupies the top three floors of the building and children who go there often receive elementary, high school, undergraduate and graduate level education without ever leaving them.

Next come the residences, the families of the children above, placed in spacious if not completely similar homes big enough to hold three generations or more. Nearly half of the building is consumed by a simple place to live. Extensive camera networks keep the occupants in line if the sense of community should sometimes fail them.

Traveling down the throat of the building, the great central elevator network, the homes evolve into offices, first the largest, richest companies with the most important, most influential people in the building, if not the city. This being such a mediocre building, chances are rare that a political potentate or citywide CEO would bother working here. The offices become smaller and more practical the closer the levels get to the city street.

Below the offices, stores of every type materialize; anything from groceries to clothing to the latest computer creation can be bought without ever leaving the building.

Restaurants and entertainment are just above the street level so non-residents can enjoy them without getting too far off the ground. This particular building has almost four-dozen restaurants counting the fast food stands and pizza joints. Most buildings have more, but this building is one of those built many years ago and well beyond its prime. The entertainment includes nightclubs, dive bars, theaters, stages, symphonies and virtual sports of a hundred different varieties.

At ground level is security where humanity comes and goes, often pouring out of the building like a silo dropping grain.
All is at it appears in the building, a finely tuned, purring machine designed to expedite life, make it the most efficient existence possible.

But below the building, under the streets, where the old city once thrived, are the forgotten segments of the civilization, the thorns of blossoming humanity. Dark, quiet halls lit by single, dangling bulbs mark the paths to and from the under-city, stairways rather than elevators travel deeper and deeper underground to more dark halls with dingy walls and scuffed floors and rows and rows of similar, gray doors.

On one of the lowest levels, nearly to the original ground level of the city when it was still just dirt and an idea, one of the thousands of doors opens to a room lousy with sound. The chitter and chatter of machines spill into the hall. An oddly high ceiling in a surprisingly spacious room boasts a handful of bulbs similar to those in the hall. The resulting light is little more than a candle’s worth because of the size of the room, but it doesn’t slow the machines. The room is cool, insulated by ten million people and ten thousand buildings, but the air is thick with the smell of burning, electric capacitors and the formaldehyde used to preserve the nine dozen bolts of fabric that chaotically decorate the farthest wall.

Sitting at one hundred sewing machines are ninety-one girls and eight little boys, one of the machines down for repair. They sew garments at impossible speeds, each of the children given a specific task for the day; attach this bodice to this skirt, hem these pant legs and attach the belt loops, surge this underlining for tomorrow’s assembly. No child is over the age of ten. Ten is the age of freedom. Ten is the age when their parents’ debt is paid. Ten is the age when they return to the aboveground life. Besides, after ten years old, their hands are too large for many of the sewing tasks in which this factory specializes. Until then they work every day in this room, eating and sleeping in the barracks next door. The string-thick bands around their necks keep them in line when needed. But they rarely are. They are good workers and the supervisors remind them constantly that the fates of their families rely solely on them.

So they work.

In one of the darkest corners of the factory, one girl, just six years old, works in near darkness. Her fellow workers call her Mouse and the supervisors think it’s because she is so small. But they have given her that name because she disappears every night and since she doesn’t ever speak, no one knows where she goes. The older kids have tried to stay up, to watch her escape. She simply waits quietly until they doze. If one has the will to watch her the entire night, they are so miserable the next day they never try again. If she were a boy, they might beat her until she showed them. But she’s tiny and beautiful, so they let her be.

The truth is she has found a vent in the barracks. It’s on the floor and partially covered by her cot. The other children have seen it, but don’t expect it is her escape because it looks too small for a person to get through. Indeed it is difficult for Mouse. She has to squirm and wiggle and hold her breath as she drops down into the dark, square, hole. But she makes it through and the vent immediately opens into a corridor that leads into an old air conditioning system, which leads to a room that holds a forgotten freight elevator that travels not just to the surface, but all the way up the spine of the building, behind the elevators everyone else uses.

Each night she takes that elevator to the very top of the building, past the restaurants and stores, beyond the offices and above the grand offices of the important businessmen and women, up through the residences where sometimes she hears laughter through the walls of the elevator shaft and can’t help but cry a little, past the college, high school and elementary school and all the way up to the playground with the green painted asphalt and every piece of equipment imaginable.

She doesn’t play with any of it. She climbs the highest ladder and lays down on the soft, plastic landing, her little arms supporting her little head as she gazes into the well-lit sky.

She breathes the air and feels the breeze on her face and bare feet.

But mostly she enjoys the quiet. She is surrounded by giant, silent toys, toys which were probably brought up here by the same freight elevator she uses, all of them completely silent, and imagines they are watching over her, keeping her safe from all harm and giving her the strength to work through the next day.

She knows these nights are becoming precious few as she slowly outgrows her hole in the floor. Soon, she will be truly confined to the barracks and the factory, stuck until she turns ten and can rejoin her family.

Until then, she tries to soak up every breath of her own magic place.

Thanks for reading! Off to write...

Casey

How Many Years?

2011-06-24T22:59:00.001-07:00

I recently found an old folder full of stuff I wrote before I could legally drink alcohol.

I had a lot of stuff to work through back then. And as I said I could not legally drink alcohol... which means I didn't have a convenient way to deaden my senses and forget.

I jest...

Anyway, most of these gems are crap; very serious, very brooding, very silly crap.

Check this baby out. It's called Nine Years of Light

The sands of time have somehow lost their way
Nine years have passed now we've had eternal day
Some people proclaimed the end of mankind
But after all these years they've changed their minds

The sun simply stopped in the noonday sky
It just sits there as days, months, years go by
After the initial panic was through
The people have enjoyed their endless blue

Solar energy now powers the land
And everybody is beautifully tanned
The plants grow at twice the normal degree
And we don't need electric light to see

I'm only eight and have never seen night
I've grown up used to the forever light
So you see why I didn't understand
The message we got from a distant land

It read, "S. O. S., is anyone there?
The entire world is in despair!
Nine long years ago to this very day
The great sun when down and it stayed that way"

Okay, I'm putting these away again...

You're welcome.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Lopsided and Lolly Gagging

2011-06-22T11:07:00.001-07:00

I'm feeling lopsided.

parking on my novel... get it?
I have hardly touched The Novel, but have been writing short-stories like crazy. Four submitted now in four weeks to four different online mags. That's a pretty good clip. I intend to continue this until I start getting rejections, which will give me a story that week to send somewhere else. A small respite.

this pace is going to make me this old
With four I now need a good database to keep track. Maybe it's time to add Numbers to my iPad? It looks like a good enough App. Not amazing, but decent enough for some simple spreadsheet work.

let's see... carry the one...
Now, back to The Novel. I can finish the first draft of a longer work in no more than three months. I have a handful of words (maybe 4,000) but I'm basically starting a ground zero today. So, three months puts me roughly at the end of September. 1,000 to 1,500 words a day. That's not much in the grand scheme.

I checked. I've done this five times. That's 250,000 words!
Also, if I finish The Novel by then, I can relax and do NaNoWriMo in November. That is a blast if you've never tried it. 50,000 words in 30 days.
But let's stay focused here people. I need to finish The Novel and my characters are pissed that I'm taking my time about it. Maybe I'll kill one of them. How do you feel about a main character dying in the third chapter of a novel?

I probably wouldn't do that cause I don't have a sharp knife

Thanks for reading. Off to write!

Casey

Note: The guy taking the nap came from lizzyknowsall.blogspot.com, the iPad numbers pic came from nsquaredblog.blogspot.com, the Nano dig came from wewhoareabouttodie.com and the funny stabbing cartoon came from huwaaron.com.

Fallen Father

2011-06-19T11:36:00.001-07:00

My father fell early in my life. I used to long for him to still be alive. But he'd be 89 years old now and probably pissed about that. Now I just long for the years from 19 to now. I long for him to have known my children, to have seen me be a father to them, to love them and be proud of me. I hope he is.

Here's one from Becoming Dad/22 in Time about a fallen father:

He could fly.

He was young and weak compared to his parents and his brother, but he was honorable and would soon be stronger than all. He imagined reaching the highest skies of their valley, the great green expanse split by the cool, quick river full of fish and surrounded by the three, white-topped mountains. On the largest of the three mountains grew a tree older than his family’s memory, because it had always been their home. The massive branches of the great, thick, twisted pine went on forever and the nest built near the top of the tree was so big he could get lost going from one end to the other.

And now he could fly.

At first he was terrified. It was a long way to the forest floor from the giant nest. His mother crowded him in the nest, slowly moving him closer to the edge, making his home smaller and smaller. But he was too young and scared and he scuttled around her, ducking off to the far end of the nest, only to have her crowd him again.

But one early morning, just a few suns ago, he woke and his mother was already standing by him, nudging him, opening her wings so that he could not escape. He turned and his father was there as well, standing on a perch branch just off the nest, watching him, commanding him to take the air. And what could he do but try his wings and jump? He stumbled twice through the air, falling much quicker than he thought he could. But then, quite by themselves, his wings opened and he was gliding through the trees down the mountain and into the valley.

And he could fly.

He soon dove into the icy waters of the quick river and caught his first earned meal.

Before long he had flown over the entire valley, or most of it anyway, and even lifted a rabbit and carried it most of the way back to the nest. His weak wings couldn’t make it up the mountain, but he took it far enough, and his father was proud when he swooped down and lifted his son’s kill the rest of the way.

The day of his father’s death, they had been flying together, his father showing him how to lift himself on the breeze and catch the higher currents. They had reached a goodly height when a sound split the sky. He heard his father scream once, short, and then his beautiful wings folded and he dropped as a stone to the valley floor.

He dove after him, hoping to catch him, but he was too slow and too weak to reach him and lift him. But he was close enough to see his father’s head hit a large stone and his body bounce on the ground. His father was broken, gone.

He landed next to his father’s empty body and called out long and hard to his mother and brother. But they were too far away and he knew they wouldn’t hear.

Then the man things appeared. Two of them walked into the grove where his father had fallen. One, large and round with red and black feathers and holding a giant black stick, was squawking at the other. He didn’t know what they said, but he could read a father’s reprimand.

The smaller, also carrying a big stick, seemed ashamed.

“Come on Joe,” the big one said. “We gotta see if you killed it. I won’t let that eagle suffer. You gotta see what you did.”

“Dad, no,” the small one said. “I didn’t know.”

“Hell you didn’t!” the big one squawked. “You know exactly what you did. I don’t know how you got him from that distance, but you knew it wasn’t no game bird. Damn it, Son, that was the bird not to kill, the one you just don’t. Look, there he is.”

He had hidden behind a bush, but couldn’t bring himself to leave his father completely.

They circled his father, looking down at his ruined body.

“No, he’s dead.”

“I killed him?”

“Well, you got him. There it is right in his breast there. Caught him dead center. Drilled him. He would have died from that, but it was the drop that got him. Bashed his head against the rock, probably.”

“Oh.”

They were quiet for a while. He didn’t know what to do. If he moved, they might finish him as well. If he didn’t move, they might catch him just standing here, cowardly, behind the bush.

“Let’s go then,” the father man-thing said. “Nothing to be done.”

They started off, but then the boy turned around and looked directly at him. He must have brushed a leaf with his wing.

“Dad,” he whispered, staring directly at him, into his eyes. “Dad.”

“What is it?” The father turned and followed his son’s gaze.

“I don’t see any... oh wait. What is that?”

“It’s another one. A baby. Maybe I shot its mom.”

“No that’s a male. Probably related though.”

“What do we do?” They had both crouched low to the ground and looked at him, into his eyes. He wanted to flee, to take off into the sky, but he knew that these man-things had killed his father and they would kill him.

“Leave him there. He’ll find his way home. Come on.” The big one said, standing again and pulling the little one after him. They walked away, the little one looking over his shoulder all the while, waiting for him to do something. He stayed still.

“I’m sorry, baby bird,” the little one called back. “I’m real sorry ‘bout your dad.”

Long after they were gone and he heard no more man sounds in the forest, he finally left his hiding place and approached his fallen father. A light breeze blew across him and his feathers, now all a mess, moved slightly. The rest of him did not. He was gone. This was no longer his father.

He noticed the light dimming and took wing, circling once, twice then three times over the clearing as he climbed to find the air current that would let him glide home. In the sunless dusk he soon lost sight of the thing that was once his father. And then the breeze lifted him and he began soaring towards the mountainside.

As he rose up to his giant nest in the giant tree, he thought of his mother and his brother and wondered what made them whole and what his father’s feathers and beak and claw had lost.

And that was his first thought of his own soul.

Thanks for reading and Happy Father's Day,

Off to write or watch the U.S. Open.

Casey

The Best Poem You'll Never Read

2011-06-16T22:32:00.001-07:00

If you ever come to Redding, this is a safe bet for great food and atmosphere.

My love - sitting across from me in a cozy booth at Market Street Steakhouse last night for our fifteenth anniversary - hands me a small, folded piece of paper and says, "I'm not a poet."

She is a poet

She's a poet in everything she does

As she feels life so deeply around her,
as she takes it all in and then returns it to the universe,
through her voice,
through her smile,
through her amazing and fearless capacity for love,
she creates poetry

She is a poet

She wrote four life-long poems

Brilliant, unique beats,
brave
kind
loving
and strong of mind
these four write themselves more and more, which makes her sad

She is a poet

She writes lines across my heart every day

hieroglyphic
calligraphic
the deepest drum
the sweetest string
a symphony of words and tune
a screaming whispered rune

So, anyway, there we were, sitting in this romantic daze, drinking dirty martinis and eating some fabulous food, and she hands me this little page from her notebook. It's a poem. A real poem. She wrote it for me. And it's lovely.

My first instinct was to post it here. But alas, that will not be possible. That was the first thing she made me promise I would not do.

Because, she says, she is not a poet.

But she is.

The Devil's Brigade

2011-06-15T17:35:00.000-07:00

this is what I wrote on 20 years ago... with a pen!

I wish I could find a copy of my first real short story. I was older when I started writing short-stories compared to novel attempts and the ever-present poetry.

I’m going to guess I was twenty-two when I put this one down, which is circa 1990. I called it Devil’s Brigade, which I thought was genius.

It was a horror story of about 5,000 handwritten words about two young couples who go see the rock bank named, you guessed it, Devil’s Brigade. The casey-ism part of the story was that this was a reality where killing oneself was legal and where some would-be suicide folk could volunteer to become part of the show and let the band kill them graphically on stage.
I think I even had the disclaimer on the ticket that said something like, “By purchasing this ticket, you have agreed that if you ascend to the stage your life is forfeit.”

Anyway, turns out this band has supernatural powers and they hypnotize people to go up on stage and then kill them. I don’t know that I ever had a motivation for this except maybe sadistic thrill.

Three of the four progs are killed. The survivor barely escapes. He knows the secret of the band, and… the end. Huh?

bad asses with cigars

I Googled Devil’s Brigade and mostly it’s a 1960’s book and film about a brigade in WWII.

it's not television...

But it was also mentioned in an HBO documentary in the late 80’s, early 90’s called Asylum. In this documentary they talk about criminally insane killers. One included a lunatic who, convinced his girlfriend was trying to recruit him into something called – say it with me now – the Devil’s Brigade, strangled her. I’m guessing, since we had HBO at the time, that this is where I got the idea for my story.

bad asses without cigars

Finally, and more recently, Matt Freeman from Rancid formed a new punk group called… YES …. The Devil’s Brigade.

My 22-year-old genius is looking a lot like 22-year-old borderline plagiarism.

Still, I would like to read it again. I think I had some good stuff in there.

Update: I’ve now submitted three short stories (none rock-band horror) since I started my new wave of writing fervor a couple of weeks ago. Book is coming along, but I need to spend more time on it, shift the short-story/novel ratio a bit.

One of my biggest issues overcome in the last couple of days was figuring out where my protagonist will live… not the town, but the actual domicile. Found it. Love it. Fits perfectly. Moving forward.

Thanks for reading! Off to write.

Casey

The Lawn Can Wait

2011-06-12T20:17:00.000-07:00

The old man didn't hear his wife when she opened the front door, barely handling the two bags of groceries in her arms as she dipped inside and kicked the door shut, scuttling to the kitchen. She never let the clerks use plastic bags at the store because the straps cut into her hands. He didn't notice her as she put away the soup cans, milk carton, chicken breasts, eggs, rice and the rest. Even though he sat less than five feet from her at the kitchen table, his attention was fully drawn out the small kitchen window.

“George!” she finally yelled, which came out as a harsh screech like a child's cough. He didn't turn but grumbled and batted at the back of his head as if a fly were buzzing about. “You're being rude.”

“Lady, you need to shut your trap,” he grumbled, still looking out the window. “I saw you when you came in. What do you want me to do, get up and dance?”

“Not rude to me you troll. To our new neighbors.”

Now he did turn around and screw up his wrinkled old face at his wife of fifty-five and a half years. “Rude to them?” he threw his thumb behind him. “How am I being rude to them? I can't even see them good through this damn window. You ever going to clean this window, Lady?”

“Well I can see you from outside just fine, and I know they can too. Why don't you give them a chance to move in before you show them what a peep you are?”

George grunted at her and turned back to the window.

“Why'd Jim have to go first? Leave us to go and deal with a new neighbor. Jim was quiet, he took care of the place, and he left me alone! These two are young, Lady, too damn young. They'll have all-hours parties and play all-hours boogie music and leave trash in the driveway. I didn't work at the shop for thirty years to make our two-hundred and thirty-eight dollars and twenty-seven cents payment every single month like a German clock so some hippie could move in next door and turn this neighborhood into a junk yard.”

“George you're running red, fool. Stop it before you kill yourself.” Her voice still screeched like tires to pavement, but a bit of the aged concern and love showed in the tremor. “I'm sure they are very nice.”

George calmed with a couple of deepish breaths and turned back to the window.

“Better be taking good care of Jim's lawn.”

The neighbors didn't have wild parties or throw trash on their driveway or play boogie music late at night. They didn't have kids screaming down the street or a hot rod with a deep, rumbling engine. They were quiet and kept to themselves. In fact George rarely saw them as he stared out the kitchen window that his wife still hadn't cleaned.

Four weeks after they moved in, just after Christmas on an icy Saturday morning, George's wife found him very early in the morning, staring out the window, ignoring a chilled cup of coffee and the paper.

“George, for pity's sake,” she said. “Those poor people must think you're a lunatic.”

“Look at the lawn, Lady. Just look at it.”

His wife looked, peering into the scant morning light.

“What of it.”

“They haven't mowed it.”

“George, it's the middle of winter. How many times have you mowed our grass in the last month?”

“But it needed a trim when they moved in. They haven't touched it.”

“I swear to Pete,” she said, throwing up her arms and leaving him to his obsession.

In early spring, George's wife came home from a visit with the grandkids across town and found her husband pacing up and down the kitchen in his bedroom robe and slippers, her wax job gone dull in his wake. His head was down and he grumbled with each step.

“George, what's the matter? What's happened?”

He advanced on her pointing his fat, ancient finger.

“I told you, Lady. You said nay, but I told you.”

“What, George?”

“The lawn. Have you seen Jim's lawn?”

“I've seen it.”

“They haven't cut it once. Not once. It looks like hell.”

“George, you stay out of it, hear me?”

He held up three fingers and waved them back and forth.

“What's that?”

“Three days, Lady. Three days or I'm going over there to complain. I will not let them ruin this neighborhood, by God.”

“You leave those poor people alone, George.”

“Three days!” he yelled and stomped down the long hallway to their bedroom for a shower and shave.

The three days came and went and nobody mowed Jim's lawn. George, being held back for several months and three days, waited for his wife to leave the house and then dressed and marched across his perfect lawn, through Jim's neglected jungle and up to the front door of Jim's house. He knocked four perfect, sharp raps.

After several long moments, the door finally opened. A man stuck his head out. He was older than George had guessed, but still very young, probably in his early thirties. His dark hair lay matted against his head and his clothes hung wrinkled and sloppy on his thin body. But he smiled when he saw George and stuck out his hand.

“Hey neighbor,” he enthusiastically grabbed George's hand. “I'm Charlie Cochran. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Uh, yeah,” George said. “Same here. Name's George.”

“Nice to meet you George. What can I do you for?”

“Uh, well. Truth is, Charlie, I'm here to complain about Jim's lawn.”

“Oh,” Charlie looked around at the neighborhood. “Which one is Jim's lawn?”

George wasn't sure if Charlie was making fun.

“Jim's lawn is your lawn,” he said. “You're letting it go. You need to mow your lawn.”

“My name's Charlie.” Charlie let go of George's hand and subconsciously wiped his palm against his thigh.

“I know damn it! Jim is dead. This was his house. You aren't taking care of his lawn.” George's face was turning red again.

“Oh, I see,” Charlie lowered his head. “Well, I should go, George.”

“What about the lawn?”

Charlie looked up and smiled again.

“The lawn can wait,” he said and slammed the door.

George watched the neighbor’s lawn grow through the wet months and right into summer. He paced his house and yelled at the window. He complained daily to his wife who shushed him and told him to mind his own business. He even called the police one day, but they told him bad lawn care was not a crime.

As the hot months came on and the rains dried up for the year Jim’s lawn quickly died. By mid-summer it was nothing but long, dead grass and hard, cracked earth, and George felt as if he would go crazy if he didn’t confront the lazy bum next door.

One day in mid August, George walked across his perfect lawn and through what used to be a lawn and up to the front door at Jim’s house. Again he knocked hard and sharp and again after too long the door finally opened.

“Hello George,” Charlie said with a half smile. “What is it?” Charlie was dressed much as before and the house was dark inside.
George turned and presented the yard.

“This,” he said. “First you won’t cut the lawn. Now you just let it die? What the hell? This used to be a nice neighborhood. Now, thanks to you, mister, it looks like hell.”

“I gotta go, George.” Charlie sighed heavily. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah, give it some water. Turn on your sprinklers for God sake.”

“The lawn can wait,” Charlie said and again, slammed the door.

Four days later George woke early in the morning to a flashing red light. He rose from his bed, put on his robe, relieved himself and walked to the kitchen, where the light was strongest. He looked outside and saw an ambulance and fire truck outside Jim’s house. It was so much like the scene after Jim died, George thought for a moment he might be dreaming. But when he saw his neighbor walking out of his house, one hand on a white blanket covering someone lying on a gurney as two EMTs wheeled it toward the ambulance, he knew it was real.

Every instinct in George’s old and feeble mind told him to stay in his house, and when he reached for the front door he felt as if he was pushing against air as thick as water. As he walked across his perfect lawn and then across the barren wasteland of Jim’s old lawn his mind turned over, dizziness threatening to knock him down.

He reached his neighbor just as they were putting the body in the ambulance.

“Charlie,” he said, his voice cracked. Charlie turned and looked at him, a face covered with tears, eyes distant and lost.

“Charlie,” the old man said again. “Was that your wife?”

“Missy’s had cancer now for seven years,” Charlie finally said. “She’s fought it so hard. Almost had it once. Total remission. But there was a tumor they missed. Started as breast cancer you know. Did the whole mastectomy thing. Then, a year ago, out of the blue, she says she wants to move back here, to this town where she grew up and buy a house in the neighborhood where she used to play. Well, what’s a guy to do?” He shrugged, a fresh pour of tears spilling down his cheeks. “I quit my job, bought this place, moved four hundred miles and gave her a few months here, looking out her window.” He looked hard at the old man.
“Like you George.”

Charlie turned his back on George and started walking back towards Jim’s house.

“I’ll get on the lawn tomorrow, George.”

My cousin mentioned this story recently on Facebook, so I thought I'd post it next. He said his lawns haven't been so manicured since he read it. I take that as a huge compliment. Thanks Bill.

Thanks for reading. Off to write!

Casey

All Calmness

2011-06-11T11:40:00.001-07:00

All calmness on the waterfront

Not a breeze to urge a ripple

The willows have all they could want

to sun and drink just a little.

The dark, quiet lake whispers soft,

a soul singing of its living.

It sends its powerful force aloft

and rejoices in the giving.

But, the eagle knows, as it flies

painting the clouds above the lake

sees the form with its eagle eyes

leaving behind a loathsome wake.

In the deepest, of the water dwells

something that doesn't belong.

Where the lake is heavan, it is hell

and it sings the blackest song.

It soaks up all that's negative

and grows with each passing day

so that the lake, as it is, may live

until finally comes, the breaking day

when the shadow in waters deep

comes forth, full of sadness and grief

at once, too large for the soul to keep.

A beast in need of relief.

It rises from the water, black and cold

a spree of killing to release its pain.

A young demon...eternally old

and intent on destroying again and again.

Slowly, so slowly, the beast becomes small

every step and blow depletes its source,

until, at last, the dark shade falls

travelling on its fated course.

But even as the creature dies

the eagle sees a new something born,

tiny now in power and size

yet growing now with every scorn.

And the dark, quiet lake, whispers soft

a soul, singing of its living

It sends its powerful force aloft

and rejoices in the giving.

The young poet wrote this transparent analogy many years ago. While it works WAY too hard to keep the syllables just so, I think it still works and has something to say. More importantly, it hints at the style the young poet had already started creating at 20 years old.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Click Here For Pic Site

Commitment

2011-06-08T20:16:00.001-07:00

I have to give a nod right off to The Writing Show with Paula B. This podcast and its accompanying website have renewed my writing vigor, have brought the songs of creativity to the forefront of my mind and have all but forced me to recommit myself to my poetry, short-stories and novels.

Thank you Paula. Your show is fantastic. Any writer is better after listening to your Slush Pile Workshops.

I must also tip my hat (lock in the cliches writer boy) to JB Howick and his book "Blow Us Away", which is filled with insanely good advice about the publishing industry. I found out about Howick through Paula's podcast.

"What does this mean?" you ask, rightly so.

My commitment to myself: Write and submit a new short-story each week, write a blog post about my progress (you are in that now) each week and make some real progress on my current novel each week. Poetry as it comes.

My commitment to you: You'll see a newly posted poem and short-story on my blog each week, whether you like it or not.

Progress so far: I wrote and submitted a flash fiction piece to Everyday Fiction. I also put Green-Skinned Boy on the blog and did a fair amount of work on my novel. No poems... yet.

So far so good. Now all I need to do is repeat this every week for the rest of my life.

No problem. Wish me luck folks.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

The Green-Skinned Boy

2011-06-03T18:58:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a green-skinned baby, born in pain and joy to a purple-eyed mother and a silver-fisted father. The green-skinned baby lived deep in the darkest parts of the steel forest in the smallest cave of a dead mountain to the south.

The first week of his life, the green-skinned baby was happy, cuddling his mother’s bosom and staring into her purple eyes.

But their gold was white and it made the silver-fisted father sick and angry.
The silver-fisted father only spoke with his silver fist, and he talked loudest of all to the purple-eyed mother.

The purple-eyed mother spoke only with her purple eyes, and often the purple tears that flowed down her face.

And so time passed and the green-skinned baby became a green-skinned boy. There came a day when the green-skinned boy wanted to venture from the tiny cave in the dead mountain and see what wonders the steel forest might hold.

“Leave!” the silver-fisted father said with his silver fist, turning the boy’s skin black and blue. He gave his son a knife that would cut through stone.

“Leave,” the purple-eyed mother said with her purple tears, knowing he needed to go out and wander and find and learn. She gave her son a pair of fine gloves that would warm his hands on the coldest day.

And so he kissed his mother’s purple tears and walked into the world.

The first road the green-skinned boy found traveled to the east. He walked for three days into the rising sun and came to a red mountain. At the foot of the mountain slithered a snake, longer than the green-skinned boy was tall with scales as red as its mountain home.

The snake rose up and spread its hood, opened its mouth and shared its fangs, two daggers dripping with red poison.

“Who?” the snake hissed.

“I am the green-skinned boy,” said the green-skinned boy.

“Why?” the snake hissed.

“To wander and find and learn,” replied the green-skinned boy.

“Die,” hissed the snake. Just then the giant red snake struck as quick as lightning, and the green-skinned boy disappeared down the red snake’s throat.

But the green-skinned boy tasted foul to the red snake, so he spit him on the ground.

“You are green,” the red snake accused. “I only eat red. Go away or I’ll bite you in two and leave you to die.”

The green-skinned boy ran away fast and never looked back at the red mountain or the red snake. He had learned to fear.

The second road the green-skinned boy found traveled to the west. He walked for six days after the setting sun and came to a blue mountain. At the foot of the mountain a mad monkey marched back and forth, smaller than the green-skinned boy’s hand and as blue as its mountain home.

The monkey bounced towards the green-skinned boy, waved its arms and flipped about.

“Who?” squawked the monkey.

“I am the green-skinned boy,” said the green-skinned boy.

“Why?” the monkey asked with a taunting voice.

“To wander and find and learn,” replied the green-skinned boy.

“Cry,” squealed the mad blue monkey.

And the monkey then teased the green-skinned boy, telling him cruel jaunts and evil stories about how his purple-eyed mother had died a horrible death.

The green-skinned boy cried and kicked at the mad blue monkey.

“Go away,” the blue monkey said. “Or I’ll jump in your head and tease you till you’re dead, you ugly green-skinned boy.”

The green-skinned boy walked away, his head low, and never looked back at the blue mountain or the mad blue monkey. He had learned to hate.

The third road the green-skinned boy found traveled to the north. He walked for nine days into the cold and came to a white mountain. At the foot of the mountain a white tiger purred like a waterfall and dug at the ground with massive claws, its fur as white as its mountain home.

The tiger roared at the green-skinned boy, showing its teeth in its massive mouth.

“Who?” growled the tiger.

“I am the green-skinned boy,” said the green-skinned boy.

“Why?” the tiger asked.

“To wander and find and learn,” replied the green-skinned boy.

“You lie,” said the tiger, because the legend of the green-skinned boy was known only to the tiger.

The white tiger lunged at the green-skinned boy, who pulled out the knife of his silver-fisted father and buried it deep within the white tiger’s neck, spilling its blood across the land and staining its fur.

As the tiger died, the green-skinned boy cleaned his hands and put on the fine gloves of his purple-eyed mother. He turned and walked away, his head held high, and never looked back at the white mountain or the white tiger or the knife of his silver-fisted father.

He had learned to kill.

And so it was that a green-skinned man returned to the smallest cave of the dead mountain to the south. The purple-eyed mother stood at the cave’s mouth and took the green-skinned man into her arms and cried purple tears.

“What did you learn, my son?” the purple tears asked.

“I learned to fear. I learned to hate. I learned to kill,” said the green-skinned man.

“I knew you would learn those things,” the purple tears said. “I am ashamed.”

The purple-eyed mother held up the green-skinned man’s hands. She slowly peeled off the fine gloves. The green-skinned man’s hands had turned silver. He made them into fists and smiled.

“I have work to do,” said the silver-fisted man. He entered the cave, leaving her behind.

And the purple-eyed mother lived happily ever after.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Found the pic here: http://giggles20062011-canuseeit.buzznet.com/user/photos/purple-eyes/?id=3715378

Going Home

2011-05-17T16:55:00.001-07:00

An amazing sensation when a plane rises above a storm, lifts clear of the clouds and suddenly a fierce sun rises in a flawless blue sky.

Below roils a lake of white as big as the ocean, as if the surface of an endlessly churning sea.

There is no sensation of the incredible speed at which we travel, save the occasional shimmy as we cut through turbulent air.

The clouds break a bit as we ride higher on nothing, displaying a world scribbled across with... what... rivers, canyons, great crevices along the faulted world... or maybe just a simple trick of cloud shadow. Some are too straight to be anything but highway, yet it seems at eight miles in the sky a man made path would be impossible to see.

All gather here on this calculated risk, all age, all race, all occupation, all motivation and all of the seven dwarfs. The trip silently binds us, a contract to live or die together.

"Safer than driving," they say. They speak true, statistically. But nothing can change the reality that we hang up here with no net, pretending and drinking our mediocre coffee or brand-unknown vodka as if this is some sort of sadistic cafe with little tiny seats and tables for one-half.

Home. I travel home. I miss my love so much my chest aches as her images play across my mind's eye. I want to squeeze my children so tight they beg me to let go. A trip away once in a while is good for the sake of perspective, I think. The time abroad tends to focus my own existence. More than anything, it screams at me how lucky I am and how much I need to appreciate the love, the joy and the passion saturating me every day.

I have no complaints.

I have no regrets.

I have only fortune.

The plane begins to turn us earthward already on this short flight; just a jump across states. The storming sea of clouds has returned and rises up to meet us, to take us gently into its soft arms, welcome us back to our own world.

Touch down, and as one our anxieties vanish, lives slipping back into gear. We disembark, separate (although somehow still bonded in a summer camp sort of way) and seek out those we love.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Mysterious Blog Posts?

2011-04-20T21:59:00.001-07:00

A sunny day at Lake Britton
Lately these blog posts have been appearing on my iPad. At first I was understandably confused. I am, after all, the only one who uses Padrick (my name for my iPad.) It's my baby, my constant companion and my writing machine. And it has a password.

But, as I was saying, blog posts just started showing up.

Check this out:

"January 1st, 2011 - So, I missed another blasted year. I don't mean to complain, but if this is a joke, I just don't get it. I think I've been more than patient, but thirty-eight years is pushing even ME to my brink. I think I'll give it one more and then call it quits. CC"

"January 19th, 2011 - I tried that light flickering trick again, but no one even noticed this time. Well, that's not true I have to say. The youngest one, the little sweetie boy, looked up at the light. I think he might have had a feeling too. He smiled a little just at the corner of his mouth. I like to believe he felt me, anyway. That one has my smile and he doesn't even know it. CC"

"February 14th, 2011 - I miss him the most today. Good man. I wonder if we are supposed to be meeting up at some point. Funny thought... I could be decades late for a reunion and not even known it. Egads! He would be sore. Just this year sweetheart. Then we'll see. CC"

"March 3rd, 2011 - The sun doesn't seem to want to peek out this year. Just rain, rain, rain! It makes me tired. It makes it hard to hold on. Maybe it's time to go after all, my boy. Jokes over folks! I'll try to make it to your birthday, my boy. I always bring you a sunny day on your birthday, though you don't know it. Ha Ha! CC"

"March 18th, 2011 - Cold, clouds... rain... hail... wind... happy birthday Son. So sorry about the weather. I've been here watching you since you were five. And now it's time to go. I'm beat, and your daddy and I have a date. I love you. CC"

I guess she got tired of me not seeing the light flickering trick.

I love you too Mom. Give Dad a big hug for me.

Mama's Losin' It Prompted This

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Snipe! Snipe!

2011-04-17T21:05:00.001-07:00

This is an anything-can-happen kind of picture, don't you think?

Driving down the mountain today, through a cold, light, misty rain, it occurred to me that it would be difficult to take someone snipe hunting these days.

When I was a teen, living in a very small town in Northern California, snipe hunting was a rite of passage boys inflicted upon one another. I'm sure it varies from town to town and region to region. But for us, the snipe was a small bird that lived on Burney Mountain. One leg was shorter than the other, so the snipe was only able to travel around the mountain in one direction.

Burney Mountain was visible nearly every day of my childhood.

Which is why it could be caught.

The legend went something like this: If you go into the woods in the middle of the night and face west on the north side of the mountain (or something like that) you can lure the snipe into a bag with a flashlight, helped along by calling the bird's name over and over again.

Of course the plan is to get the initiate into the woods and leave them there alone for the night.

Sometimes the trick actually worked.

Try and do that today. The first thing victim does is go to Google or Wikipedia. Both give away the joke.

This leads me to think about writing contemporary novels in a world where technology changes dramatically every year. The novel I wrote six years ago has cell phones, but not smart phones. Tablets don't exist. Social networks and information sites aren't as wildly pervasive as they are today. Even texting is much less common. If I start submitting that story again, do I leave it as it is, or do I update it to fit the time?

Then I start thinking about stories that could be centered around a piece of technology. A mystery writer could create a plot with a Garmin in its middle. Nothing is known about a murder victim except the last ten locations saved in a Garmin. And the hunt is on!

Not brilliant, but there might be something there.

What about novels I'm outlining right now? If it takes me two years to write it, how much will have changed by then?

I suppose one must simply write in the time chosen, and not drive themselves crazy thinking about what may or may not change from "The End" to "The Agent".

Still, that Garmin idea might have merit. Feel free to steal. I don't write mysteries.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

In This Alone

2011-04-10T21:32:00.001-07:00

Please click the photo to meet the photographer!

Midnight sliver moon milky sky
And suddenly we wonder why

Morning solid stolid mountain
Painted deep by sunlight fountain

Twilight heady bruised purple air
Chilled and filled, awakened and bare

The growing tree the endless field
In this alone all is revealed

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Retro Heaven

2011-04-09T22:27:00.001-07:00

I played a lot of video games in the 80's. Well, I play a lot of video games now, I suppose.

But back then there were really only two outlets for my obsession. They were pizza parlors and the Atari 2600.

I spent literally thousands of dollars in rooms just like this, including several years' worth of lunch money

My friend Rob had an Atari 2600, so I sort of lived there. When we weren't playing Dungeons and Dragons, we were building calluses and creating blisters on poorly made joysticks.

see how the joystick is a little hexagon? that hurts after six hours

Anyway, I've been aching for some retro good times on my iPad. This past week, I got my wish in spades. Atari has finally jumped in to iPad euphoria with both feet with a single App that offers 99 original retro games.

The right foot holds perfect video recreations of the video arcade originals:

this is a screen shot of Tempest from my iPad
here we have Lunar Lander

and Missile Command, just to name a few

The left foot is full of original titles for the Atari 2600:

my BIL was the absolute best at Breakout

Combat had dozens of games in one

and Adventure was frustrating and wonderful

All in all, I'm in retro heaven.

I wonder if I can get Nintendo to do that with the Mario franchise?

that would be the ultimate

What have you purchased simply because it reminds you of your more formative years?

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

What is Fame and How Long is a Minute?

2011-04-06T23:00:00.001-07:00

this is where the magic happens

Before I became a dude at a bank, I had a previous life, a completely different life. I was an air talent... um, a DJ.

Over twelve years I chomped on several different stations, spoke over several different music genres and hit every time slot.

Redding's Rock 106X
I had the honor of starting the first rock station in our community. By starting, I literally turned down the volume of the Adult Contemporary station that was currently on that frequency and started Led Zeppelin's Rock and Roll. I still get goosebumps when I think of that moment.

mas tequila, Sammy, mas tequila
I met a lot of musicians and other semi-celebs... Sammy Hagar, Van Halen (without Sammy), Weird Al, Megadeth, the guy who played Jaws in the James Bond flicks, the woman who played the captain's daughter in Love Boat... odd I know, but you take 'em where you can get 'em.

I worked with some of the most interesting people on the planet. Seriously. Radio is filled with ultra-creative, media-mad, think junkies who love to get into a discussion about anything. That's why they do well on the air.

I took a limo ride to a Boston concert in Reno. I took a bus to a Stones/Pearl Jam concert at the Oakland Coliseum. Tool, Def Leppard, Eric Clapton, Fleetwood Mac, Willie Nelson, Foreigner, BOC... anyway, I saw a lot of concerts.

It was a great dozen years. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Was I famous? No. But I was known in our town. A bit anyway. We covered about 250,000 with our six stations' signals. Just the other day someone asked me if I was "that Casey Freeland from the radio". That felt good, to know that there was some lasting something in what I did for a listener to remember me ten years later.

But fame is something more, I think. Fame is when you break out of your pocket of the world (virtual or real) and are known by many cross-sections of humanity.

Jack is famous
I can't help but wonder, even when a person is obviously famous, if they feel that way. Is fame part of their own self-image? Is fame a thing to achieve, or is it something that comes on slowly when we aren't paying attention... like a sun tan? And to take that analogy one step further, if we don't protect ourselves as fame comes on, will it burn us and cause life-long damage?

Moot point for me... for most of us. But it's still interesting, even fun to think about how I might handle a little real, meaty fame.

Probably not well. But I could take it for fifteen minutes.

Mama's Losin' It Prompted This

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Of Domains and Dreams

2011-04-03T16:15:00.001-07:00

writerhead.com

So, one of my favorite bloggers, Kristin Bair O'Keeffe recently redid her blog design, name and direction. It's now writerhead.com. That name has a wonderful story behind it and I highly recommend you check it out if only to read about how the name was born.

Like me, I think, she decided to narrow her focus and create a blog that mirrors her passion for the written word, at the same time displaying her personality and writing style.

She also got herself the domain name writerhead.com. Admittedly I don't know what that entails. I guess you must pay some monthly fee to host your site somewhere and you have to register the name. But hats off to her for obtaining a simple, yet unique name that's easy to remember and even fun to say. Writer Head!

My obvious next step was to think about what it would take to register and host writteninblood.com. I typed the address into safari and this is what I found:

I know that's blurry. It says I can have the domain name for $6,000. What?

Um, never mind. I'm good. I could offer $5.00 and see what happens, but frankly a $6,000 asking price is going to keep me from even doing that much. Maybe next year. Maybe when I hit 1,000 followers or 10,000 hits a month, or win the lottery or something.

Or maybe when I get an agent. That'd do it.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

The House That Wrote Me

2011-03-29T21:36:00.001-07:00

my childhood home, or where it was...

Lying on my father's giant bed
Bare scrolled ceiling
Knots and tree rings
Sketch beasts and naked maidens

Under living shade
Air thick with pine pitch
Cool, concrete steps
Touch a wall with no door

Talking floors and whining walls
Ghosts of long past roam
Features with creatures
On the snowy television

Black body, red hourglass
Bulging bumbles buzzing
Arthropods under rocks
Aiming predatory tails

Exposed heater once burnt
Exposed wires once shocked
Exposed nail once impaled
And a long fall from the roof

First love for sister's friend
First misery of endless sick
First mourn of mother's passing
Woke fearful fantastic dreams

The magic house that made me
I could only write the fantasy
Dark with strange danger and dread
And creatures sketched above the bed

Mama's Losin' It Prompted This

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

So Real It Hurts

2011-03-26T18:09:00.001-07:00

I think the common denominator of great fiction is reality.

As I create this current novel, chock full of supernatural goodness, I'm always striving for reality. I don't mean the appearance of reality. I'm not talking about suspension of disbelief.

I'm talking about making strangeness so real that the reader (and even the author) thinks it may actually have happened in some inexplicable dimension.

I want my work to have that bright, stark, commonness of every day life.

One way authors do that, I think, is to pay attention to days like today.

Snapping photos doesn't hurt:

today is softball picture day

sister seems to be hiding and preoccupied

brother is here to support

this team is still getting acquainted

she... and they will be just fine.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Mother Haiku

2011-03-21T21:17:00.001-07:00

mother is angry

shattering with light and sound

then guilty she weeps

Casey

Fine Photos Found Here:
http://i1027.photobucket.com/albums/y332/bmzombiekittie/dark-clouds-sky-night-31000.jpg

http://www.layoutsparks.com/1/217438/night-thunder-storm-lightning.html

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/kCzb--TCQ3R6Gelo0NNliQ

He's a Polite Writer

2011-03-20T14:20:00.001-07:00

telling someone to be polite is a sure way to start a fight

He's a polite writer. What a horrible thing to say. I hope no one thinks of me that way. I'm a polite person. But when it comes to writing, calling me polite would be a serious slap in the face.

A polite writer:

Writes with nearly everyone in mind.

Is afraid of the social implications of their stories.

Is afraid of hurting someone's feelings.

Is afraid of pissing someone off.

Changes the story to please.

Changes the story to placate.

Changes the story to sell.

Doesn't write with their own style.

Doesn't listen to their muse.

Doesn't enjoy the craft.

I would rather be known as an unsuccessful writer than sell polite novels.

Of course selling some impolite novels would be cool.

Excessively cool.

Come here Chapter 2. You are my bitch today.

Cheers,

Casey

Ancient Birthday Secrets Revealed!

2011-03-16T19:51:00.001-07:00

at work my awesome team gave me balloons, wine, chocolate coins, a card and 43 one-dollar bills

I frankly don't get the way people understate their own birthdays. I fully appreciate and respect that celebrating the day you were born is not acceptable within certain religions. But for the rest of you I say, "Sing it!"

Seriously, how many birthdays do you think you get? In the grand scheme of things, in all the days you live in your life, it is a pittance. (Nerdly speaking it's very close to .27% of your life, depending on what day of the year you meet your maker in relation to the day you were born... uh, sorry.)

Here now are my top ten ways you can make more of your birthday, thereby living a more fulfilling life:

1) On your birthday, hum the Happy Birthday Song loudly as you brush your teeth and then again as you walk into work. This is an obvious clue to those around you, but one you can pass off as just feeling really good about the day.

2) Make the entire month in which you were born your birthday month. Hold on to that birthday feeling. I'm not saying you should receive gifts every day of the month. No, that would be too much to expect. Though if it did happen one year, that would be something, wouldn't it? Just one time would be cool. Just once...

3) Use Post-Its, a lot, during the week leading up to your special day. Try to get five to ten in each day. The two rules are that the note has to have the word birthday in it and that you have to stick it where someone else will see it.

4) When anyone around you starts talking about a sports celebrity of any kind, say, "At least they don't have to blow out a bunch of candles in a few days."

5) A couple of days before your big event, make a show of "discovering" which famous folk were born on your birthday, even though we all figured this out when we were nineteen. Announce it somewhere public, loudly and with wide-eyed fascination.

6) This one takes some planning. Put together your birthday present list. Then send it to everyone in your contacts (clients, boss, boss' boss, subordinates, relatives, competition, etc.) But write it so it looks like a reply to your significant other after they asked what you want for your birthday. The hard part here is acting like it was a mistake. A follow up e-mail "apologizing" might help with the lie.

7) Look for opportunities to talk about your favorite kind of cake and how many days before you get to enjoy it. If you are one of those pie people, I can't help you.

8) On the big day, tell strangers it's your birthday. This can feel awkward at first, but after you've done it a few dozen times, there's nothing to it. Opportunities exist at the grocery store, in line at the bank, at stop lights and any time someone calls your work phone. Sample Text: "Hello, ACME Incorporated, this is Mary and it's my birthday. How can I help you?"

9) Spend some time at a Hallmark shop during busy shopping hours opening up those audio birthday cards. Every time a new song starts - "You Say It's Your Birthday" by the Beatles is a good one - laugh out loud and say, "That is so ME!"

10) Finally, write a blog about birthdays. It always works for me.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Wasting Maslow No Mas

2011-03-13T23:16:00.001-07:00

Maslow and Pavlov used to date, I think.. drooling all over their basic needs

In a moment, in an afternoon, we can be drawn down from the height of Maslow's Pyramid to the very bottom.

I have a water cooler in my kitchen. Clean, delicious spring water is available all the time, both very hot and very cold. What if I was suddenly unable to say when I might get my next drink of water, any water?

I have a pantry, a fridge and freezer with various foodstuffs in them, and a grocery store less than a minute's drive from my front door. What if the ocean swept over my stores of food and the food store as well and left nothing behind?

What if it was cold and there was no gas heat available?

What if I hadn't closed my eyes for days and had no idea when my opportunity for sleep would come.

No safety, no security, no assurances... everything gone.

If I remember my college psychology correctly, Maslow says that we cannot move up the pyramid if the lower levels are not satisfied. Without taking care of our most basic needs, we cannot have a close personal relationship, realize any feeling of accomplishment or achieve any higher level of realization. I believe this to be true.

How many survivors of this week's tragedy will be stuck at the bottom of Maslow's hierarchy for weeks, months or even years?

I feel not a small amount of shame tonight that I haven't appreciated more the gifts I have been given in my life.

They could all be gone tomorrow.

I have spent too much of the last three or so years complaining how hard things have been, whining that the level of life awesomeness has dropped significantly and bemoaning the increased stress I've had to suffer.

What a waste.

So here's the plan: While I'm able to float in the upper levels of Maslow's theory, I am going to take advantage of it. Today I have food, shelter, health, safety, love and security. Tomorrow I cannot say.

If I am thrown back down, as so many have been instantly and tragically tossed this week, I want to say I took full advantage of top of the pyramid while I was given the opportunity to bounce around up there.

For me, more than anything else, that means writing.

What higher endeavors are on your priority list?

Cheers,

Casey

I need a novel in 17 days. I'll give you $100,000!

2011-03-09T20:23:00.001-08:00

faster, faster, faster
A friend of mine asked me to write her a novel... or rather a novel for her to read. She was about to head out to Mexico with her husband and wanted something to read on the beach while big man slept.

She did not, of course, offer me $100,000 to do this. But wouldn't it be cool if she did?

My first though is, "I'm working on a novel right now, so maybe I'll be done with it by the time they board their plane."

My next thought is, "I wonder when they are going on vacation?"

17 days.

That's funny right? I mean it's so ridiculous to think that someone could write a novel in 17 days, let alone a book that would be at least halfway round the readable corner.

But then I thought about it.

What if a stranger walked up to me today and told me they wanted to hire me to write a novel. They'd give me 17 days to get it done. It would have to be 75,000 words or better and tell a real, complete, reasonably edited story.

Let's see... I already have a couple of different story ideas pretty well plotted out. I even have a project that has a pretty decent word count on it already.

But we'll pretend I haven't yet written a word.

Here's how my brain drills this down:

1) 17 days = 408 hours total to get it done.

2) I should shoot for 6 hours of sleep each day. So subtract 102 hours.

3) Need 2 hours a day for eating, showering and other... so subtract 34 hours.

4) That gives me 272 hours of possible writing time.

5) I'll need to take maybe 1/3 of that up in plotting, sketching, freakily fast editing, etc.

6) That leaves me with just about 180 hours to get it done on the keyboard.

7) I can type 75 wpm, but when I'm composing it's more like 30.

8) There are 10,800 minutes in 180 hours.

9) That gives me the potential to write 324,000 words. I'm in the black almost 250,000 words!

So it's possible! I'd have to burn up all my vacation time, alienate my kids, ignore my wife and probably gain 20 pounds eating crap, but it is actually possible to pound out 75,000 words in 17 days.

Compensation?

That's the real question, isn't it?

I'd be risking my job, so it'd have to be good. I might not have any form of support afterwards.

$100,000? Oh, yes please. For that much, I'd get a hotel room to stay in while I wrote.

$50,000? Yep. Still with the hotel room.

$25,000? Um, that's pretty good. If I knew I'd still have a job when I got back, I'd take this sum as well. If not, then not.

Any less than that and I'd have to seriously consider it. At that point I'd have to look at the back-end and see if there was any benefit for me there... maybe build a fan base... maybe catch the eye of a reputable agent.

Now here's the trick. I need to put myself in that frame of mind, that frantic must-get-it-done zone and stay that way... ALL THE TIME.

Sorry for the capitals.

What would put you in that state?

Thanks for reading, off to write... urgently!

Cheers,

Casey

The Really, Really, Very Cool Epic - Book XVII

2011-03-08T20:15:00.001-08:00

I was scrolling through the latest audiobook offerings from audible.com today and it occurred to me that several of the novels I encountered were automatically off my list of possibles.

Strangely the brick wall had nothing to do with style, subject, genre or author.

The single negative aspect of these books was the number next to the title.

It's not that I have anything against a book series. It's just that they have become more and more ubiquitous over time. And unless you get in on the ground floor with book one, you will have a lot of catching up to do. If I want to purchase a free-standing novel, enjoy the story and move on, I should have that option.

blew my twelve-year old mind

Series are nothing new, I suppose. My first series was Lord of the Rings. My second Shannara. Then came Clan of the Cave Bear, Xanth, Dune, Pern, Kushiel, Foundation and Elric. I love them all.

my first experience with the future

Odd is responsible for my love of Koontz

King is a twisted, twisted master

Later I discovered Ender, Dark Tower, Wheel of Time, Odd Thomas, Worthing, Warbreaker, G.R.R. Martin and more. Right now I'm digging the future of Peter F. Hamilton. (Phew!) I even read the first two "Dead" books from Harris... um, but if you ask me about that later, I will deny it vehemently. Do yourself a large favor and just watch True Blood.

vampire porn at its best

For my 9-year old son, it's Diary of a Whimpy Kid. For my 11-year old daughter, it's 39 Clues.

yes, they like to read

My point is I'm open to a decent series of stories. When done well a long series can provide a much deeper story experience.

But my other point is that those single shots - Jonathan Franzen's Freedom is a good recent read - have become more rare.

this one pretty much blew my mind... so good

So what's a writer to do?

Do we write with a series in mind?

Do we formulate a story that can extend itself, that has the legs to become six books, or fourteen, or twenty-six (referencing Sue Grafton's alphabet books there.)

I'm a genre high-concept writer, where the series like to live. I'm not a literary writer.

The easy answer is, "Stay true to yourself." Ugh... that's not advice, that's a dismissal.

What do you read? More series or more stand-alones? What would you like to see more of?

I'll probably just keep writing whatever comes to mind and hoping it's a successful creation.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Sundays in My City

2011-03-06T12:31:00.001-08:00

Check out Unknown Mami and the Original Sundays in My City

In my home, Sundays are all about sleeping in, catching up on certain shows:

...and enjoying a late, late breakfast.

I make the weekend breakfasts. It was that way with my dad all my childhood and now it's my gig. Who is here for breakfast depends on the spend-the-night situations on Saturday. This morning was my daughter and her bestest.

First for a little boost:

this is what we use to store the less glamorous coffee I bought at the grocery

I tried to decide how many coffee makers I've had in my life. The only answer I could come up with is A LOT! Here's our latest. It's a work horse.

I lifted this mug from one of my sisters about 6 or 7 years ago. I will never return it.

Now it's time to make some breakfast. Sometimes I ask the kids what they would like. This morning was simple. Bacon and Pancakes. No egg or potato courses. No sweat.

So I turn this:

Into this:

And this:

Into this:

And this:

And finally this:

Which turns this:

Into this:

And now that the bellies are full and happy. It's time to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Don't Make Big Decisions When You're Tired

2011-03-05T14:46:00.001-08:00

(don't talk to daddy right now)

When I get tired, I get emotional. I know that's totally not a guy thing to say. But it's true.

My love will attest to it. In fact, she takes on the role of my protector when my exhaustion puts me in this most irrational state. She keeps me safe, talks me down and generally helps me let go of whatever I am over thinking.

I love her.

But she was not, unfortunately, looking over my shoulder when I started to consider my 200th Blog Post.

Did I mention this is the 200th time I've posted on this blog?

(show me the money)

Over three years, through three name changes and presented under three titles, this blog has become a part of my writing life. I like how it has evolved. I like my readers, my content and my theme. I'm in a good place blogwise.

So, what should I do with my 200th Blog Post?

I decided to go back and read through some past blogs, sort of center myself and remember what the heck I had been doing for the past 1,000 days.

Remember what I said up there about being tired? Well, a couple of days ago I was beyond tired. Wednesday I woke up at 5am, drove for a total of about 8 hours, attended and spoke at a beautiful memorial for my brother-in-law, got home at 7:30 and prepared for an all day meeting the following day. Thursday was that all day meeting an hour away from home.

By Thursday night I was beyond done.

That was probably not a good time to go back and read old blog posts.

For some reason that escapes me now, I decided I didn't like the content of my earlier posts. I vaguely remember thinking they were too personal, too work related or too poorly written. I felt a panic settling in my gut that people might go back and read these things.

So I started deleting.

And deleting.

And deleting.

Like an OCD patient washing his hands, I couldn't seem to get my blog clean.

(out out damn spot)

By the time I was done, by the time I was able to halt the butchering, I had removed almost 125 blog posts.

I know.

I didn't archive them. I deleted them forever.

I know.

I feel as if I've suffered a self-inflicted wound.

And while this is the 200th time I've posted on this blog, I can no longer say this is my 200th blog post. That milestone is now probably two years away.

Plenty of time to plan a better post than this!

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

You can access that first photo from the artist known as Hidlight here: http://hidlight.deviantart.com/art/tired-man-164012217

His View

2011-02-27T21:15:00.001-08:00

this is his view

Stones rolling

Waves humming

Salty breeze caressing

Sun blossoms across the uneven waters

The boats stroll in leisure across the horizon

Ghostly islands hang across the azure sky

Bare feet in thick grass along the patio

A sweating glass of ice and spirit

Subtle sound, voices of peace and joy

His view

Always and ever more

His view

We will cherish it for you now

Dear man

As long as our hearts can bear it

Are the Bots Taking Over?

2011-02-23T22:41:00.001-08:00

Is it just me or is social networking, in fact, being overrun by bots? I hope it's just me, but I fear the truth is more of the internet version of War of the Worlds or Invasion of the Body Snatchers or maybe even Predator.

Here's the problem: We are all communicating with each other without actually seeing each other. I saw an episode of George Lopez yesterday where the boy Max is chatting with a girl from Chicago (I'm pretty sure this episode was to promote a doomed sister sitcom.) George and the father of the Chicago girl are convinced that each kid on the other side is a sick pervert pretending to be a kid. Of course there's no pervy happening anywhere except in the fathers' minds. Having a father's mind, I know how they feel.

The point is it doesn't take much more than the luke-warm imagination of a sitcom writer to come up with this scenario.* Folks with less moral stamina, more greed and maybe a bit more time on their hands (no kids?) have used the ever expanding AI processing power at their disposal to create the bots.

First there were the spambots. These sweet little nuggets spread E-mails across the globe with such staggering numbers that some of the original spam E-mails sent a dozen years ago are still bouncing around the internet today. The first spam E-mails were relatively harmless I think, like snail mail chain letters threatening bad luck and general malaise if ten of your bestest buddies didn't get a copy. But then the links settled in, the shadow websites, the requests for account numbers... kaboom, you've got an industry.

Twitter has its Tweetbots. You might be a computer-driven tweeter if: 1) Your profile picture is a nice looking young woman or a kindly grandma type. 2) You are obsessed (almost mechanically) on one subject, which is often a product or a promise of masterful Twitter marketing. 3) You have somewhere between 5,000 and 200,000 followers. 4) You tend to follow me when I say keywords like iPad or MartinSheen in my human tweets.

The idea here is that tweeters earn money (somehow) for having more followers. The irony of this idea is that the more followers one has (unless you are celeb) the fewer the dedicated readers... and the more bots. It's like we used to own the house, but now we hang out in the bedroom closet (at least it's still a walk-in) and the rest of the house is occupied by bots who talk to each other constantly. Because they talk to each other constantly, the owners of the bots get checks every month. Someone has decided to call this marketing.

And now the blog-bots have landed. There's a Twitter (grandma pic) person known as ezyhelper. She/it posted a story about autoblogging for money. In this scenario there is a company that will set up your site, design your blog, get the right keywords and stuff to get you on the right search engines and then they'll even send you content. You literally don't have to do anything except probably send them some money upfront. And then you get money.

Hmm... where have I heard that one before? Oh yeah, it was in a spam E-mail I got in 1996 that asked me to send money to a kindly foreigner so he might get his million dollars into the states. In return for my consideration I get 10% of the million. What a deal!

By the way, ezyhelper has 165,000 Twitter followers and is following 171,000 people... well, not people. Mostly other bots.

You seeing the insanity here? We're setting up a network of computers who blog and tweet other computers and someone is making money off it. And in the process the wonderful world of social networking is being overrun. It's like the housing bubble.

It kinda pisses me off.

All that said, I'm going to keep following the people I follow, having the friends I have and reading the blogs I read. The real people. I hope they're real. You're real, aren't you?

Even if you're not, you have a terrific profile pic!

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

* I'd cut off my toe for a sitcom writer job.

In My Arms

2011-02-21T01:20:00.001-08:00

In my arms

You are safe.

Rest

On my shoulder.

Your fingers

Hold my arms

Holding you.

I was given

Long, strong, massive arms.

They lift and swing.

They push and pull.

They are sure and fast.

But all else they do

Is just coincidence.

Because they were built

Only to keep you safe.

And hold you close.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

So, so so so

2011-02-19T10:15:00.001-08:00

So, so so so

It's off the edge I go

Pounding my drum as I drop

Fall much more and I'll wind up on top

My, my my my

If I flap these wings I fly

I scream and all the birds laugh

Their easy disdain going to cut me in half

Do, do do do

You have to go there too

One of us should stay behind

And I love you too much to let you find

Sigh, sigh sigh sigh

Feeling good, don't know why

Don't pull the plug before I arrive

I'm looking down and getting ready to dive

So, so so so...

Casey

Note: After reading some of your excellent replies regarding poetry analysis, I've decided to leave off a title to this one save the first line. Interpret how you will.

Second Note: The cliff in this picture I took is about a mile from where my mom went off a cliff in her car and was killed 38 years ago. So to me it's more than just an interesting rock.

I'm Guesting, I'm Guesting! :)

2011-02-15T07:03:00.000-08:00

Quick Programming Note:

I am honored that one of my bestest and longest online friends and a superb writer, Diana Brandmeyer, let me guest on her blog!

Diana and I have been friends since Prodigy as part of a small group of people (still in contact) known as the Aspiring Writers Club. That puts us dangerously close to two decades of friendship!

Anyway, she asked if I'd like to talk about one of my favorite subjects. How could I refuse?

Cheers,

Casey

Embracing the Dark Side

2011-02-12T10:18:00.001-08:00

(picture taken, coincidentally, from gethurt.com)

I believe most of us react first and then try to explain later why we did what we did, both to ourselves and possibly to others. We’re instinctual creatures. At least I am. I’ll try and resist the urge to speak for everyone.

For me, this is absolutely true in my writing.

When I’m “thinking” about what fiction to write, I don’t sit down and say, “So I want to focus my audience’s attention towards poverty in the U.S. I need to create a story that will accomplish that.” Instead I think of what characters I’d like to animate, settings I would paint around them and situations I think would be original and rewarding to write... and hopefully to read. I often see opportunities within the story to say something I consider important, but that is coincidence… or serendipity.

When I’m “thinking” about a poem to write, I normally don’t start by thinking of a structure, meter or form I want to use. I usually start with an emotion or visual image, write the first line and then build from there, letting that first line inspire the rest of it. I only hope to bring it to some interesting, inspiring or maybe even profound conclusion that will work as a sort of catalyst for emotion or thought in the reader. It always baffled me in school when we would try to deduce what the author meant in her poetry. Good luck with that. If I’m any indication, the author herself probably didn’t know what she meant.

My writing is a scavenger hunt through the free-association junk pile that is my brain.

Same with this blog and this post as a matter of fact.

Witness: I was driving to work this morning, listening to an audio book and thinking about my responsibility as a writer. My catalyst was Stephanie Meyer’s novel The Host. The Host was released in 2008, three years after the Twilight franchise kicked off. Unlike Twilight, this one is for adults rather than young adults, whatever the hell that means.

It’s a good story overall - although some call it slow - and to me has that shiny sparkle of a first novel rather than a third or fourth. It felt more raw, less polished and less commercial.

The problem I have with the book is a recurring and maddening theme I read a lot in romantic tales. The female in the story - in this case the narrator - is horribly physically abused by a man. Even more confusing to me is that women novelists seem more prone to include this in their work.

With this novel, Stephanie has her main character suffer brutal attacks from two men. As you may have already guessed, she eventually she falls in love with both and they sort of live happily ever. Another character actually tries to kill her and they become friends and play soccer together. The writer justifies this within the story, of course, and does a fairly decent job of it. But it doesn’t change what has happened.

This makes me angry and confused. I find myself mentally asking Stephanie why she would put this out there for any of her gazillion girl fans to read. In my mind she is basically telling them that if they hold out long enough, the guy who is beating the crap out of them might have a change of heart and become all gentle and caring and protective of the skin he was bruising just days earlier. Or maybe a guy reads it and he decides that girls like that kind of treatment and considers giving in to his more violent tendencies.

As with my own writing, I don’t think she thought about it. I think she started with a situation, populated it with characters that excited her and just started creating. She says on her web page that the idea for Twilight came from a dream (which may be where all fiction is conceived.)

And what if today I got her on the phone and asked her why she did it? If she was defending the story, in that writer’s crouch to which we have all resorted, I think the reasons she would give me would be the coherent, logical and thoughtful self-assessments she entertained long after her muse had sang its last notes and gone back into hibernation. That’s what we do.

That's what I do.

I have written some pretty DeanKoontzy, StephenKingy stuff. My work often includes the darkest parts of the humanity. What’s my responsibility there? I can’t possibly think clearly enough to edit myself as I go. If I did try, what I wrote would be total crap anyway. I have to follow my muse, be possessed by the demon and feel that otherworldly excitement of virtually channeling a story out of the ether and onto my computer screen.

I have to.

So how can I possibly be such a hypocrite and criticize what Stephanie has done in The Host?

I really can’t, not with any gusto anyway.

I guess my muse has no thoughtful conclusion for me on this post, no advice, no help really for the keepers of the pen. Except that we’re all largely slaves to our human condition, instincts, prejudices and failings. We are also blessed with our capacity for love, empathy, grace and sacrifice.

And isn’t that conflict what makes a great story?

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

Logic Escapes Me

2011-02-08T16:43:00.001-08:00

Fact: All bloggers are writers, but not all writers are bloggers.

I think that’s a true statement. I follow maybe three dozen blogs and I can say with some certainty that all of them would be considered writers by nearly any definition.

hmmm… definition…

Oh look! Here several are now from Dictionary.com:

–noun

1) A person engaged in writing books, articles, stories, etc., especially as an occupation or profession; an author or journalist. (It says especially, not absolutely, so even if you don’t do it for a living, I think it still qualifies.)

2) A clerk, scribe, or the like. (“or the like” - I need to use that in a novel, I think.)

3) A person who commits his or her thoughts, ideas, etc., to writing. (Hello BLOGGER!)

4) (In a piece of writing) the author (used as a circumlocution for “I,” “me,” “my,” etc.): The writer wishes to state…. (Really? Did this warrant a definition number all by itself? Talk about yourself in the third person and all of a sudden you are creating dictionary definitions. Please. This is a subcategory of #1 at best.)

5) A person who writes or is able to write. (That’s the nut of it right there. If you write, you are a writer.)

There are some terrible writers out there that some talented writers would argue should be restricted from using the term. This is mostly subjective. Who am I to judge? Judge not lest ye… well, you know. If you don’t have a basic grasp of spelling, grammar and sentence structure, I may not read what you write. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t write it. Yeah, I’m a hippy at heart. It’s all goooood, man.

Anyway, I’m going to go ahead and assume that all bloggers are writers. So why don’t all writers blog? As my lady (screenwriter) told me last night, “It just seems like play time.” And she’s right. It’s a way to stretch our writer muscles, know what we put down will be read by at least a couple of people, possibly get some accolades about what we’ve written and maybe even notch up our skill set. That’s a win/win/win/win as far as I’m concerned.

Here, Mr. Letterman, are the top five reasons a writer is not also a blogger:

1) Too Busy… finishing their best-selling novel… again.

2) Nose in the Air…and unwilling to give away the milk until someone buys the damn cow.

3) Bad Fit…because they write tech manuals for HP Printers or in secret spy code.

4) Lazy…or playing with the Wii sounds like a lot more fun.

5) Scared…and Velma forgot to bring the Scooby Snacks.

If you would even begin to call yourself a writer, and you haven’t yet tried this blogging thing, I strongly recommend you give it a shot. Don’t even post at first if you’re out of canine courage crackers. Just do some free-writing and see what comes out. Maybe you’ll post your fifth or sixth attempt. It’s easy, it’s fun and (gasp) you might just get recognition from a total stranger.

Course I’m preaching to the choir, aren’t I? And that brings me to another fact. All blog writers are blog readers, but not all blog readers are blog writers.

Most are though.

Thanks for reading, off to write!

Cheers,

Casey

P.S. – canine courage crackers…that’s pretty good. I love it when those writer muscles come out. All alliterations are poetic, but not all poems contain... oh never mind.

Luna's Night

2011-02-06T02:44:00.001-08:00

The moon she shines so clear tonight

So large, lustfully bright

Reflecting back through our own eyes

Takes breath through our own sighs

We hear, each look to her in turn

From our own night we yearn

Our minds leap forward, dance across

Before the silver’s lost

As all restraint and fear departs

We show our sinful hearts

We tell our story to this gem

In sweet embrace of whim

She gives, this sphere, to us tonight

Sweet song she sings her sights

Of all the souls she’s held in sway

Before there starts the day

And then the fleeting dance is done

There comes too soon the sun

And we recall with sad delight

Thus gone is Luna’s night

Casey Freeland 2011

New Blog Name, Design and Direction

2011-02-05T14:17:00.001-08:00

My blog has evolved (or devolved) several times over the years and I've enjoyed each incarnation. I've reached the point where I feel it is time to put Naked Toes to rest and move forward.

Welcome to Written in Blood, a place to talk about this work I do, the books I read, the writers I admire and the virtually endless barrage of realities that seem specifically created to keep me from my keyboard.

I'm a writer in nearly every sense of the word...

I was first published in the fourth grade. (Thank you Mrs. Barnes.)
I've written several hundred poems,
dozens of short-stories,
several novels,
a screenplay.
I wrote daily radio copy for nearly twelve years
and I've written financial narratives for the last nine years.
I'm approaching 200 blog posts here.

Braggish? Yeah, I guess. However I think I'll leave it to help hit this home. Written in Blood may not turn you on. If not, that's cool, but at least I told you up front.

Writing is my most defining personal aspect, keeper of most of my personal pride, source of much of my personal frustration and object of possibly too much of my personal obsession.

If it suits you, stick around and see what I mean.

And as always, thanks for reading.

Cheers,

Casey

P.S. - Not that this was the reason for the design change, but this blog now reads beautifully on Padrick.

My Review(?) of Slaughterhouse Five

2011-01-22T21:53:00.001-08:00

Let me begin by saying that before last week I had not read a single word written by Kurt Vonnegut. This is strange considering how much I love science fiction, time travel and well written prose.

But after I completed reading the horrible "novel that must not be named", I was desperately browsing iBooks for something decent and came across Slaughterhouse Five. It's a short novel, maybe 250 pages, published in 1969, which means as it was being created at the typewriter of Mr. V, I was being created in the womb of Mrs. F. That seems about right.

I ate this novel like the last pastry at a big-boned convention. The structure and style were simple without being mundane. The story wove almost chaotically, yet purposefully about through time and place.

While I was fairly positive I knew the sci-fi portion of the story - time travel and aliens - was all supposed to be in the head of the main character, one Billy Pilgrim, there left a slight shadow of doubt, just enough to want to discover the truth.

I think I knew I was in a good, safe place when he used the word flibbertigibbet. And yes, that is a real word. So is golliwog. Beowulf be damned.

Now for some short observations: (If you have not read this book and plan to, you might want to stop now, although I am going to avoid the main theme, the Dresden bombing during WWII.)

ODD ALIENS (is that an oxymoron?)
There's something consistently weird regarding the aliens written about in the 60's and 70's, something absurd. Asimov does it. Clarke, Niven, Pohl, Harrison. Actually I have no idea, but it is my impression from my vague, porous memory that as I read these novelists years ago they did what Kurt did.

Check out this description: "...they were two feet high, and green, and shaped like plumber’s friends. Their suction cups were on the ground, and their shafts, which were extremely flexible, usually pointed to the sky. At the top of each shaft was a little hand with a green eye in its palm." No purpose, no function, no design. Just look at what's in the corner of Vonnegut's apartment and turn that into an alien.

And these creatures speak (telepathically of course) as if they are instructors at a university, or maybe a dorm mate, or a know-it-all neighbor. Like this: "If I hadn’t spent so much time studying Earthlings,” said the Tralfamadorian, “I wouldn’t have any idea what was meant by ‘free will.’ I’ve visited thirty-one inhabited planets in the universe, and I have studied reports on one hundred more. Only on Earth is there any talk of free will." Would a completely alien species evolving on another planet really talk like this? No, it would not.

AND SO IT GOES
After every mention of someone or some animal dying would come the sentence "And so it goes." I suppose this is a commentary about the inevitability and unpredictability of our own demise. I suppose. The effect of this though is one of comfort. The repetition, though morbid, soothed me and I was glad each time I read it. I wonder if that was his intention.

LASER GUNS?
Written in 1969, the book predicts in one sentence that we'd be using laser rifles by 1976. Is that what Kurt actually thought or was he supporting the insanity of the character. Eight years seems like an awfully short period of time to develop death rays. But by 2,000 we were all supposed to be riding around strapped to our own personal jet packs, so I guess it's not that out of this world.

RONALD REAGAN?
At one point Billy sees a bumper sticker that says, "Reagan for President!", twelve years before Reagan became president. He was California's governor in 1969, but isn't that fairly prophetic of him? I wonder if the popularity of this novel helped Reagan get elected.

LITERATURE'S DEMISE...
Fifty years ago (in the story) a group was gathered to discuss whether or not the novel was a dead medium. That's reassuring because people get together now (mostly online) and have those conversations. Couldn't kill it in 50 years, maybe it'll never go away.

POPULATION EXPLOSION?
According to this novel, in the 60's the (fictional?) Population Reference Bureau predicted that the world's population would double to seven billion by the year 2,000. According to my online search we were at 6.06 billion at that point. Does that mean our world population growth velocity has slowed a bit? I can't help but hope.

All in all, I loved this book and despite getting to the party extremely late, I'm so glad I showed up. Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle is next, I think.

Cheers,

Casey

Way More than Four Seasons

2011-01-17T14:27:00.001-08:00

In my home we have our seasons.

Spring Season kicks off with my birthday, which is usually four days before the vernal equinox. It’s easy to imagine that this is a good time of year for me personally. It also really heralds the beginning of the golf season, so it’s a win-win. By the way, it never, ever rains on my birthday. Ever.

Play Season usually really gets rolling around May. This is when our family begins the fairly regular migrations to the Shakespearean Festival in Ashland, Oregon. It’s a two-hour drive and the performances are spectacular, the town beautiful. My love and I have seen works from NY to San Francisco and Ashland ranks at the top.

Camping Season starts as soon as the children are out of school. I’m not much of a camper, but my lady likes to take the little ones to the coast at least a couple of times a year. This season also kicks off with my love’s birthday in June.

Back to School Season hits at the beginning of August. This is when we realize that summer cannot, in fact, go on forever and we start preparing our minds, home, schedules and wallets for educational mode. Our family’s school shopping is usually a very lucrative experience…for Target.

Kids Birthday Season is September. Three of our four children were born in September, so each year we have to figure out how to get them trinkets after just shelling out bucks for school clothes and supplies. Somehow, it always comes together.

That brings us to Halloween Season. This begins with me putting orange and purple lights on our house the first day of October and ends with the big Trick or Treat. In our home Halloween runs a very close second behind Christmas as being our family favorite holiday.

Holiday Season is next, of course, beginning in early November to include Turkey Day and Christmas, and ending with our (now traditional) New Year’s Eve celebration with the kids and their cousins, drinking Martinelli’s apple cider and seeing which kid falls asleep first. The final cap on the holidays is always my oldest's birthday January 4th. (sigh) It’s all about family visits, baking, presents, over-eating, hugs, loves and pajamas.

And finally, we come to the season we are in today. This is Awards Show Season, which begins with the People’s Choice Awards, which is a terrible show we only watch because it officially starts things off. Then there’s Critics Choice, Golden Globes, Independent Spirit and the granddaddy of them all, Academy Awards. We watch them all faithfully. It’s like a party at our house each time. In addition there is a scramble every year by my love to see all the movies that have been nominated and many that are not. It’s not at all uncommon for her to see three or four movies in any given week. Last night was Black Swan (superb). A few days ago were The Fighter (good) and Country Strong (not good). Last week was Season of the Witch (surprisingly good). Tonight we’ll see Tron with the kids. Sunday it’ll probably be True Grit. Social Network needs to be put in there somewhere before it leaves the cheap movies theater. Then there’s Red, King’s Speech, Burlesque and I’d also like to see Dawn Treader on the big screen.

It’s a good season, a great transition through the deepest of the winter months. And even though I get a little “movied-out” by the end of it, I’m always happy when it comes around again.

See you at the movies!*

Casey

*Totally thiefed that from Roger Ebert. Roger’s awesome. He understands.

The Resolutes!

2011-01-01T13:06:00.001-08:00

Faster than a speeding justification for bad behavior. Able to leap to self-destructive conclusions in a single round of drinks. They're absurd. They're lame! They're the Resolutes!

Hearing New Year's Resolutions from someone else is a little like them telling me all the details of one of their dreams: a complete lack of perspective. Unless the person is very close to me the dreams (and the resolutions) cannot possibly be fully understood or given the proper amount of empathy.

I can pretend, of course. I can say the right words, type the correct responses, wish the resolutes well.

I might even quote a little Ben Franklin:

"Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man. "

or try to be cute and go the Oscar Wilde route:

"Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account."

The options are fairly endless.

But it all leaves me feeling false.

So, this year, I'm coming at it a little differently.

First, I'm not going to list my resolutions for all the world to see. They are mine. And I really don't think you want to hear about them anyway.

You're welcome.

Second, I wish you all the best in your 2011! If I don't reply directly to your resolution blog post/Facebook update/Tweet, etc. it's because I don't want to be false. But I really do wish you well.

Hmm... I guess this post is sort of a resolution in itself. I just told you all something I'm doing differently this year.

Kind of a paradox.

Sorry about that.

Cheers,

Casey

P.S. - Let's kick some ass this year, shall we?

Sundays in My City

2010-12-26T16:50:00.001-08:00

Christmas Eve was foggy but clear.

Christmas Day was wet. But it was Christmas Day, so what the hey?

This is today. No holiday. Just December 26th, a Sunday in my city, and a lot of rain in my backyard.

Cheers,

Casey

Eskimo Hill

2010-12-12T18:04:00.001-08:00

Eskimo Hill sits on one side of Mount Lassen, about an hour from our home and at about 5,500 feet from sea level. I've gone there since I was maybe six or seven. I'm 42 now and taking my kids there with their friends.

In the picture above, my girl is on the left and my boy is on the right (lying on his back) and the three sibling buddies are in the middle.

It was a good day. There were lots of smiles:

Every single one of them sustained a bruise on their backside or frontside:

It's really a great way to start the Winter season:

They all got soaking wet by the end of the day, but we had back-up warmies in the car:

And they will sleep well tonight:

How do you share your childhood with your child?

P.S. - Thanks very much to Rebecca at Life with Kaishon She's a master photographer of people and I totally did this post in her style.

Laugh Tracks and Fish Sticks

2010-12-11T09:35:00.001-08:00

I'm what one (one being me) might term an expert in children's television. I admit it. I'm a fan.

It began a long time ago. I watched kid shows with my children in the early 90's when Nickelodeon was really starting to hit its first national stride. We'd laugh to You Can't Do That on Television reruns and the All That kid answer to SNL. We cheers for the kid contestants in Guts. The cartoons were awesome, being Doug, Rugrats, Ren and Stempy and later Rocko's Modern Life. (This is, by the way, when Saturday morning cartoons died, for which I will always grieve.)

We also watched TGIF on ABC fairly religiously, thank you Miller/Boyet. The families of Full House, Step by Step and Family Matters were a part of our weekend kick-off. We also giggled to the "odd-couple" relationship in Perfect Strangers, the sly antics in Boy Meets World and the magical fun in Sabrina, the Teenage Witch. Anybody remember Teen Angel? Yeah, me neither.

Maybe it was the fact that my wife worked nights at a restaurant that made these Friday's so memorable. It was just me and the (then) two kids. It was fish sticks night with BBQ potato chips. It was good, cozy fun. I loved it.

Anyway, flash forward to my second brood of children and I'm doing it all over again.

I've watched Josh get disturbingly thin on Drake and Josh. He gained it back a little and then got thin again, but at least now he doesn't look like a heroin addict. Come to think of it, I remember when Drake and Josh were on the Amanda Show. And to add a third generation to the line, I watched their Drake and Josh little sister, Megan, find her own show in iCarly.

By the way, Jack Black was on a recent episode of iCarly. He sang and everything. It was awesome. In it they reprised a bunch of characters from previous Nickelodeon shows and for me and my kids it was like a frikkin' class reunion.

I loved seeing Victoria Justice get her own show recently, Victorious. My daughter and I decided (quite wisely) that she would have her own show soon because she kept popping up in Nick's interstitial promos. She used to be on Zoey 101. (Zoey was played by Britney Spears little sister until she got pregnant and they cancelled the show.) They threw Victoria on an episode of iCarly a couple of years ago, just to keep her going I think. She was a boxer in that episode.

I watched Zach and Cody's Suite Life inexplicably get on a cruise ship and change its name to Zach and Cody on Deck. On that show, London Tipton is the daughter of a hotel mogul. Ha! London Tipton = Parison Hilton. And London is stupid in a caricature-like way. It's awesome.

There's more, of course. Spongebob (love this guy), Sonny with a chance, Wizards of Waverly Place, Phinneus and Ferb... I'm starting to bore myself with all these names, so I know it's not good for you.

The point is, through my children I have been a regular watcher of children's programming now for twenty years.

It's part of who we are and how we share. My wife doesn't watch any of them. She hates most of them, save maybe Spongebob. So it's just me and the kids. Maybe that's why I love them so much. It's OUR memory. It's just for us. Even though the shows can be lame, aren't teaching any more than the most basic lessons in life and are mostly riddled with mind-piercing laugh tracks, they're still our shows. My older kids will still talk fondly of that time we had together.

I guess it doesn't matter what you share with your kids.

It just matters that you do.

Cheers,

Casey

(I lifted that picture from here http://theretronickelodeon.webs.com. If you go there you can reminisce about the good ol' days of Nick.)

It's a Weakness

2010-11-18T19:42:00.001-08:00

I was thinking today about the fact that Apple just released the Beatles entire library of music on iTunes. My first thought was COOL! My second thought was cool. My last thought was, "Hey, I already have all their CD's and any music I want on my iPod/iPad is already there."

So, why would I buy them again?

Just to say I did? Just to put another $13 in Steve's pocket? Just to...

I can't really think of a reason.

And yet I'm still tempted. Abbey Road has a little documentary on it, which would be cool to watch, I suppose. Making of the album cover or something like that. Who's going to go barefoot? Paul is dead. Number 9, Number 9, Number 9...

I think I'm crossing up my albums now. Sorry about that.

The funnier part of this is I'm not even that huge of a Beatles fan. I like the Beatles. But if it weren't for my love's influence and her massive fan-ness of the band I don't know that I ever would have owned a Beatles album.

And here I am thinking about spending my hard-earned credit card balance on a Beatles album I already have.

I think I need to distract myself and order some Ratt, Poison or Twisted Sister... all the stuff I thought was bitchin' when I was seventeen.

Yes, if you haven't yet figured this out, I am an impulse buyer. Grocery stores love me and put stuff next to me in the checkout line. Best Buy is about 10 seconds from my job and sometimes, after a hard day at work, when I get in my truck and see that big blue and yellow sign, I just want to go walk around amongst all that impulsey goodness. (If someone gave me $100,000 to spend in Best Buy, I could do it.) I love to browse the App store even though my dear Padrick carries around plenty of fun already.

It's a weakness. Any of you suffer from it?

If not, tell me about your greatest weakness... that you can talk about in public. :)

Cheers,

Casey

Recess is over!

2010-11-15T21:44:00.001-08:00

So, how's it goin?

After 65 days on the virtual lamb I have decided to plug in again.

You might wonder what I accomplished during my respite. It would be more remarkable to talk about what I didn't do.

I didn't write a book.

I did not start up the exercise regimen.

In fact, I did not quit any bad habits or start any good ones.

I did not grow in any discernibly spiritual way.

Isn't that remarkable?

All kidding aside, it was a nice break and if nothing else I feel more focused. I'm looking forward to the next ten months of social network immersion.

So, seriously, how's it goin?

Cheers,

Casey

Breakin'

2010-09-11T16:37:00.001-07:00

One year and several dozen blog posts ago I took a week's worth of vacation from social networking. "Remember that?" asks Chris Farley. The week then turned in to two months and I was gone until just before Thanksgiving in November.

I didn't remember two months. That seems like a long time.

But my enthusiasm when I returned was inspiring.

My appreciation of this online world was rich.

My reset button had definitely been pushed.

I wonder if I could do that today. I have my iPad now and Padrick keeps me very, very connected. Blogshelf, Twitter for Ipad, Flipboard, etc. are at least a good percentage of what I do on my new, fabulous machine. I have more facebook friends to read about, follow about twice as many blogs and have now established a solid group of tweople who I like to read on a regular basis.

I have to say a break sounds appealing though.

And a little scary.

It's the scary that has made me decide to do it. If I feel I need it, it's time to unplug for a bit.

Work on my writing.

Play with my kids.

Hold my love.

Hold her some more.

So, my readers, it's time to go.

Talk to you around Turkey Time.

Cheers,

Casey

End?

2010-08-29T18:09:00.001-07:00

It's not the end of the world.

As children we hear that from our parents.

As parents we tell it to our children.

As humans we try to say it to ourselves.

Everywhere I look I see financial failings: families that lose their homes, their vehicles, their livelihoods.

And so I fear. There is no real financial security. What if that happens to me? What if I lose my job and can't find another? What if some unforeseen expense overwhelms our ability to pay? Our home, our vehicles, our lifestyle could vanish. What if, what if, what if?

But what if all that did happen?

So what?

I would still have my love and my kids.

They would all still have me.

Libraries have free books.

The park is free to enjoy.

Internet is free all over town.

All the stuff in this house is either replaceable or storable in some relative's garage. (My brother has a really really big basement.)

It would quite literally not be the end of the world.

So being afraid is a waste of energy, a waste of time, and takes me away from the people I love.

How dumb is that?

Mid-year resolution = Don't Be Afraid

Cheers,

Casey

Others

2010-08-24T12:35:00.001-07:00

Should so many blogs be so devoted to talking about the blogger? That question has popped up a couple of times over the last couple of days. It's worth considering.

Consider the power some bloggers possess. A captive audience seeks out a popular blog, puts it in their regular feed, reads every word, comments almost every single time and then waits excitedly for the e-mail reply. What, in those five hundred words or so, can be said to be worth that kind of devotion?

Kinship is a possibility. Maybe to read and relate to a stranger, someone far removed from one's own life, is enough of a thrill to keep doing it again and again, day after day, with dozens of different individuals.

Some voyeurism is almost definite. In the illusion of anonymity on the internet, a reader can look into someone's life, peek in the window and see all the blogger's faults, all their failings, all the real weaknesses that aren't discussed verbally amongst the "real" people of the world. And perhaps feel better about themselves?

Blogs are entertaining certainly. In the reality show mentality of the day, maybe this is just another way of getting the fix that can be so readily found on the television or in People Magazine. This drug is more personal. With this dose, the reader gets a response from the star, something not available in most other media formats.

Growth is a sort of cop out answer, isn't it? Has a reader really become more than he or she was before the blog was discovered, before the thousand words or so a week were consumed? Maybe, but probably not.

Consider the power. Consider what could be accomplished if more bloggers stopped focusing on themselves and started focusing on the world. Maybe nothing could be accomplished. Maybe no change would come.

Maybe, just maybe, then the power would be lost. No one would read it.

It could be that precarious, that ethereal and that temporary.

Just something to think about.

Cheers

(in honor of the focus of this blog, no personal reference)

GOLF*

2010-08-16T21:12:00.001-07:00

* You know why they call if golf, don't you? Because all the other four letter words were taken.

With that title I'm sure to bring 'em in. I think about 25% of my readers maybe know of a game called golf and less than half of those actually play it.

But, without heaping on the golf terminology too much, something happened this weekend that I believe applies to life in general and it just coincidentally occurred on a golf course.

Right...

Well, as "they" say, on with the show.

So, big tournament this weekend. PGA Championship. Worth years and years of recognition and admission to other tournaments. (Golf people, notice how I didn't say exemptions?) Worth lots of money. Worth public and patriotic admiration from your country, wherever that may be. (Germany)

After four days, it came down to the last couple of holes and three players. Two of those players ended their 18th hole at 11 under par. That's pretty good.

If the guy behind them got a par, he would win the tourney. If he got a bogey, well, he'd have to play against those other two over three more holes to see who was the grand pooba of professional golf. Like overtime or extra innings right?

On the 18th hole, the first shot was lousy, off to the right. Second shot recovered well out of a horrible, dirty, sandy area that had been trampled by spectators all weekend. Three more shots and in the hole. Bogey. Crap, he'd have to play against those other two guys.

One would think.

Except that's not what happened.

Turned out the place where he landed his first shot was a bunker. True it was a crappy bunker that had been mistreated over four days and contained no rakes. But it was still considered a bunker.

If you touch the sand with your club in a bunker before your swing... you know, to pick your nose or swat at a gnat or something, you get a two-stroke penalty.

He touched the sand... barely. He didn't know it was a bunker. His caddie didn't know it was a bunker. The announcers didn't know it was a bunker. The thousands of fans surrounding him, unbelievingly standing IN the bunker didn't know it was a bunker.

But the rules official did. And after our player finished the hole, standing on the green, shaking hands with his opponent, thinking for a brief moment his chances were still alive for the big prize, looking forward to duking it out on those extra innings, that's when the official approached him and said there was a problem.

The two-stroke penalty stood.

He got a 7 for that final hole instead of a 5 and was out of the tournament.

There's the spirit of the rule and the letter of the law. Golf always traditionally goes with the letter. That's just how the game is played. Go by the rules, or get gutted, no matter what the creators intended. Most don't think it's right, but most also agree that is how it is.

It's as if we are all in pain, but resigned to live through it collectively.

In this litigious world I think we could all use a sharp does of the spirit of the rules, the common sense of the moment. Congratulations to the winner, a nice gentleman from Germany who I've never heard of before. He played very well and I'm sorry, but I can't remember his name.

But this weekend will be remembered for wrong that was done to Dustin Johnson. It will be something talked about historically in golf for decades to come.

I hope he gets his chance for the big prize again someday. That would help. Even if he lost. It would help.

Cheers,

Casey

(P.S. - Sorry this is so long. I haven't written for a while and my fingers are anxious.)

I got that photos off the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune and CBS News web sites, but they're literally available all OVER the internet. Poor guy.

Garage

2010-08-07T19:42:00.001-07:00

So I wanted to do something while my love was on the coast with the kids. It needed to be something that took all day, that she would appreciate and that I had the skill to accomplish.

I decided to clean the garage. As you can see in this first photo, the garage is a wreck. Not only can you not park a car in there, but you can hardly walk through it all. Piles of stuff everywhere. The long bench on the right is unusable. So I dug in.

I have a pretty simple method when it comes to cleaning. Take everything out. Throw away what you can. Put everything back. This is after the first hour. I've made a lot of progress. The lawn is covered with stuff. A neighbor AND the Schwann man both asked me if I was having a yard sale.

This is a pretty good place to be. After about 2 1/2 hours. The garage is basically empty. The bench has been cleared. I've thrown a LOT of stuff away and I can see how it's all going to go back together... Mostly. That TV in front there? That weighs about 9,000 pounds.

This is an hour or so later. I think all in all it took four hours. My whole body hurts, but it in a good way. I'm going to cook me up some steak as a personal reward. And my love will be so happy when she gets home tomorrow.

Best part about this project?

It's now an actual garage... you know, for a car. And it won't be destroyed again for another six months.

Cheers,

Casey

Blogher

2010-07-28T19:50:00.001-07:00

I should be happy for my female blog counterparts and their upcoming excursion to Blogher 2010.

That would be the gentleman's way to feel.

I should be Mr. Jolly Good and Cheerio and Look at You!

I should.

But I'm really not.

The six-year old boy inside me keeps yelling, "But what about meeeeee?"

Someone should do a Wedding Crashersesque/Some Like it Hot treatment about a bunch of guys who infiltrate the Blogher world to, well, get with the women.

I'm very excited about the accomplishments of those women who I've met through blogging, those who I almost feel like I know. Some of them have done spectacular things this year with their blog and are being recognized for their brilliance.

But being happy for those folks and being disappointed at the nagging feeling that I didn't get invited to Marsha's seventh birthday party with the pony and balloons are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

I have to ask why? Why is it that women can make such a strong connection through their blogs that they have the desire and the DRIVE to all get together in one place for recognition, hugs and frivolity? How does that happen? Is it really just one massive support group or is there something else going on here? I guess it's something missing in the man genome. I guess I'm jealous about that.

I'm aware that writing a blog is not a manly thing to do. I believe, myself included, that most guys who decide to blog are fully in touch with their sensitive side. (For all I know there are hundreds of thousands of macho-man blogs on the dark side of the internet talking about pumping up and gettin' with the laydees.) But you would think that there are enough of us out there to at least attempt a blogman or bloghim weekend... maybe in Vegas. (See, I'm still a guy.) But I don't think we have the numbers or the motivation. I know we don't... or we would. Hell I probably wouldn't even go.

As I write this I picture replies from women, condescending comments that include words like "hon" and "sweetie".* I don't think any of my readers would, but that's what I picture, which is a good indication of my own insecurities. But really, a whole bunch of "you can't really ever understand, hon, because you're a man."

Where am I going with this?

It's a personal psychosis. I hate being left out of anything. And yet it's a challenge for my love to talk me into doing anything. She wants to get out there, to do stuff, go to the lake, go to the movies, go anywhere and do anything. She is a perfect Blogher candidate, save she doesn't blog. And the thing is, she's almost always right. When she can get my train moving, I'm so happy to have gone. Is that a guy failure, or just mine? Probably just mine.

Anyway, I'm happy for you all. I hope you come back with a million inside jokes I will never get... because you just had to be there.

Casey

* Why do convenience store clerks always call me "hon" and "sweetie"? I only have one sweetie and she sleeps in my bed, so knock it off. It's a psychological trick of attempted superiority, I think, and it really pisses me off.

Padrick

2010-07-27T21:59:00.001-07:00

Hey Padrick

Hey...

What's wrong?

Nuthin'

Seriously, what is it? I thought it'd be fun to have a conversation with you on my blog and you're kinda bringing me down a little.

Sorry...

So, what is it?

Well... I'm a little pissed at you.

Me? Why? I had a nice contest to give you a cool name. I did some genius editing and came up with a picture of you. I spend hours every day with you.

The middle one.

What, the picture? I thought it was nice.

Did ya?

What is wrong with the f'in picture!

You put that f'n piece of glass over my belly-button!

So?

I liked my belly-button. I liked to stick my hand in there. It felt weird and cool.

Oh... I'm sorry.

S'okay I guess.

.......

Hey, listen, you know that's a touch screen, right?

Yeah, so...

Well, give it a shot. See how it feels.

.......

Ooh, this is nice. Really nice. Oooooh...

Um, Padrick?

........

Oh, that home button is amaaaazing!

Padrick...

You can go away now... and turn off that light on your way out...

........

Mmmmmmmmm....

Quick Question - Appreciate Your Help

2010-07-26T17:34:00.001-07:00

When you comment on a blog, do you prefer and why:

1) An e-mail response from the blogger about your comment.
2) A response just to you, but within the other comments on the post.
3) A comment on the post that includes responses to you and other commenters.
4) Not to receive a response at all.
5) To receive a response, but the format isn't important.

I would appreciate your input. I usually reply within comments on the post, but it has occurred to me that if you aren't following the comments, you'll never see my response.

Thanks in advance for the help.

Casey

(Took that pic on the beach a few years ago.)

Named

2010-07-24T19:37:00.001-07:00

I recently held a contest on Facebook. I'm not a big contest guy, although sometimes I'll partake, if the mood strikes me and the candle light is just right.

So, here's how it happened:

I wanted to have a name for my iPad. My kids named my Garmin Gary a couple of years ago. Yes, Gary the Garmin. They thought this was fun and ironic since Gary had a sultry female voice. "Arriving at destination, on right." sounded like she was reaching some sort of destination herself.

Anywhoozle, I thought it would be proper to also give my iPad a name.

After some internal conversation* I came up with iVan. I thought it was cute. Nobody, except Marcy - thank you Marcy - agreed with me.

So I thought I'd have a little contest. I invited anybody over a week to submit their name suggestions. I offered a $20 Starbucks card to the one chosen and also stated that my children would do the choosing.

The results were awesome. Some of my faves were Mortimer, Hal and Skinny Mike. Also on the list were Viktor, Paco and iDad. When the time was up I chose a dozen, gave the list to my children and let them decide.

And the winner is:

Isn't he cute?

My Sister made the suggestion, but it was a blind contest so the kids didn't know they were voting for their Auntie Audie's coffee fix.

I'm sure I'm breaking all kinds of rules by using this Nickelodeon character in such a way. But it is a parody, so I figure if SNL can do it and make money, why can't I do it for my own amusement.

If I don't get arrested by the mind police, it'll be me and Padrick from now on.

Cheers,

Casey

* Internal conversations rarely go well for me. I can never convince myself to do what I want to do. Instead I always give in and do what I want to do. It's maddening. Literally.

Drifting

2010-07-22T23:38:00.001-07:00

The anchors were strong
but not for long
The Storm
ripped one away
early in the voyage
And the drift began

Years later
a second Squall pulled the other down

Drifting

Ever

Since

But your sails are strong
to pull this ship along

Thank you, Dear One

Dreams

2010-07-20T07:40:00.000-07:00

My wife dreams in exceptional detail. I find myself envying her talent for total recall of colors, conversations, clothing and the characters of her night visions. But I shouldn't be surprised. Do you know that she still remembers what she wore on most holidays, vacations, dates and family outings? How is that possible? I don't remember what I wore yesterday. Well, I do, but not the day before that.

Back to her dreams. Sometimes, home for lunch or after work, my love will tell me her dreams. And while it can be difficult to listen to another's mind trips, with her it's different. With her I honestly believe if I listen close enough I'll hear an idea for another poem or story. And sometimes I do.

I think I often don't sleep long enough to have truly involved dreams. It's not uncommon for me to only manage 3 or 4 hours in any given night. And I think this is bad for me. It affects my overall mood, my ability to think, my motivation and my reactions to stressful situations.

Last night I got seven hours. And I dreamed. It was lovely. A traveling dream. I don't have the terabytes of memory she does, but I did wake with a strong impression of where I was, some of the people I interacted with and my mode of transportation (a silver bike that seemed to absorb every bump in the road and propel itself when I didn't feel like pedaling.)

And I had my iPad with me. At one point in the dream I was disoriented and trying to head north, back home. I was in a very small town, all in light browns, lined by a boardwalk populated by old, kindly folk. And another person had lost his way. I pulled out my iPad and fired up Google Earth and it zoomed in on the town. We two travelers went opposite ways and he tipped his hat as he left.

I think I need to sleep more. That's my plan. Seven or more hours every night this week.

Do you sleep much? Do you remember your dreams? Do you think you know why you dream?

Cheers,

Casey

Retire?

2010-07-11T17:00:00.001-07:00

I've spent a lot of time recently thinking about what a Casey Freeland retirement is going to look like.

I think among my regular readers and commenters the financial spectrum is probably covered. Some of you are fairly set and close to or in your retirement years, and some of you are selling appliances to make rent and retirement is a word you have heard and you are aware that billionaires and movie stars do this thing.

I'm somewhere in the middle. I have a mysterious malady called a 401K, but I'd have to put my entire salary in it for the next twenty years to make it a viable retirement option.

In short, there is no plan, there is no reassurance, there is no date, no age and most certainly no golden f'in watch.

Maybe this should bother me more than it does.

All the investment firm commercials talk about retirement like it should be a done deal, as if we could make a phone call to them and somehow suddenly have a couple million at age 55 or so. I realize they are trying to sell me on their services, but it all seems so uncertain save for a very, very few.

If I started at 18, sure. I'm smart enough to understand the financial impact of compounding interest.

But I didn't. Most don't I think.

Most of us spend most of what we make.

Most of us don't plan.

Most of us are way too busy living life and learning as we go.

And usually by the time we have the wisdom to save a little, it's too late to save enough.

So, what does my retirement look like? Barring a best-seller or smashing Lotto ticket, it looks a lot like my life right now with more grey hair and back problems.

Which is pretty cool, come to think.

What are your plans?

Casey

Hotel

2010-07-08T22:41:00.001-07:00

I feel like every time I come over to Crescent City I write the same blog post.

You know, appreciate my family, wish I was home, like driving by myself, love my wife, want to hug my kids, blah blah blah.

So let's try something different.

When you are away from home and by yourself:

What's on the radio on the road? I've gone through stages for sure. NPR, scanning for local stations, my own iPod music etc. But for the last couple of years it's been audiobooks and nothing else. I belong to audible.com now and get a new book every month for $15. I have a bumper sticker that says, "Shhhh, I'm listening to a book."

What kind of crap do you eat? Do you go to a restaurant? My love has no trouble at all spending the evening by herself at a busy restaurant. I'm not made that way. I usually buy some frozen garbage I can nuke in the hotel microwave that will make my tummy ache for the rest of the night.

What kind of TV do you watch? Channel 45 for me here, which is, surprise, the golf channel. I usually just put it on and forget about it. Take the silence out of the room.

Keep drapes open or closed? I'm always on the 2nd or 3rd floor so I usually just leave them open. When my love and I are out, we close the heavy drapes so we can sleep until fifteen minutes before checkout.

Enjoy the Continental Breakfast? They suck. I can't stand them. There's no meat, save maybe a hard-boiled egg. I almost always will skip this little fake feature of so many hotels and inns these days. I'm not a big breakfast guy anyway, so I'm usually just fine with a mocha from Starbucks or some such.

We all have our own little travel habits and preferences.

What are yours?

Leap

2010-07-05T15:41:00.001-07:00

How does a child get the courage to leap?

Mostly I think it's when they see another child's bravery.

So, yes, if Chloe and Lucas jump off a cliff, Lily will too.

Cheers,

Casey

Holes

2010-07-03T14:27:00.001-07:00

I made some bacon in the oven this morning. At 42 years old, I just learned that sweet little technique from my sister a couple of weeks ago. No stove mess. Bacon is more uniform. Delish.

But I can't help but wonder why it took me so long to know this little fact.

It never came up.

Then I think of the holes in knowledge we all carry around with us, an errant word definition or pronunciation, mistaken geographic data or mismatched historical timeline.

For example, when I was just about done with the 4th grade my teachers all got the big idea it would be good to send me and five of my fellow future 5th graders to the 6th grade school. This other school had only 6th graders. So we would go to all their classes, spend our recesses and lunches with them and other than attending the year-end environmental camp essentially act as 6th graders.

At the time, I thought of it as a compliment to my intelligence, almost like I was being moved ahead a grade.

But it didn't play out like that. Not for me, anyway.

Here's what happened:

1) I was completely unprepared for the 6th grade curriculum. This was especially damaging in mathematics. In fact, I became convinced I wasn't a math guy. This carried through 8th grade. It wasn't until my 9th grade teacher showed some faith in me that I realized I was excellent at math. I even went on to a couple semesters of Calculus in college.

2) I didn't learn my capitals. You know in fifth grade when you learn all the states' capitals? I didn't do that. Most people probably forget this by their teens, but still.

3) I was suddenly the target of every bully. I was thin and fairly weak back in the day and I was scared because I had no friends in the grade above me. I was easy to pick on and those guys gravitated towards me like flies on cow pies. This, unfortunately, continued through maybe the 10th grade, when the muscle fairy finally decided to stop by and say hello. Plus the grade above me basically lost interest. They were seniors by then, after all.

4) The following year, when I was reintroduced to my class, I was a nervous stranger. They all had a year of memories and because I was so socially backwards in the first place, getting back into the crowd, getting comfortable with my peers, took many, many moons.

5) The following year, I got to do 6th grade poorly all over again. I still didn't know all those things I didn't know and I had no way to reclaim any of it.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah, holes in our knowledge. I guess it boils down to holes in our experiences, which lead to holes in our knowledge.

I love the life I have and the people I am so fortunate to have in it. But I can't help but wonder sometimes how fundamentally different I would be, how different my personality, my confidence, my diligence, my simple intelligence would be if I had spent 5th grade with 5th graders.

Then I think that maybe I would have not become a writer, may have not turned to what is essentially a self-taught endeavor, may have been a sports guy or something, and I'm all finished feeling sorry for myself.

End of whine...

Casey

So I know this girl...

2010-07-01T18:31:00.000-07:00

I have a handful of those I consider blog buddies in the cyber village and Suzy is one of them. She is one seriously funny chick and not afraid to say EXACTLY what she thinks.

She was kind enough to put me on the sidebar of her site for the month of July.

So if you don't yet follow Suzy, hop on over and check her out.

Cheers,

Casey

P.S. - Regarding my sidebar pic, guess how I got the letters in the mirror to face forward. Did not use any 'puter tricks.

You've Got Talent... or not.

2010-06-27T00:15:00.001-07:00

This guy seemed perfectly happy within his talent. He'd never be famous, never make a lot of money. But he could carve those little totems like nobody's business.

I think I can write well. People tell me that I write well. Although it's pretty much all people who care about me on one level or another, so who knows?

What I do know is that I've got most of the crunchy grammar stuff down and that I can construct a reasonable sentence. But what about style? I can't really read my own writing and define my own style. That's like trying to feel the texture of the road from inside your car. You can only get an impression, not the reality of it.

Here's the thing. Most of those people who audition for American Idol believe they have talent. Their mom or dad or sister tells them how wonderful they are, how much POTENTIAL they have and that they should never let anyone tell them not to pursue their dreams. But many, MANY of them have no more ability to sing than I do. And I have none.

So is it better to let them pursue their dreams, live in the fantasy, the impossible fantasy that they will ever get close to that goal of becoming an American Idol? Or is that just cruel? Because someone is going to tell them they suck, eventually. Wouldn't it be better if it was done gently by someone who loves them?

Also, what about the predators? What about the talent agencies who are happy to take money for some glossies and promises? Our world is full of instructors and schools who purport to teach drawing, writing, acting, etc. to absolutely anyone for a price. What if blind support drives a loved one into the arms of one of these... vultures?

There are more Salieri (Salierii?) in this world than Mozarts. That's too kind really because Salieri was actually supposedly a very talented man. He was just no Mozart. I'm talking about those without the real natural talent who strive to achieve something their whole lives, but never really get there.

It's paralyzing.

Then I think about those Salieri folk who make it big anyway. They are out there certainly in every art. Writers with best-selling novels who are in love with passive voice, artists who sell their paintings for thousands because some guy said they were the latest and greatest, pop stars with pretty faces and voices strained ruthlessly through electronic magic.

I start to believe that fame and talent have nothing to do with each other. Or much less than one would guess. Fame might actually be mostly determination and stamina, self-delusion and dumb luck.

So where does that leave me?

Writing for my own personal pleasure, as always.

Hoping faintly that someday my words will be more than they are now.

Being content with all the spectacular things in my life and whatever happens with my writing, happens.

That's about the size of it.

Cheers,

Casey

Writing Novels and Irrational Lust

2010-06-21T21:17:00.001-07:00

When a writer begins a new project, it's a new relationship. It's intense, sexual, fresh and exciting. And new project can do no wrong. The writer is completely infatuated with the story line, the characters, the setting, the dialect, the best friend of the second cousin of the main character's neighbor.

It's so good.

The trick, of course, is to turn that infatuation into a long-term love affair. The magic is when you can continue the adoration when those mental pheromones wear off.

Well, I have met my new novel and it's lust at first site.

One of the secrets to keeping it fresh is to keep it secret.

So I'm going to bore you with progress and possibly stories of when and where I write. But the book is mine until the first draft is done... about 90 days from now.

Wish me luck!

Casey

Dead Until Dark

2010-06-19T17:37:00.001-07:00

I don't do many book reviews, but I find myself with a desire to make a couple if observations about Dead Until Dark by Charlaine Harris.

#1 - Time to start watching True Blood. Some know this, but the Sookie Stackhouse series of books by Harris is the basis for the successful HBO series True Blood. I checked and Netflix does not offer them on instant watch, but season 1 and 2 are available to rent, which we can and will do.

#2 - I don't want to get to far into this because, well, bigger brains than what I got knocking around in my head have certainly already gone as far as possible. But really, Sookie was first written about in 2001 while Twilight appeared in print several years later. And the commonalities are really hard to ignore. I have to assume that vamp lit follows a certain formula and that is where I'm making the connection.

#3 - This is not your daughter's vamp lit. There are some similarities, but this is not meant for young adults. This is wonderfully rated R and I really appreciate it.

#4 - I got tricked. Turns out this is kind of a romance novel series. Maybe that's another aspect of vamp lit. My only saving grace there is the fact that it is also a murder mystery. So I'll hold on to my man card for another day or two.

All and all a great novel and I'm looking forward to reading the rest. My plan is to read them all on my iPad. (no eye strain by the way)

Cheers,

Casey

New Blog Address

2010-06-16T20:39:00.000-07:00

My direct blog link is now cgfreeland.blogspot.com. I considered just calling it nakedtoes but I'm afraid I would have collected the wrong folks.

14 Years and Still the Passion

2010-06-15T20:09:00.000-07:00

I knew one of these days I'd be half of an old couple counting the years they had acquired. I just didn't think it'd happen so soon.

Well we're not exactly old in body or spirit. But we're quite suddenly much further along than we were the day my love first came to my door to pick up my daughter for a movie date.

I was so smitten, so immediately in lust with this woman. How smitten, you ask? While they were at the movies I cleaned my apartment ruthlessly, set out the guitar I had not yet learned how to play, and put on my Kid's Kingdom shirt.

Suddenly I was the clean, rock-star, community-involvement guy.

It worked, or something did.

That day we began to build our little traditions, to create the inside jokes, to form our family dynamic, our values, our hopes.

Mostly though, that's when the love began.

How is it that we are "two of the lucky few" who find the love of our lifes?

We can only shake our heads in wonder and close our eyes in appreciation and kiss each other as passionately as we always have.

I love you baby.

Thanks for all of it.

Yours

My Little Trip to Maui

2010-06-14T18:56:00.000-07:00

Pictures without a story and then a story with no pictures. First where I went and then how I got there.

The ocean was this close all week.

The folks were dog paddling.

The trees were odd and beautiful.

When the waves really hit these rocks they would rattle like fireworks or distant thunder.

I purchased a totem from Nonu. He said his name meant tree of life and it was his grandfather's name.

This was the last sunset of the trip. It was breathtaking.

Sissy, Autumn, Carey, me and Audie

Leg #1 - First thing's first. Get to the Sacramento International Airport.

Left the house about 6:20. Plenty of time for my 10:30 flight. The first thing I realized on the road was that I should have not taken the jumper from Sac to San Francisco. I could have driven to SF easily enough, just another hour and fifteen minutes. I might have even slept in a bit.

Then I get here and I'm in terminal B, not the big terminal A that I'm used to. Parking at terminal B as it turns out is not so easy. After circling the entire airport I settled on economy parking. I don't mind this except that I had lost fifteen minutes and in economy you have to take the shuttle bus to the terminal. This took forever.

But I made it to the terminal and despite my intense worries, am now at the gate and ready to board with a whole fifteen minutes to spare. This B is really really small. So is the plane I'm about to board.

Next up... catching the flight in SF and hoping my luggage follows me.

Leg #2 - So we took off a little late, got to my second gate 10 minutes before boarding. But I'm here, so what the hey. That first plane was small. I was sitting very close to a big guy, ex marine. He was one of those gentlemen who love to chat about their lives, but when you interject, just a little bit, will find some way to either top what you've said or make it perfectly clear that you are not telling him anything he didn't already know.

While this is somewhat annoying, he was a very nice man overall and we had some commonalities. 4 kids. Oldest right at 21. He loved his iPhone as much as I love my iVan. Guess that's about it. He also collected guns, loved to scuba dive, was way more world-traveled than I and worked for a defense contractor.

So now I'm sitting at gate 84 in San Fran. About to board a much bigger plane and fly across the Pacific Ocean. I hope they have food. Just dawned on me that they might not and I have not eaten a bit today. Too late for a sticky bun, not that I would get one if there was. In fact all fast food sounds about terrible.

9 seats across and two full aisles. This is a big plane and very full.

They have food! Haven't seen the menu yet, but I know they have Oreos. I wouldn't ask for Oreos, but it does indicate that they have friendly food. Maybe there's a sandwich in my future. And a Bloody Mary.

Turkey sandwich and bloody mary later, we're just about at the halfway point of our journey. I'm watching Fellowship of the Ring and I must say it was the perfect pick for travel. Emotional, exciting and familiar. Makes one forget where one is.

The unbreakable thread that ties me to my love and each of my children is being stretched. It will never break, but it becomes thinner with each passing mile. The thinner it becomes, the stronger the pull, like adding tension to a rubber band. That pull is longing. That longing is gut wrenching.

A couple more thoughts about that five hour flight. I didn't talk to the guy next to me once. He snored before we took off. The food and drink was OK. I watched Fellowship of the Ring. I played some games and read a bit more Sookie. They played the halfway to Hawaii game, which totally sucks. The male steward had a crush on me, chatted it up with me about Frodo. I saw a man give his lady his 1st class seat and go sit in coach. There is hope ladies and gentlemen. There is indeed hope. Sitting next to the laboratory on a flight with 450 people is not good. Every five minutes you get the porta potty smell.

Leg #3 - This will be a quick one. Frankly I'm getting worn out. I'm in the Honolulu Airport and about to board for my last 2 hour jaunt over one island and to another, Maui, final destination. I'm starting to worry if my luggage is still following me. I hope so.

This plane is much smaller. In between the other two. Southwest size.

And after 37 minutes in the air, we come back down. Apparently that 2 hour deal was part of a hallucination I had.

Later at the condominium of paradise... We're well fed, listening to the ocean, enjoying each other's company. A little tipsy, which is just fine with me. Time for some Polynesian paralysis. Good sleep.

Last Leg - That was then... That was back five days ago. Well, six really, because it's Friday in California and almost Friday even back in Maui.

I am just past the halfway point over the ocean between the beautiful Hawaiian Islands and San Francisco at 2:45 in the morning.

I've tried to sleep, but it's not happening.

And yet.

Something has happened. Twice now I've zoned out for maybe 45 minutes of music. Had to go somewhere right? I hope there was some sleep involved.

For I arrive in SF at 5, layover for 2 hours, fly to Sac, and then drive home... 2 1/2 hours. Arrival at home will be somewhere between ten and ten-thirty.

That's going to be tough.

Maui was terrific for a lot of reasons. It's pretty, of course. I got to see three of my siblings who I haven't seen for some time. I stayed in a beautiful place right on the beach. We ate wonderful food, drank plentiful drink and played amongst the flora and turtles.

Maui was sad too, as there were two sisters missing for two completely opposite reasons, one difficult and sad and one joyous and life-affirming. Also, being away from my family for that long is nearly enough to undo me completely. I don't do well without my clan, my tribe. And they are my tribe.

So I am now maybe 7 1/2 hours from my tribe.

It's going to be so good to be home.

Cheers,

Casey

P.S. - Just a final note. I got home at 11 that morning, slept hard until 5:30, showered and drove 75 miles to my nephew's graduation. Then Saturday I took my love to Ashland for dinner and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Then next day we saw Well and then drove home last night. Back at work today. It's been one hell of a vacation.

P.P.S. - If the pics in this blog are cut off on your browser, sorry about that. I had a brain fade. Rather than redo the whole thing, if you want to see the rest of the photo, clicking on it should do the trick.

Alone Again, Naturally

2010-06-02T23:12:00.000-07:00

That title doesn't really apply but I've got the song in my head. Gilbert O'Sullivan is one kooky, passive-aggressive Irishman. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_P-v1BVQn8&sns=em

That hair is fantastic!

But alas, I am alone tonight. 2 1/2 hours from home in Sack-uh-tomatoes, California... our great state's capital.

I'm staying in a room at the Residence Inn Marriott. It's one of those rooms that is obviously set up for a long-term stay. Big bathroom, bed, couch, kitchen and (drum roll) fireplace. I guess I could burn up some furniture, although it's really not that cold. It feels more like a small apartment... like a NYC kind of place, save the sliding glass door and fireplace. Did I mention there was a sliding glass door?

I'll be in a class tomorrow, all day. Grueling. Then it's one frantic day back at work and off to catch a flight to Maui, without my love, which is very difficult for me. Not for her. I mean, I'm sure she wishes she was coming with, but I'm going with my sibs and she is ultra supportive when it comes to my time with my brother and sisters. Did I mention there was a trip to Maui?

The hardest part about tomorrow is that I'm missing my daughter's 5th grade commencement. I know that holding a graduation for every grade is silly, but they had the 5th grade thing when I was a kid. In addition she's leaving the only school she's ever attended. And most of her friends are not going to her new school. It's going to be a tough, emotional day for her and I wish I was there. Did I mention my girl was graduating 5th grade?

So I'm alone again, as my job sometimes requires me to be. But I have a job and I can take care of that massive family. And for that, I am very, very grateful. Well, I'm not completely alone. iVan the iPad is here. Did I mention I (tentatively) named my iPad?

Cheers,

Casey

Seems Like Old Times

2010-05-25T21:57:00.000-07:00

I ran in to a colleague today from my radio years, years that came to an abrupt halt in the first week of October in 2001.

It was the end of an insane 30 days beginning, of course, on September 11th. One of the most terrifying days of my life.

A week later my fourth child, my baby boy was born. Easily one of the most awe inspiring days of my life.

A week after that I got the only reprimand I have ever received in my life. My boss and her henchwoman got together and decided I wasn't doing my job. After 12 years in radio, 10 years longer than either of them, they thought they'd write down what they didn't like about me and present in a letter for me to sign. It was one of the most humiliating days of my life.

A week later I quit radio forever, without a new job, with four children, with really no money, but with a woman who loved and trusted me completely and would do anything for my happiness. It was one of the bravest days of my life.

The gentleman who I saw today worked in radio the same time I did, in fact we worked together for a bit. He's a kind, honorable guy who actually ended up owning a station in the end. He's a man of many talents, a good father and grandfather. He's a self-made man who was even voted businessman of the year recently in our little city.

I say all this about him because when I saw him today, maybe because it was this man in particular, I missed the radio business so much I could hardly stand to sit another moment in my big giant office. I wanted to follow him out, a small pup, jump in his passenger seat, stick my head out the window and let him drive me back to where I belong.

But I didn't. Of course. I stayed in my seat like the good little soldier that I now am. No more terror, awe, humiliation or bravery, apparently. No, I don't believe that. I'm sure there's a whole bushel of humiliation in my future. (kidding)

Radio isn't what it was. It wasn't what it was even when I was there in the late 80's and 90's. The old radio dudes would lament even then about how radio was Radio in the 60's and 70's. It's all perspective I suppose.

But it happened in a time in my life that I LOVED. And so I associate.

It's good to be reminded of those days. It gives one hope.

Cheers,

Casey

Time to use my iPad keyboard?

2010-05-23T13:47:00.000-07:00

I got the goods when I got my iPad. in addition to the killer machine with the most memory and best connectivity, I also got the apple case, the doc keyboard and the terribly named "camera connection kit", a name that's a little like calling a fork a "steak spearing machine", grossly understated and overstated all at the same time.

I've used the case pretty much constantly. In fact my iPad is rarely naked. I am now apt enough at typing on the virtual keyboard that having my machine landscape in my lap and propped up with the cool case flippy thing is my preferred method of composing. (By the way, don't put this on a table covered with maple syrup, because when you flip it closed, the syrup will be on the iPad screen... just sayin')

I've used the USB plug several times with my camera (to pull off pictures) and with other devices (just to see if they work). It's pretty much a must have.

What I haven't used much at all (until right at this moment) is the keyboard. I've been carrying it around in my backpack and once in a while I'll think about it, but in the end it's more convenient to leave the iPad in the case (you cannot use case and keyboard simultaneously... I'll explain in a sec) and type on the virtual keyboard.

Here's what is not terrific about the keyboard.

#1 - It's portrait only. I prefer the wide expanse of landscape, so this is against my preference. But the plug is where it is (like an iPod) so there's nothing to be done about it.

#2 - It doesn't work with the case. The case is super uber mega thin. But there is simply no room for it between the iPad and the keyboard "cradle". If there was, then putting it in the cradle without the case would make it flop around like fresh fish. Which brings me to #3.

#3 - The iPad is not sturdy in the keyboard. Flat surface, yes, definitely. As secure as you would want it to be. However, as I mentioned earlier, if you carry it around like this it is likely to fall (mine did on my toe) and it is not comfortable or practical to hold in your lap.

What is terrific about the keyboard.

#1 - It feels so good. The chiclets are so sweet I just want to lick one of them and see if it's mint vanilla. It's like my typing gets a turbo charge the moment I touch these keys.

#2 - It has some bitchin' specialty keys. A quick exit to apps, jump to the search screen, brightness control, jump to slideshow and all the other standard Apple keys. There is also a mystery key. Yes sir, right in the middle of the top row is a blank key that does, ready for this, absolutely nothing. Genius!

#3 - When on a tabletop or desk, it makes for a terrific display dock for pics or whatever, and you can charge it simultaneously and plug in external headphones or speakers if you like. If you are going to get the dock anyway, you might as well get the one with the keyboard.

In the end, the keyboard is what turns the iPad into more of a standard operating desktop computer. It becomes a machine in need of a place to sit, one where composing it bullet fast.

And as I write this on my iPad, with my keyboard dock, I realize that the portrait view is just as functional as landscape, and that this is just another example of how versatile this machine can be.

Still loving' the iPad.

Cheers,

Casey

Joanna rocks, again,

2010-05-21T11:55:00.000-07:00

I have a small handful of bloggers I would consider my favorites. Joanna sits among the top of those top. She's the real deal and now she's giving stuff away... No strings at all. Just read her blog and make a comment. Check it out! http://www.thefiftyfactor.com/2010/05/procrastinate-giveaway.html

Chili!

2010-05-14T18:12:00.001-07:00

I got 2nd place in a chili cook off today...

I’m just writing this off the top of my head because it’s different every time, so…

Put all these together in the Crockpot and put on high
Two cans of Red Kidney Beans
Two cans of White Kidney Beans
One can of Black Beans
All Drained and rinsed
Two cans of tomato sauce
½ to 1 full can’s worth of water
*All cans are the 15 ½ ouncers

Sautee in a couple tablespoons of veg oil the following together with lots of Garlic Salt
About 1 ½ pounds of Carne Asada Beef cut into small pieces
One Green Bell Pepper Roughly Chopped
One Red Bell Pepper Roughly Chopped
One White (or Purple if they’re good) Onion Roughly Chopped
*Don’t drain this before adding to the beans/by Roughly Chopped I mean in irregular pieces.

Combine everything in the crockpot and add these:
Ground Chili Peppers (maybe a couple of tablespoons)
Ground Garlic Powder (as much as feels good)
Ground Cumin (maybe a tablespoon or two)
Ground Oregano (plenty)
Ground Basil (plenty)
Cayenne Pepper – I don’t know how much I use, but probably just a teaspoon
Probably won’t need salt, but taste and add as needed
A little dash of pepper
Some Tapatio Sauce (maybe a couple of tablespoons)

Cook it up for a couple of hours or so. Check the taste. Add whatever might be needed. More garlic salt, regular salt.

Combine some masa flour (regular flour is fine) with maybe ½ cup of cold water and mix well. Then pour most or all of it into the chili to thicken it up. Gives it a nice orange tint as well.

Cook forever and eat when you’re hungry.

Today I had about 35 minutes to put this together. It was a record for me I'm sure of it.

Cheers,

Casey

What I Could Do with the Pool

2010-05-13T20:23:00.001-07:00

1) Throw some koi in it, let them get really big and then try to shoot them with my son's BB gun through the swampy swampness.

2) Put up fliers around the neighborhood that offer a place "to make your problems disappear... You provide the cement boots and we'll take care of it. They'll never find any evidence." (maybe the koi could eat the evidence?)

3) Drain it and open a neighborhood skate park. Any kid who clears the diving board during a 360 gets an Astro Pop next time the ice cream truck comes around... which seems to be every 15 minutes anymore.

4) Come to think of it, I bet I could get the whole neighborhood to contribute fundage if I offered to drive that damn, music-box-playing nuisance into the cold, enveloping darkness of the ever-murky pool waters.

5) Drain it and then fill it with dirt. Plant some lawn seed and then ignore it like the rest of my wretched lawn.

6) Speaking of seed... I could get one of those medical cards and plant a different kind of seed in the dirt. That would calm me down about the pool. Hell I'd frikkin' love that pool! Then I could eat the koi... Hmm...

Afterthought... If I get high and fry up some koi that just ate the ice cream man, does that make me a cannibal?

Second Afterthought... One of our dogs is named Cannibal and as far as I know he's never eaten an ice cream man.

Cheers,

Casey

Under the Dome

2010-05-11T19:08:00.000-07:00

Just listened to Under the Dome by Stephen King.
It's been my experience with the horror genre that the bark is often worse than the bite. Dean Koontz, for example, is just barely a horror writer in my opinion. I love Dean Koontz, by the way. But I always thought of him as a thriller writer. That's not right either, of course.

I think it goes back to my own early experience with the word "horror". For me "horror" lived in movies like Friday the 13th, Halloween, Wolfen, The Howling not to mention the seemingly endless stream of B movie get-downs I watched on a black and white TV, in the dark, in my room, on the show called Creature Features.

But to READ horror is a whole different ball game. It's still scary, but it seems more psychologically so. It can still put you on the edge of your seat, but not make you cover your eyes. Maybe that's it. Maybe because it can't really make you jump, it can't startle you, maybe that makes written horror different, more cerebral somehow.

I don't know.

Point is, I read... listened to that is... Under the Dome and I thought it was brilliant. I am so overwhelmed by King's talent that I can hardly bring myself to write anything. (excuse)

He's 62 years of strange and still pumping out mind-f's as if he was young, poor and penning Carrie so he could promptly throw it in the trash. If you don't know that story, look it up. Or better yet, read about it in his book, On Writing, which is also brilliant.

I guess that's enough SK love for one day.

Cheers,

Casey

It Is Indeed Mothers Day

2010-05-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

There are a million tweets, blogs, facebook posts, etc. wishing all the mothers out there a Happy Day today. It speaks to the nationwide appreciation we have for the one who sacrifices so much so that we may exist and learn and grow and thrive.

Most of you know I lost my mom when I was five. I was fortunate as I had four older sisters to lend their love and make my little life as OK as possible. Especially Mom-Sis and you know who you are.

I guess what I wanted to say is that to wait until the second Sunday in May to show your appreciation and love for this woman is like only saying "I Love You" to your spouse on Valentines Day. Awful.

Every day should be Mom's Day I think.

And for all the moms out there reading this, please have a fantastic day. You have my awe and admiration.

Cheers,

Casey

Mr. Grass

2010-05-08T21:17:00.001-07:00

(photo from the grumpy gardner)

Sitting here, looking outside at the foot high grass in the backyard. I will mow you down today, Mr. Grass. You and your buddies in the side yard, the back-back yard and the shorter, although still unruly fellows in the front yard. When I am done with you, you will be an army of crew-cut soldiers, your duty to stay in line and guard the castle. And not grow so fast! Please work on the last bit there because if I have to discipline you again next weekend, you may indeed regret it. I may lower the mower to its shortest setting. I may take away your water. I may, if pushed, spray rat poison on you just to see what happens.

I wrote that this morning. I did eventually go out and attack the front yard. It wasted no time attacking me back. After a very enthusiastic allergy attack, I passed out for two hours in my chair.

My wife, on Mothers Day eve, went out and completely did the side yard and back yard.

Oh, and cleaned the pool.

Amazing woman.

Cheers,

Casey

I'm Not Afraid of Flying.. Not Really

2010-05-04T17:18:00.000-07:00

I was five when I first boarded an airplane. It was a big one, I think a 747, and we were on our way to Disneyland. My mom had passed six months earlier and I think he was trying to ease our hurt. I was most concerned with vomiting, I remember, but I didn't. The only other thing I recall is one of the engines died during the flight and the pilot told us so.

Jump forward four or five years and I'm in a little tiny Cessna single prop with my cousin. From that flight all I can bring to mind is his joyful smile as he flew the thing and the that when we came in to land it felt as if we were falling straight out of the sky. I don't remember being afraid though.

Several others since, Hawaii, Mexico, Arizona, New York...

Today we're flying on the company plane.

This is a little plane. We're moving along the little runway now. Six aboard, making small talk. Plane war stories. I have these, at lease one doozy that I won't share with you right this moment.

Accelerate. The pull. Nose goes up. It's really windy.

Cars getting smaller. Buildings shrinking.

This is a short flight, only about 40 minutes. But it's 40 minutes over the Trinity Alps. So if things go wrong then we've nowhere to land.

Little two-engine plane, eight seats, fruit for snacks and a fully stocked bar. 8:20 is a bit early for a shot of Vodka though, so I think I'll pass.

There's Whiskeytown to your left ladies and gentlemen. Amazing from this point of view. It looks a lot like Squidword.

Mt. Shasta on your right there. It's a very clear morning and that mountain is bright and white and glorious... and solitary, the remnants of a much greater peak pre-eruption, I think. A young man died on that mountain this year. Massive storm cut him off from the rest of us. Some mountains we climb and never come down.

Hey look there's the ocean. Nice clear day, no fog, which makes landing a little less hairy.

The approach in Crescent City is interesting. You swing out over the Pacific and then turn right. The runway ends at a cliff formed by ages of waves crashing against it.

All ocean below us now. And it's a bumpy ride.

Landing gear down.

Heart races a little here.

Flaps down.

Slow down.

Bump once and hit the brakes. Dan's a good pilot.

Nothing to it.

Cheers,

Casey

The First Weekend with the iPad 3G

2010-05-02T21:47:00.000-07:00

There are literally thousands of reviews available for the iPad. I've read most of them. So, with all that minutia floating about, I'm reticent to add another drop of sand in the bucket.

However, not saying a little something about the last two and a half days would be, well, negligent I think.

I just want to throw out a couple of observations about my initial iPad experience.

It showed up at 3:49PM on Friday afternoon. I was home and literally staring at the clock. After the initial hello, unveiling, whatever, the loading of apps and synching with my Mac it was about 8:30 at night. I made it two more hours before my entire system shut down. I felt drugged, like I had popped a handful of Benadryl and was hitting my stride. I fell asleep in my chair at 10:30 and didn't wake up until 9:30 the following morning.

Couple other notes for now...

Very glad I got the keyboard, although I'm getting faster and faster on the virtual. I normally type 75 WPM or thereabouts. I'm probably up to about 40 on the virtual.

Don't carry the iPad around when it's on the keyboard dock. It's not secure. It will fall. Mine did. Bounced off my toe, thank goodness. (Rather hurt my toe at this point in my iPad relationship.)

I downloaded about 20 apps first thing. Most are pretty good. Many are free. Signed up for 3G, which was super easy. I'll check that out tomorrow.

I'm a bit disappointed that the dock and the case can't be used together. I understand why, of course, but still, it's a bit of a drag.

Getting photos into my iPad is easy. Getting them out is easy. Getting them into my blogs is proving to be a total drag. Still looking for an easy way to make that happen.

As far as flash. All weekend on the thing and I didn't hit a single site that wasn't completely usable.

All in all, this is an incredible machine, and while I"m sad that my Mac will be lonely in the coming months, I'm not really. Because this is now my machine of choice.

Cheers,

Casey

Sleeping’s for Wimps… and Old Guys Apparently…

2010-04-29T19:35:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been a nocturnal living in the world of early risers.

High School – Working nights at the movie theater and graveyard at the radio station started this 25 year habit as I still had to get up and go to school. I’d steal naps anywhere (class, work, the dinner table) to subsidize my standard two hours in an actual bed. If I found sleep before 4 in the morning on a school night, it may have been in the town paper.

Twenties – Still pretty much indestructible. Sayings like “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” and “Sleepin’s for woosies.” often came out of my mouth. More graveyard and night work helped that along, but even when I had a regular morning gig I’d find myself awake at 4 lamenting how I had to get up early. When I married my love I found she was just as nocturnal and that did not help my sleeping habits. I’d say I averaged 3 ½ hours a night.

Thirties – Now we have four kids instead of two. Now our house is chaos all the time. Our pace of life has increased, maybe even doubled. I changed careers. My love went and got a college degree (in a town an hour away.) It was wild, erratic and wonderful. And I didn’t want to miss a minute. Still, again, staying up late was the norm, although I think I probably got it up to four hours on the average.

Now I’m 42… now, in just the last couple of weeks something troubling has happened. Three separate times my alarm has gone off in the morning and I have turned it off and gone back to sleep. That does not happen. No matter how little sleep I get I am always up when that buzzer hits my brain.

Could it be that my body is finally done with so few zzzz’s? More and more I am hitting the hay before midnight (very, very early for this guy) and sleeping a full six hours.

Six hours!? Really? Aren’t older folk supposed to be able to get by with less sleep? In my case I should be taking a 30-minute nap and be up and good to go.

But I’m afraid it’s true. Sleep, and I mean Sleep with a capital ‘S’ is a little pissed that I have ignored her for so long. Time to buck up and pay attention.

Aye Aye Captain Sandman

Cheers,

Casey