State of the Art

 I'm thinking of renaming this blog "Blog For No One" since it gets no attention whatsoever. As  no one reads it, I suppose it doesn't matter anyway. But it does cop the title of one of my favorite Beatles songs.

Almost three years since my last entry. Time has mostly been spent on another novel attempt. I started it on Halloween in 2019, and as of two weeks ago, the first draft has been completed. Just north of 110,500 words. It's the first time I've gotten this far on a novel. It took way too long, but I was determined not to abandon another attempt at this. I'm sure that if I didn't have to work full-time, I could've finished it in half the time, maybe less. Being serious about this effort for a change, it only emphasized how frustrating it is  having to work for the man. There was enough frustration dealing with the story itself, as you might imagine.

In another few weeks or so, I'll dive back in and start editing/revising. I already know of some areas that I'll have to work on. One of them may be difficult, or it may be a slog the whole way, I don't know. I only went back once during the process, a couple years after I started, and revised what I had. It was about 40,000 words at the time, so less than half of the total. Beyond that point, I was flying blind, which may have been unwise. I often had the feeling that I was adrift at sea with no landmarks in sight, relying on my memory to maintain the narrative thread in a coherent fashion. I would only read the previous several paragraphs or pages to get a sense of where I was. It felt sufficient at the time. I'm about to find out how accurate that feeling was.

The working title is "The Western Paradise," and I still haven't found a reason to change it. It still fits. I'm trying not to think of how much more work there is to do.

I haven't worked on anything else in the meantime, apart from a few poems. I was sending out submissions somewhat regularly until the last couple years. I recently sent out five after a seven month break. Mostly, I got tired of getting a stream of rejections, so I said fuck it and stopped submitting. Of the latest group of subs, two have already been rejected. I still can't find a home for these last three or four stories. Guess I should create a Misfits folder and stick them in there.

Anyway, that's the state of my art these days. I have absorbed the interim accomplishment of the draft, but my writing schedule was scattershot at best. These last couple years, it was terrible, especially during the winters. I had zero motivation to enter that dark, cold office and sit down and agonize over sentences in front of the screen. It was preferable to sit in my recliner in a robe under a warm blanket and watch how others crafted stories for television or film. And I still read. I've kept up my average of reading 30-35 books a year.

Hopefully, later this year, I can turn this manuscript into a finished novel and put it up for sale. It may sit there forever, a mute monument to another attempt by a nobody to stand out in a cacophonous literary market (which few read anyway), but it will be done. I'll never have to ask "What if?"

A Manwha Opus

I recently finished a graphic novel from a Korean artist and writer named Yeong-Shin Ma.

His previous work was called Moms, and it was released (in my neck of the woods) in 2020. It's a story about four middle-aged women who've had it with the way they've been treated for much of their lives. They're not afraid to speak their minds anymore, and will unabashedly go for what they want despite the encroaching limitations of their aging bodies. It was a funny, often poignant story, a window into life for a generation that felt they'd been given short shrift in Korean society. The book was based on a diary kept by the author's mother.

Artist is Ma's latest book, and it reads like a magnum opus. This story concerns three men in their thirties who are friends. One's an artist, another's a writer, and the third is a musician. As the story opens, they appear to be very close, but it doesn't take long before we see fissures. Thought balloons reveal true feelings, and often result in name-calling or insults. As the musician gains fame and wealth, not through his music but through a book that his writer friend encouraged him to write, envy rears its corrosive head. Though the writer finds success later on after starting a literary magazine with his wife, it's all undone after his staff confronts him about the amount of control he wields over creative decisions. The painter fares worst of all, ruining his chance with a prominent arts center after he uses his position to threaten other employees and uses the company card at a sketchy establishment. His art no longer sells, and he has a daughter to support.

By the end, the friends have drifted apart, the opening scene of them dancing joyously together a distant memory. The events take place over a number of years. The painter and musician meet up one more time for dinner, and the thought balloons reveal how far they've fallen in each other's estimation. The writer almost leaves the magazine, but returns to help out another writer and his friend, the painter. They're still linked, but not in the same way. The friendship has not just mellowed, but dimmed. At this point, maybe it just survives on those gilt-edged memories from the past.

The story is over 600 pages long, but I could've read it one sitting if I'd allowed myself. The events in these men's lives carry you along, from one awkward moment to another. You wonder how things will turn out for each of them. I enjoyed Moms, but I loved this book, and I purposefully rationed it out over a few weeks to savor the work. I can't wait to see what Ma will cook up next.

Boxing Day 2010

I drive to the lakeshore
On the day after Christmas
The wind screams in from the North
Thin snow on the rocks
Patterned like chaotic lace

Ice hummocks stretch out from the shore
Smoky gray mottled glass
Some blocks farther out
Break off and reach for the dead sky
Beyond that, the cold boiling waves

Five minutes out here
And my hands are burning, going numb
Holding the camera is difficult
I snap quickly, on pure instinct
Then race back to the car
Defeated

Looking at the pictures later
I see the violence of the cold
Elements locked within its grip
Further frozen in time
A window in space

New Sci-fi Story: The God Symbiote

Just realized I never posted a link to this anthology. It contains my short story, "The God Symbiote", a short story set in Japan. In a not-so-distant future world, humans discover a Martian parasite that gives them epiphanies. These experiences are like a drug, but what happens when the parasite dies? Find out what one husband does for his wife in order to save her life.

The Phantom Games: Dimensions Unknown 2020

Purifying the Physical

Five or six years ago, I read a quote from Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, a revered Tibetan teacher who entered paranirvana in 1991, about the value of doing prostrations. I don't recall the exact words, but the quote related how prostrating was an effective method for purifying physical obstructions.

A physical obstruction would be any kind of ailment, from a virus or other infectious organism, to a bodily injury.

I've read a few of Rinpoche's books over the years and have always found him to be a brilliant teacher. Though he's been gone from this realm for almost 30 years, I still consider him to be one of my gurus. I took the quote to heart and immediately began doing prostrations as part of my practice. I would conclude my meditation practice with a short praise to Manjushri, then prostrate 8 or 10 times.

Since starting this practice, the physical injuries have come thick and fast. I was 49 when I began, so age must certainly be a factor in their occurrence. A quick internet search will reveal all of the pleasant surprises that awaits one when one finishes the fifth decade. It's the beginning of the end. It's your body slowly reaching for that white flag, acknowledging the punishing toll of a life spent resisting gravity and the elements. It's the cold shower of our limitations drenching us as we try to blithely continue doing what we've always done.

But I also believe it's a sign the prostrations are working. Some of these aches and pains and anomalies could be latent physical karma purifying earlier than they otherwise would have. This is one of the effects of purification practices such as this. An ailment that may have arisen later in this life, or even in the next, is suddenly forced to the surface in the present, the practice hastening the ripening of the karma. The advantage is getting the suffering out of the way sooner, ideally leading to a future with fewer health issues.

Before I began prostrating, injuries were rare for me. During all my years of running, I only suffered two calf strains. Both times they healed completely. At the age of 52 however, the calf strain occurred again, and this time it stubbornly refused to heal. Despite taking much time off, only a course of physical therapy led to its recovery. As I ramped up to my former pace and distance though, I suffered a hip injury from shoveling snow. Running was again put on hold. It was the second time for this injury, but once more, full healing has been elusive. Now and then I feel a sharp pain right on the hip bone as a reminder that it's still not resolved. I've taken to bike riding as a replacement for running, an alternative way to get my cardio workout. The pain has subsided, but I'm not sure it's truly healed. I'm considering a visit to the orthopedist again to explore some ways to treat this pain. My own research leads me to believe it could be tendonitis.

Asian cultures talk about an "obstacle year", which usually happens around the age of 60. I feel like I'm about halfway through an obstacle decade. Just last month I bruised some ribs in a fall off my bike. I'm almost recovered from it. It's normal to expect some issues as one ages, but I'm really hoping the prostrations can mitigate the severity of anything that arises in the near future. I'm not ready to give up an active lifestyle just yet.

New Fiction: Allegheny

Two friends. One struggles for her life, the other struggles to keep her identity. All taking place at the edge of a land that still keeps many of its secrets.

My new short story up at Red Fez. Please check it out when you get a chance and help support indie publishers. Thanks!

https://www.redfez.net/fiction/identity-allegheny-991

Industrial Sunset

Sunset, West Twenty-third Street,1906

An evocative rooftop scene by painter John Sloan from 1906. I love the depiction of the ordinary from long ago. Only in the mundane details do we really get a sense of a particular time. The light and weather weren't so different. The people were the same--only the styles were different. Clothes and hair. Their height, since they were generally shorter back then owing to a lack of access to nutritious foods. The sunset above looks familiar, but the woman in the foreground, the laundry on the line, and the traffic lights below all present an alien profile. The smudges Sloan brushed in the sky speak to the omnipresent level of pollution back during the raging infancy of the industrial age.

I can imagine the smells. That same pollution. An abundance of manure due to the prevalence of horses. Automobiles were not yet dominant. And the saltier odors from humans too. Hygiene wasn't as rigorously observed as it is now. If I could travel to that time and place in the picture, my first thought would be incredulity at my presence where it shouldn't be. My second thought would be, I'm going to die. By today's standards, medical technology was grievously primitive. Tuberculosis was a relentless killer. Break the skin and infection was soon to follow. Life expectancy for a male in that year was a mere 47 years, just a few years more for a woman. The very air surrounding you was a lethal, slavering beast.

New Story to be Published In Fall 2020 in Excalibur 2020

This has been pushed ahead to the fall due Covid and the Olympics being postponed.

Life has been discovered on Mars, and humanity's relationship with it grows to be far closer than they ever could've predicted.

Follow a Japanese couple as they try to cope with with life on a troubled, near-future earth when they unexpectedly lose this relationship.

My newest story, "The God Symbiote," will be published in the fall in Excalibur 2020 Anthology. Please check out their Patreon page and, if you're inclined, help support their mission to bring new sci-fi and fantasy stories to the world.

Become a patron of Excalibur Books today: Read 8 posts by Excalibur Books and get access to exclusive content and experiences on the world’s largest membership platform for artists and creators.

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Excalibur Books is creating a Science Fiction & Fantasy Olympics Anthology | Patreon

Become a patron of Excalibur Books today: Read 8 posts by Excalibur Books and get access to exclusive content and experiences on the world’s largest membership platform for artists and creators.

The Trip to Washington DC

In August, I took my first trip to Washington DC. It was my first thought after getting home last year from a great visit to Gettysburg PA. "Where should I go next year?" The choice of Washington DC was made easier by the fact that it's a direct flight from our overlooked, medium-sized town. Easy to get to from here. I'd always wanted to go. I've talked to many who visited before, and often it was their senior trip in high school. My class went to the Poconos. I sat out that trip--my protest vote.

View from the Lincoln Memorial steps

Never have I heard more of a variety of languages and accents than in DC. There was a group of students from France (probably middle school age) passing on the left. There was a group from Sweden going the opposite direction. There was a family that spoke what sounded like an eastern European language. There were a few people with an African cadence. The Middle East. Asia. The multiplicity was dizzying. It gave me hope that, even though we have a brain-dead autocrat in office, the rest of the world still looks to the US as an ideal. I've known this, but never experienced it around myself in such a tangible fashion.

I saw most of the major monuments. I lingered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, trying to conjure up that day in 1963 when Dr. King spoke. It felt like I was on America's front step. People sat on the steps and milled in front, quietly taking it all in. There were signs that

asked for quiet as a sign of respect for the monuments. They were largely heeded. The view from the steps, across the reflecting pool through the World War II monument and on to the Washington Monument, can't help but inspire. The sordid part of this country's history is never far from my mind, but that spot made it recede for a little while. Here we were, ready once again to rise above it, like we did in 2008. Or will we? The racist and nationalist strains in American life are never far from the surface.

The Vietnam Veterans Memorial (notice: "Veterans", not "War") has always been transgressive as far as memorials go. There were the statues of three soldiers as you enter, but the main part is a black wall with the names of those who died during the long conflict. The wall descends slowly into the ground, evoking the quagmire that the war became. The names pile up as the wall lengthens and deepens towards its midsection. There were others there looking for names they knew. The earliest

year for names is 1959, the last 1975. Even I remember that last year, with the image of the Huey on the roof of the American embassy. All that time and effort, all those lives, only to end up in an ignominious bug-out from Saigon, many South Vietnamese begging to come along. Maybe things would've been different if the rationale for the war, the supposed attack in the Gulf of Tonkin on two destroyers, had never been invented in the first place.

SS-20 on the left; Minuteman on the right

I suffered museum fatigue by the end of the trip. There are so many. The two highlights were the Air and Space Museum, and the Museum of Natural History. The instantly recognizable icons of the early days of aviation, and the space race. A replica of the lunar lander greets you as you walk in, the actual lander still sitting forlornly on the moon. Its body insect-like and partly covered in gold-colored insulation. When cast mentally against the vast cold vacuum of space, it looks almost inadequate. Yet it succeeded. There are ICBMs, both US and Russian. There are the German vengeance weapons from World War II, the V-1 and V-2. The V-1 is small, basically an early drone, but one can draw a direct line between the V-2 and the later US Minuteman ICBM. Too much was learned from the losers in that war. Werner Von Braun, the German rocket designer responsible for Hitler's terror weapons, has his

V-2 rocket

fingerprints on both weapons.

I saw the dinosaurs in the Museum of Natural History. Tyrannosaurus Rex bathed in a lurid red glow. Stegosaurus and Triceratops and Diplodocus, all were once part of my plastic playset. Here were the actual bones, proof positive that these megafauna really did roam the same lands we now walk. For all their fearsome reputation, it only took one asteroid to wipe them out and open the way for mammals. No one at the exhibits seemed to be thinking that the same cataclysmic event could happen to us. Despite our big brains, we are not favored. In fact, because of our big brains, we stand an arguably better chance of doing ourselves in. Who needs an asteroid when you've got rampant consumption of fossil fuels, the product of ancient decomposing plant matter? Thanks to us, the Cretaceous period may have the last laugh yet.

So...What's Next?

I took much of August off as far as writing goes. Finished the most recent story in early July. Seemed like a good time to think about another attempt at a novel. I have a brief outline written that feels good. There's a lot of detail to fill in, but I don't think I need to wait for that. My instinct is to start and see how it goes.

It will be a challenge. I have four (maybe five) failed attempts behind me. But with some publishing success, the chances of completing a draft have to be better. My last attempt was begun about 16 years ago, and I'm a better writer now. That should count for something.

Still, it's a very different beast from a short story. Short fiction has suited my limited free time, but a novel will eat much of that up. It's much easier to sit down to a short tale after a full day of work rather than a long-form narrative, where every so often you must find the thread in order to continue. That means re-reading from a certain point in the story, or even from the beginning.

Time has become precious again. At my age, I feel the pressing need to start this next attempt. If it crashes and burns, there's always another try. But my determination to make this one work is strong. Hopefully, it's enough.

Time Machine

Biking is my surrogate for running, ruled out by a calf muscle which refuses to heal, but it's also my time machine.

On the bike, I can outrun the years, slip back into being 15 again, the last time I rode regularly, and show the world and myself that I'm foolishly defying many of the conditions of being in my fifties. The good years are dwindling fast, so gliding along on the bike makes me feel like I'm outside of the relentless march of time. That maybe I'm stealing some of my youth back.

New Fiction: January

My latest story, January, is up at Allegory Magazine. Please stop by and give it a read.

https://www.allegoryezine.com/fiction#january

The Natural State

Putting these pith instructions here so I don't forget.

Resting in the natural state does not mean that you cannot think about things or work. The idea is to rest in the natural state and think at the same time. If you can do that, you can think things through and work but there are no painful or sharp feelings.

Thrangu Rinpoche

The Trip to Gettysburg

In August of 2018, I finally had a solid week off of work. Rather than spend time around the house wondering what to do next, or get started on that ever-elusive novel, I decided to take that trip to Gettysburg I'd been talking to people about for the last few years.

I went online and reserved a hotel room, not too expensive but a notch or two above dirt cheap. I went to Hertz and rented a car for the journey. My vehicle was fast closing in on 9 years old and had broken the 100,000 mile barrier. I felt that a 500 mile trip might be asking too much of it at this point in its life. I had indicated a preference for a sedan, but when the day came I was greeted with a new, black Toyota 4-Runner. They were out of sedans and I was given a free upgrade. After about 30 minutes of fumbling around with this new type of vehicle, I was finally on my way.

Rochester was cloudy as I set off, but the further south I went, the more the skies cleared. Soon it was warm in the cabin, so I turned on the a/c. Southern tier hills replaced the flat landscape near Lake Ontario, and I crossed into Pennsylvania, the first time in many years. I was on route 15 south, and recalled that the last time I was on this route was when my mother and I moved to western New York from Delaware in summer, 1976. At that time though, we were traveling north. Still, it all looked very familiar. For a while on that stretch of road, I was that morose boy again, on the cusp of adolescence, wondering why my life could be so easily turned upside down at the whim of adults. My protests counted for nothing at the time. I stopped at a gas station in Williamsport that was startingly familiar to me. Route 15 is a split route, however, with both directions on separate roads that run parallel. We wouldn't have stopped here going north. I must've remembered it from a later trip back to Delaware in 1982, which was taken by my grandmother, my cousin, and me.

I knifed through the rugged peaks of the Allegheny Mountains, shrouded in patchy storm clouds. Fat rain drops spattered my windshield for a few minutes, before the sun dramatically reappeared. It was a Tuesday, so traffic was nominal. The road was winding, now climbing, now descending, through the terrain. There were small towns now and then. I passed one as I edged closer to Harrisburg. I don't recall its name, but I could recall passing by it 42 years before. It didn't look as if it had changed one bit in all that time, except that its population had likely decreased. There was a large restaurant that looked like it had just closed down for good.

Wending around Harrisburg, I sped down the last miles to my destination. The land flattened out again and the road surface lightened to concrete. Farmland on both sides. I had left 15 before the state capital, and was now in virgin territory. I hit the exit for Gettysburg and slowly entered town, staying alert for my hotel on the right.

The hotel turned out to be a good choice. It was close enough to be within walking distance of the town center. The road it was on was incredibly busy. The line of cars and, especially truck traffic, was almost unceasing. Fortunately, it quieted down at night.

I had no real plan to explore the battlefield. I was unprepared for its sprawl. There are really several battlefields that make up the whole. I went to the national park the day after I arrived and took the bus tour. It lasts two hours, but we only stopped three times to listen to the guide explain what happened at the site. Though worth taking, I knew I would have to drive back through to explore areas we had passed by, and others we didn't even see.

View of the Devil's Den from Little Round Top

This is how I got most of my pictures. Some areas deeply resonated because I'd  heard of them. There was the Devil's Den, a cluster of large boulders that confederates used to hide in and which stood at the base of a well-defended union position. Snipers from both sides took shots at each other as the lines shifted. I could almost smell the sweat of desperation of soldiers from both sides as they peered down their rifle sights, looking for targets. The area overlooking the Den was Little Round Top, a position taken by union troops just as the confederates were storming its summit. It's optimal high ground in the area and was coveted by both sides.

View of Little Round Top from the Devil's Den

There was the Peach Orchard, and a farmhouse that stands there to this day. You can still see the hole created by the southern cannonball that pierced the brick wall and created

The Peach Orchard farmhouse's cannonball hole

havoc inside. The farmhouse was the headquarters for a union general, who was wounded by another cannon shot not far outside the structure.

Most solemn though was a site in the midst of Pickett's charge, the fateful attack that decided the outcome. It's called the Angle, often referred to by troops at the time as the Bloody Angle. Here, confederate troops momentarily broke through the union line. Withering artillery and rifle fire from the union units to the rear of this line successfully beat back the intrusion, however. It took a grievous toll on the rebels, and ultimately broke the back of Lee's advance. I stood for several minutes at the site of the carnage. With a summer breeze rustling the leaves of the lone tree there, and the other tourists a ways off, I read the plaque mounted there, and imagined the suffering that took place in that small space. Emotion welled up, and I said a short prayer for those who had fallen or were wounded. The war seemed to be condensed at that spot, all of its pain and lingering consequences balanced precariously on the point of the Angle. Reflecting on the state of the country now, I tried not to think it was all for nothing.

View from the union side of the Angle

I could have spent days there, tracking over the rest of the battlegrounds, finding every stone unit marker that littered the landscape. Sites where officers took their last breath; the starting lines for charges; artillery emplacements. I didn't find them all, but I found enough that it brought the war all the way from 1863 to my present. I spent three days there, and they were all similar to those sweltering July days of the battle. When I got home, I felt like I could understand the country a little bit better, though that doesn't mean I'm still as confident in our ability to live up to the ideals we profess to have.

My List of the Best 2018 Movies

Black Panther

I loved the comic in the '70s. It was great to see him come to the screen this year. Though his costume has been modified to the point that he seems to be just another Iron Man, I had to roll with it and accept the changes since I had read the book. A cool soundtrack and a group of strong women just as powerful as the titular hero made for a satisfying debut. I was caught up in giving the Wakanda forever salute as well.

Avengers: Infinity War

Someone asked me how I felt about this film, and my response was, "I'm just glad I was alive to see it." Sounds grandiose, I know, but it juggled so many of my childhood heroes with such a deft touch. It also subverted the usual supervillain trope by making Thanos's aim something that is an unresolved, and seemingly unresolvable, problem in the real world. I felt sympathy stirring in my heart for the big guy. It all ends with a truly epic battle and a lump in the throat.

Leave No Trace

A dad with PTSD and his daughter choose life off the grid, and struggle when they are caught and forced by society to rejoin the mainstream. The daughter warms to it, but the dad has trouble adjusting. The film shows us that there are pitfalls on either side, and that maybe the choice is not so clear. By the end, I wasn't sure who had it better. Good performances by Ben Foster and Thomasin McKenzie.

Zama

A tale of Argentina during the colonial era. Zama is a magistrate in a small village who yearns for an assignment in a larger town with more opportunities. Promises to send his request to the King are always delayed. He assaults a colleague and is exiled to a remote area among the native population, with one of whom he has had a child. To escape this situation, he joins a party that is sent out to the countryside to find a notorious bandit, who apparently was not executed as originally thought. There he meets with the consequences of colonial abuse and oppression. The incessant bird calls serve as the main soundtrack, almost to the point of distraction, but the atmosphere is palpable. The air is haunted by a dark history, not to mention the spirits of the oppressed.

Blackkklansman

My favorite film of the year. Spike Lee's adaptation of a true story about a black law officer who penetrates a Colorado chapter of the KKK, with the help of one of his white colleagues. The story takes place in the early '70s, when it was difficult enough for a black person to lead an everyday life without being pushed down. The payoff at the end, with Ron Stallworth telling off David Duke over the phone, was one of the most satisfying moments of the year.

In This Corner of the World

My favorite anime this year. A tale of Japan during World War II on the home front. Suzu, a

young woman with artistic talent, loses her drawing hand to an American bomb. She struggles with the loss, and the increasing bombing raids by B-29s as the progresses. We get a real feel for what it was like to be on the receiving end of such power. In the end, the film shows us that our enemy is as human as we are, and that war is ultimately a human failure. Though one side may win, it's a life of peace that loses, and war just continues.

The Florida Project

The days of a resilient young girl and her flawed mother as they find shelter in a somewhat run down hotel. The child roams the area with her friends, begging money for ice cream and getting into trouble. Her mother doesn't have a steady job and resorts to selling perfume at first, then her body. It's all set in the fever dream of tourist Florida, with its Disney-inspired flights of commerce and its lush green spaces behind the artificial facade. You get lost in this atmosphere until Brooklynn's luck runs out. The final scene represents Brooklynn's ultimate escape.

Fahrenheit 11/9

Michael Moore strikes again. Yes, it's about the election, but it's also about how we got there. Clinton and Obama are not spared in his film, she for her ignorance during the campaign of swing states Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin (which all went to Trump), and he for his bungled response to the Flint water crisis. I was particularly shocked at how Flint was used by the US military for simulated urban war games. Buildings were bombed from above, and troops and tanks flooded the city. You can hardly believe it's happening here, but Mr. Moore shows us again why we need him, and why he's the true American populist.

Up For Air

It's been some time since I've sent a note from the North Coast.

Though it's been quiet here, I have been writing more elsewhere. In my journal, and in some new stories which I've finished. I'm submitting exclusively to paying markets now. These are much tougher to break into. Despite getting reacquainted with the persistent sting of rejection, I'm going to keep charging the ramparts. Acceptances are great, but getting a check for one would be a further validation.

It's tough to find new movies that I want to see these days, so I've begun looking back in time to find them. Since about last year or so, I've concentrated on watching French new wave films (mostly Godard), and those by Kurosawa. It's been an amazing run of films so far. If I had to pick favorites at this point, they would be Godard's My Life To Live, and Kurosawa's Throne of Blood. There've been others as well, such as Jean Pierre Melville's Le Samourai, and Yasujiro Ozu's Tokyo Story. All of these and more from these periods are outstanding filmmaking.

My momentum has been slowed recently by the closing of the Filmstruck site, to which I had subscribed. Criterion plans to open its own app in the spring though, and I plan subscribing there. It's hard to call yourself a film fan if you haven't seen many of these movies that are considered exemplars of the form. I feel like I've only just scratched the surface.

On TV, I'm watching season 2 of Humans, and season 3 of The Last Kingdom. It took some time for Humans to grow on me, but they treat the conceit of realistic androids seriously and with intelligence. There are other details that bring such a future to life, such as real humans developing the urge to live like their synthetic counterparts. The Last Kingdom is my necessary occasional dose of Dark Ages insanity. The show really brings the pagan edge, and in this current season, alliances seem to shift as rapidly as the winter winds. I finished season 2 of Preacher a little over a month ago, and it was much better than the first season. There was one moment that still makes me laugh whenever I think about it.

I hope to be posting more often into the new year. Health issues the past couple months reduced my energy, and I saved what I had for the fiction. But I'm slowly improving, and will use my time as wisely as possible.

Tomorrow is the solstice. After then, the light begins to return in the northern hemisphere. The prospect of another spring and summer on this planet is reason enough to hold on.

Peace, and have a wonderful holiday.

New Short Story: Memories of a Stargazer

My new short story, "Memories of a Stargazer", is available at Event Horizon magazine. You can access it via PDF download for issue 3. The print version will be available soon.

Please go to the link and check it out.

https://eventhorizonmagazine.com/

Earthbound

I've been a runner since I was 15.

I started in anticipation of joining the track team. Ever since that year, 1980, which was a few years into a running boom in this country, I've rarely taken breaks from it. The only time I can truly recall is back in '96, when I had mono. I was out of work for a month, and obviously didn't do any running either. All I wanted to do was sleep.

When, in my mid-30s, I no longer wanted to run outside all winter, I joined a gym and hit the treadmill, A couple years after that, I bought my own so I wouldn't have to travel anywhere after work. I bought a new one a few years ago, after running hundreds, maybe thousands of miles on the old one.

I've been fortunate to be mostly injury-free, with one exception--my right calf. I strained it twice. The first time was in 2001, and I think I only missed a couple workouts before I was back on the road. There was a more serious tear in 2009, in which I actually heard the infamous pop, the moment at which part or all of the muscle separates from the achilles tendon. In my case it was just part of the muscle, but I didn't run for close to six weeks. For a compulsive runner such as myself, it was torture. I counted the days. I missed most of a summer due to that injury, but I was back up and running after that lengthy hiatus.

Now, eight years after that last injury, I had pain in the same muscle again, and it forced me back off the road. I took a 2 week break, then tried again. Took another 2 week break, then tried again. Then took 4 weeks. After that, I tried to ease my way back into a routine, as if the muscle wouldn't notice. After a couple months of running once or twice a week, I realized it wasn't improving. So six months ago, I stopped completely. I've only run short, slow workouts about once every month or so, to see how it feels. After my latest attempt last weekend, the muscle still doesn't feel like it's ready.

I'm mystified this time. I've been to the doctor about it. He sent me for an ultrasound, to check for a blood clot. The found none. Yet here I sit, still unhealed completely. I do feel better than six months ago, but whenever I take to the road or treadmill, it seems like the injury is just there, below the surface, ready to rise again and put my comeback on hold. I've rarely known such frustration. We have such advanced medical technology, but it is apparently powerless to tell me how much longer I need to wait before I can safely run again.

I know this is an injury that can't be rushed. If it's not ready, the only thing that will help is more rest. In the meantime, I'm not getting my cardio, and have been exploring ways to get it without running. I've looked at other machines, such as ellipticals and rowing machines. After trying one out recently, the rowing machine feels like a good alternative. You do use your legs on it, but I can get by without using my calves too much. It's the option I'm leaning toward right now.

In the meantime, I remember the charger I used to be. Suiting up and heading out even if temperatures were close to freezing. I ran outside one December evening about 5 years back and wondered why my hands were steadily going numb, despite the thin gloves I wore. I shook them throughout the route and gradually they warmed. When I got home, I checked the temperature. It was only 15 degrees. I was so focused on the workout that I didn't check conditions first.

I've gained some weight, and have to watch my calorie intake even more closely. Perhaps the rowing machine is the answer, and will give me a good outlet. My next medical appointment is in May. If I'm not running by then, I will discuss options with my doctor. Perhaps a referral to an orthopedist, and some physical therapy. If nothing else, this injury has taught me some patience. But I do miss it. Running has been many things to me. Stress release, treatment for my heart murmur, a mood raiser and a decent hedge against anxiety. A constant companion and refuge since my early teens. I'm not ready to bid it farewell just yet.

New Short Story: Florid

My new short story, "Florid", is out now in the autumn issue of Escapism Literary Magazine.

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https://issuu.com/escapismliterarymag/docs/escapism-03

Silver Age

There was a time when I could climb walls
Hurl flame
Leap between mountain peaks
Lift trucks over my head and run
                                                           Acrossthecountryinamatterofseconds

I was drunk on such power
In my prime I used it to help them
Saving lives
Gratitude and wonder poured from their faces
My name in the headlines
Fame opened all the doors
To world leaders, celebrity, women
Excess, disillusionment, regret

Almost i m p e r c e p t i b l y ...

I began to ignore their cries
Nearby, and those across the seas
Yet I could hear them all
They were rebuke, condemnation
In desperation I used an ice pick to stab at my ears
The relief last only moments as my body swiftly healed

My favorite dreams are filled with scenes
Of mundane existence
A normal life never lived

Many years later, I am not so impressive
My hair grays like theirs
Islands of pain bloom in my sinews
I drown out the cries with television and music
A white noise machine while I sleep
I tell the press to stay away
There are no more pronouncements
Lofty rhetoric rings falsely these days
I live a hermit's life
Far away--but never far enough

Last month I hiked Everest
Alone, without oxygen
I reached the summit in three hours
Before, it would've taken mere minutes
The view was amazing
But it was cold, and I was tired