caveat emptor

Hello. That's all.

Today I'm out of my normal routine, with no coffee shop time and no blog time. I'll be back tomorrow, I swear.

In the meantime, read some of the excellent blogs on the left -->

Hello, friends. I hope you're well today. See you tomorrow.

Later. Love.

Published?

I'm almost finished with my first book and, man, am I excited. What sort of book is it? Well, it's a little hard to explain. It's sort of a science fiction book, in a way, although I'm nowhere near hardcore scientific enough to pull off a true science fiction book. I tend to drift off into fancy and magic at times, too, so it's also a sort of fantasy book. I mean, it has those elements. Pretty cool so far, no?

Here's the thing, though. I sort of got hung up for about eight months on this one part where this psychologist woman from Seattle develops this complicated and, eventually, heart-warming relationship with a rugged, down-on-his-luck ex-cop from Phoenix, Arizona. So, it's sort of a romance. It's light-hearted, though, although ponderous in sections. Still, the romance is more of what you might call romantic comedy, I'm not sure.

Where it gets interesting, though, is where we find out that Boris, her patient, is in fact the man for whom he's searching, the man who killed his partner (and his wife) (and his partner's lovable, paraplegic kid). But Boris isn't just a man, he's a vampire.

Well, hold on, I don't want to give away the whole thing.

Man, I hope this book sells. I think the fact that it can go in several different genre sections can only be a plus from the marketing and visibility point of view. Plus, I gave it a title that's sure to be a hit. I've called it: Oprah Tells All: Women are from Venus and Boris is a Vampire. Awesome, right?

Look for it soon. I'm publishing it under the catchy nom de plume: Otawa F. Vabiav.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

(Oprah Tells All: Women are from Venus and Boris is a Vampire (© copyright 2006, A. Scott White. All rights reserved.) is in no way endorsed by or affiliated with Oprah Winfrey, Oprah's Book Club or any division of Harpo Productions, Inc.)

Vanishing Points

They say it started in water and it will end in fire. It's not really the end of everything, they mean, just the end of this. It will burn away and only good will be left. It's a recurring theme: burning away impurities, leaving the pure. But it starts in water.

I try to remember the water, the start of it all. I try to remember how it felt on my skin or the rocking of my body in the cradle of life. It's too dark in those places, though. I can't see that far when things are so unclear. I cannot remember.

They say it all started in fire and it will end in cold, deeper than you can imagine. It all started in one place, too close together. Since that moment of decision, it's been moving farther and farther apart, cooling off, getting darker. It's pretty far now, but it's not finished yet.

I try to remember that closeness, the heat of the fire. I try to remember the hurling chaos of the explosion, the burning churn of separation. It's too long ago, too distant. I can't remember if it's true, if that's the way it happened.

I picture hands, strong and gentle, holding me tiny and new. Delivering me from the womb? Earlier, maybe? Placing me in? It feels to me like it began in these hands. I see this man's body, broken and lifeless in the end, after the killing cold or the purging fire, and I can't tell if there's anything left. He floats, face-down, in the warm, endless, forgetful sea. Some say he stays there forever. Forgotten. Over. Some say it starts there again, in that water. Still others say those strong, gentle hands take him up again.

I try to imagine, try to peer ahead, always wonder how it will be, but the future blinds me with its brilliance and obscures my view in darkness all at once. In any case, water or fire, forgotten or remembered, I am content. I'm just so happy to be here.

Hello, friends. Sorry to wax pensive or ponderous lately. Silliness will return, I promise. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Newton and the Tree

Nothing moves me like Newton's laws move me. I find them irresistible. They keep me moving forward at one time, and give me assurance of rest at another. Thank you, Sir Isaac. I'm not sure there is a reaction equal to your action.

There's a small tree in our front yard, a slow-growing American Sweetgum tree. It was selected and planted by the builder, with no input from us, and it's been through hell. Neighborhood kids broke off one of its main branches when it was still in its first year, tearing a huge gash in the side. I thought it would certainly die, but it didn't. Then, a couple of years ago, it was bent to the ground and partially snapped during a sudden and violent windstorm that destroyed trees and fences throughout the neighborhood. I thought for sure the three-year-old tree was a goner then, but it mended and recovered. Today, scarred but standing straight, it continues to thrive in the front lawn. I could never bring myself to replace it at this point, not after everything it's been through. To be honest with you, I'm not sure if I'd be able to take it out even if I wanted to. This is a bad-ass tree, much tougher than me, I'm sure.

It's much easier to just leave the tree in place, an object at rest, and let me go about my way, an object in motion. We are opposite, but not equal.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

I Take Up Arms

When they hand me a fresh cup of coffee, I'm always compelled to lift it to my nose and, closing my eyes, smell deeply the rich aroma. It smells like earth and plenty, like centuries of culture and agriculture and science and art culminating in this random cup in this random place. "In those days there will be wars and rumors of wars," I've heard it said. I wonder how one pushes back against the clouds, draws the sunlight out of the unwilling sky. In days like these, a clever joke still brings tears of laughter and the chemical relief of joy. In days like these, we can still revel in reunions with friends long gone and in second and third and fourth chances, a never ending supply, for the fallible among us. Let the well never run dry.

In days like these I want to push my face down close to the earth and weed out the intruders in the garden, taking joy in the fullness of the smallness of my influence on the state of affairs in the world. I wonder how one pushes back against the clouds. Yet, even now, the voice of your child or the touch of your lover or the words of your friend can bring a smile or a flood of warmth. Is it lack of these mercies and joys that brings us to the brink, that pushes us to strike out with anger and hate? "This knowledge is too great for me, too lofty for me to attain."

I don't want to know what I cannot understand. I do not want to feel the weight of the burden I cannot bear. I'm not Atlas, so I shrug and go about my silly way. The ancient Greeks believed in gravity and levity, opposing forces. I take up arms for levity and stand my ground, gravity be damned. Some would call that lack of compassion, I suppose, but it feels like compassion to me.

I may be a simple fool, but I try to be good at it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.