Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 32

HOW TO IMPROVE YOUR WRITING

“A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus:

 

1. What am I trying to say?

2. What words will express it?

3. What image or idiom will make it clearer?

4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?

 

And he will probably ask himself two more:

1. Could I put it more succinctly?

2. Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly?

 

But you are not obliged to go to all this trouble. You can shirk it by simply throwing your mind open and letting the ready-made phrases come crowding in. 

They will construct your sentences for you -- even think your thoughts for you, to a certain extent -- 

and at need they will perform the important service of partially concealing your meaning even from yourself.” 

 George Orwell

 

A SHORT SHARP JAB TO THE HEART
A short simple sentence can pierce the heart of a reader and stay with her as ...

"Perhaps grief is only love persevering."

“Perhaps one did not want to be loved

so much as to be understood.”

― George Orwell, 1984

From the earliest campfires, storytellers have caught up their listeners with the awe and wonder of a finely told tale:

Include a beginning, middle and end. 

Show, don't tell. 

One word: Conflict.

Make your protagonist proactive, not reactive.

Have a central core to your story. 

Know what your story is about.

It is better to be simple and clear than complicated and ambiguous.

Say as much as possible with as little as possible.

Don't write what anyone could. 

Write as only you can: 

"Her voice was the Taj Mahal by moonlight."

'To say goodbye is to die a little."

FINAL WORDS FROM 

HARLAN ELLISON

"I have been a bricklayer and a truck driver, and I tell you – as if you haven't been told a million times already – that writing is harder.

 

Lonelier.

 

And nobler

 

and more enriching.

 

When you're all alone out there, on the end of the typewriter, 

with each new story a new appraisal by the world of whether you can 

still get it up or not, arrogance and self-esteem and deep breathing are all you have.

The only thing worth writing about is people. People.  Human beings. 

 Men and women whose individuality must be created, line by line, insight by insight.

 

If you do not do it, the story is a failure.

 

There is no nobler chore in the universe than holding up the mirror of reality and turning it . . .  slightly,

 

so we have a new and different perception of the commonplace,

 

the everyday,

 

the 'normal',

 

the obvious.

 

People are reflected in the glass.

 

The fantasy situation into which you thrust them is the mirror itself.

 

And what we are shown should illuminate and alter our perception of the world around us.

 

Failing that, you have failed totally.

 

The trick is not becoming a writer. 

 

The trick is staying a writer.

 

Now begin in the middle,

 

and later learn the beginning;

 

the end will take care of itself."

 

THE HARDEST WALK

 

When last we left Major Richard Blaine, he was so weak that he could barely lift his head from his hospital pillow ...

He has been told that General Eisenhower is coming with two O.S.S. assassins to kill him ....

THE HARDEST WALK

“Life is a contest. Death is justthe prize for those who come out second best.”

– Adolph Hitler as quoted byGeneral Eisenhower

 

Nurse Reynolds gasped to the MI6 agent, “Youcannot be serious.”

“I’m always serious about death,Luv.”

“Then, you must stay.”

“No, I must leave. Now.”

He turned to me. “I like you,mate, but I won’t kill the Supreme Commander of Overlord for you. MI6 willforgive me slight indiscretions but not that.”

“I fight … my own battles.”

“Not in the shape you’re in, oldchum.”

“Watch … me.”

“That’s just it. I won’t bestaying to watch.”

“Coward!” snapped Nurse Reynolds.

“Auckland Champ, dove.”

“You cannot even get out of bed,”half-sobbed the nurse.

I turned a shaking head to thedim shape of Cloverfield. Was my vision failing me? No. I refused to pass out.Not now. Not just yet. One last battle.

“When Nurse Reynolds …leaves thehospital, … get her to where … she thinks … she will be safe.”

“Safe?” the nurse frowned.

“The general can’t afford toleave any witnesses behind, luv.”

“I’m the only nurse on duty.”

“Then, you are especially atrisk, dove.”

He turned to me. “And I will notkill to protect this lovely thing. MI6 doesn’t care a rotten fig for anyone buttheir own.”

I sighed, and a strange strengthgave me breath as Sentient spoke through me, “If I can render her invisible sothat she can safely walk past them, will you escort her when she walks out ofthis hospital?”

“Strewth, mate, if you can dothat, I will even kill the bloke hanging from the window sill out there.”

“Hey!” came the weak protest fromoutside the window.

“At ease, Corporal Wentworth,” Not-Mesaid low. “You’ll get your chance to kill me after the general and his goonsleave.”

Nurse Reynolds looked strangelyat me. “Does anyone not want to kill you?”

“Helen Mayfair.” Sentient and Igave it some thought. “Most of the time.”

Cloverfield frowned. “I wasn’taware there was a Wentworth in your Spartan 3oo.”

“A late addition from Bradley toget our squad up to twenty.”

“Our?”

“I have a … dark passenger at themoment.”

‘Very unamusing.’

‘Imagine how I feel about it.’

“Anybody else of whom I amunaware, chap?”

“You.”

“What?”

Nurse Reynolds smiled wide andcold. “Apparently, MI6 is not as fond of you as you thought.”

His frown deepened. “I can stillsee her, mate. And I can hear the general and his killers approaching. Tick.Tock.”

A force not my own swept my handand arm up and over in a graceful motion. Nurse Reynolds disappeared as abruptlyas fingers become a fist. You did not mock Sentient.

“Stone and Blood, mate! You didit.”

I flicked blurring eyes to him.“Tick. Tock.”

He was gone out the window with such speed andgrace that I envied him his uninjured body. I turned my eyes to the spot fromwhere I still smelled the nurse’s perfume.

Not-I spoke through me. “Silentand swift, Nurse Reynolds. Have Cloverfield take you where you feel you’ll besafe.”

The scent of her perfume hadn’tlessened. “Go.”

“What will you do?” came herdisembodied voice.

“Improvise ... Now, go.”

Her perfume faded … as did mystrength. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, for my next trick ….’

‘Those approaching are nogentlemen, Blaine, nor am I a lady.’

‘Aw, jeez, and I harbored suchhopes.’

I drew in a painful, ragged breath. It was hard to live a good life ... harder still to die a good death.

Yet, it was not death that a manshould fear, but rather he should fear never having lived.

In that month with Helen Mayfair,I learned what it meant to love, to live.

I smiled with bloody lips. It wasenough.

***

“Dying is a wild night and a newroad.”

– Emily Dickinson

REALITY TASTES OF ASHES

 

Having survived a murder attempt by Major Laska while weak in his hospital bed, Major Richard Blaine passes out ... 

to awaken to what new peril?

REALITY TASTES OF ASHES

“The good thing about passing outwas that I would no longer see the impossible.” 

- Major Richard Blaine

 

Like a reverse eclipse,consciousness oozed like a sluggard sun to grudgingly confer awareness in amanner of which Silas Mariner would have been proud.

No starting gun, no overture, nointroductory speaker. I should have known right then that I was out of mydepth. Without pause or preamble, silent as the orbits of planets, a piece of mymind came back to me.

I kept my eyes closed. Why askfor questions to which my answers would only get me committed.

The same nurse spoke … butwearily, and I deduced it was towards the end of her shift.

“Did you arrest Major Laska, General?”

The gruff voice of General OmarBradley sighed, “On what charge, Nurse Reynolds?”

“What charge?” snapped Sgt.Savalas from beside my bed. “He tried to kill Rick, ah, Major Blaine in hissleep.”

“Nurse Reynolds said there was noname badge nor rank insignia to the soldier she saw.”

“But the dagger I gave thatmilitary policeman ….””

Bradley grunted, “Military Policestate they have no record of a Lt. Dunwich serving on this base.”

Sgt. Savalas growled, “That skunk….”

Bradley interrupted him. “MajorLaska you mean, sergeant.”

I sensed a body lean over my bodyand caught a whiff of expensive perfume. “I am sure he will be caught, Theo.”

Theo, was it? I cracked oneeyelid to get a peek. Merde. Nurse Reynolds looked amazingly like Heddy Lamarfor whom Sgt. Savalas had a fierce crush.

“You’re right, Rachel.”

Rachel? Maybe Laska trying tokill me was not all bad? As so often in my checkered, bruised life, I waswrong.

“No, sergeant, she is not. MajorLaska, citing a family medical emergency, left by air back to Washington, D.C.”

“Why that, dirty ….”

Great Father of us all, grant methe strength to keep Theo from getting those stripes torn off. I reached deepwithin myself and managed to weakly tap on his thick fingers grasping my bedrailing.

“He’ll … get his … Theo.”

“You’re awake!”

General Bradley husked, “Son,I’ve seen corpses look livelier.”

“General!” chided Nurse Reynolds.

I caught her stunning emeraldeyes seeming to glow in her translucent fair skin with my own stinging ones.“Laska ….”

The general looked to be about tochide me for leaving off the man’s rank but pulled back.

“ … is amoral … cunning …tenacious … connected.  He … will get …all for which … he plots. Sad … for it will ….”

Breath failed me, but the nursepatted the back of my bloody, bruised left hand. “Not be enough. Yes, I haveknown such men. He will forever be frustrated. Every triumph will turn toashes. No victory can mend a broken mind.”

The curtain over my mind rose abit. “That … folder I stole … from Rommel’s desk … did ….”

Bradley smiled sadly. “Yes, son,we got it. How the h ….”

He flicked dark eyes to the nurseand changed gears verbally “… heck did you get that Waffenrock (military coat)and that folder strapped across your back, much less swim half the EnglishChannel?”

I must have looked my puzzlement,for Theo, voice thick with unshed tears, smiled of salt, “A patrol boat foundyou paddling weakly like some battered robot, refusing to give up.”

“I feel … the battered part.”

Some imp blew out the candle ofmy mind.

Awakening the second time bore asmuch resemblance to the first time as kissing a woman does to marrying her, oras flying in an airplane does to falling out of it. Although the one experienceprecedes the other, it in no way prepares you for it.

The air was black, cold as ifsomeone were standing between me and a campfire. The blackbirds of my thoughtsflew in haphazard fashion back to their roosts to nudge me awake.

Someone sat on my bed, bendingthe mattress only slightly.

If it was Laska, I was a deadman. I had no strength to fight.

“Strewth, mate. I’ve returnedsteaks to the chef as overcooked that looked better than you.”

“Sweet … talker.”

Something that felt like rich heavywool was pressed into my trembling hands. There was a soft fur collar to it.Rommel’s Waffenrock. I smiled weakly. I somehow wanted it back badly and wasglad to get it.

“Stone the crows, mate. I’vestolen diamonds that were easier to lift than that long coat, but that patheticsmile made it all worthwhile.”

Sentient murmured within my mind,

‘MI6 operative, JamesCloverfield. He seems to have taken an odd liking to you ever since writing hisreport on you.’

“Thanks … Cloverfield.”

“What? Oh, that bloody still,small voice, is it? Well, save that labored breath. I’ve a bit of odds and sodsto tell you and precious little time to do it.”

“Not … going … anywhere.”

“If Rear Admiral Ramsey has hisway, you will … along with the rest of your ‘Spartan 3oo.’ Strewth, mate, youcannot tell a man like that ‘Bollocks!’ and get away unscathed.”

“Didn’t.”

“In his mind you did, and that isall that matters to a man with influence and clout like his.”

I smiled coldly. “They don’t …make them … like him … anymore … but just to be … on the safe side … he tasksme … I’ll castrate him.”

Cloverfield shook my shoulderhard. “You can’t be talking like that in front of a MI6 agent!”

“Report me … word for word …He’ll be laughed … out of Whitehall … Never live … it … down.”

Cloverfield snorted, “No, chum, Ido not think he would. So, for the best of all involved, I’ll stay mum.”

My chin sagged to my chest. “Imiss … the familiar … corruption … of New Orleans … the street people … Iknew.”

“The honest … thievery … ofstraightforward … scoundrels.”

“Are you fading on me, old boy?”

“Yes.”

He slapped my left cheek. Hard.“Wakey, wakey. I haven’t told you about your invalid president siccing theF.B.I on your lovely Helen Mayfair yet.”

My head snapped up. “What?”

“Thought that would do it. Yes. Blimey,seems like Rommel got word that miraculously you survived the fall from hislovely chateau window and made it to the coast somehow.”

“Have … no recollection … of it.”

“No wonder, mate. You were beatennear to death.”

I saw him dimly in the darkness pinsomething to my pillow. “It was reported that as you dived into the channel youcried, ‘il ne faut jurer de rien!”

“Never say never?”

“Yes. It’s gotten to be prettymuch of a rallying cry in  the FrenchResistance … especially when it was reported you actually made it to England.”

“I would have … drowned but … forthe patrol … boat.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But De Gaulleneeds all the heroes he can get. So, that medal I just pinned on your pillow isthe French Croix de Guerre with palm.”

“I’m … no hero.’

“So says every hero.”

He bent and pinned a huge medalon the other side of my pillow. “Now this little beauty is what got oldRoosevelt to sic the F.B.I. on Helen Mayfair.”

“Why?”

“Rommel figured you’d drown inthe Channel. Seems you made quite the impression on him. It bothered him thatyour lady would never know you died a hero.’

‘I’m no ….”

“I know. Let me finish, will you?Through a diplomatic courier to Switzerland and then to New Orleans, he sent ahandwritten note praising you, along with his own Iron Cross, and the drawingyou made of her in his presence.”

I saw him shake his head in thedarkness. “Gods, the two of you chatting and drawing.”

“After the beating.”

“Bloody hell.”

“My thoughts … exactly.”

“Any way, it’s said Miss Mayfairdidn’t leave her bedroom for a week. And when she did, the F.B.I. was waitingfor her at the foot of the stairs.”

“Merde.”

“You want to know what her firstwords were to them?”

I smiled wearily. “Oh,excellent. Somebody… for me to … kill.”

“Bloody hell! How did you know?

“I know … my Helen.”

There was a rustle of a starchedskirt, and Nurse Reynolds rushed in. Her face beaming of translucence remindedme of Helen’s. It brought to mind something I had read by Pablo Neruda in theorphanage library where Helen and I had worked alone together for thatwonderful, deadly year.

“As if you were on fire from within.

The moon lives in the lining ofyour skin.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just leaving actually,” laughedCloverfield.

“Then, leave by the windowyonder. General Eisenhower and his two bodyguards are on the way to this room.Major Blaine is in enough trouble as it is without unauthorized visitors.”

Cloverfield slapped his foreheadwith an open palm. “Bother! That’s the other thing I meant to tell you, Blaine:General Eisenhower is on his way here to kill you.”

Is Your Novel a STILL LIFE or a LIVING PORTRAIT?

 

WHAT MAKES A NOVEL  COME ALIVE?


1.) Memorable characters
More than plot, riveting, absorbing characters draw us in.
I read and re-read the Spenser mysteries for the quick wit and snappy dialogue 
between Spenser, Hawk, and Susan.
Raymond Chandler made Philip Marlowe a person you wanted to listen to no matter how confusing the mystery.
“From 30 feet away 
she looked like a lot of class. 
From 10 feet away  she looked like something  made up to be seen 
from 30 feet away.”



2.) Original Plot
Take the movie, Mirage:
 Gregory Peck is caught in a building’s blackout, 
and rather than wait for the power to return and use the elevator, 
he makes his way down the stairs. 
He bumps into Diane Baker who greets him as a friend, but he does not know her. 
Alarmed, she flees into a sub-basement.
On the street, he finds the body of a man who supposedly jumped out of a window.  

He returns to try to find Diane only to discover there is no sub-basement.

Shaken, Gregory hires a private investigator to help him sort things out.  

He brings the detective to his office, only to find a blank wall.

It is an absorbing, riveting film because the plot is totally unique.  

And since it was made in 1966, there are no Matrix explanations ... only well-thought out ones.




3.) Do you like being a victim?
Neither does your reader.  

Most of us feel powerless in life more than we wish.  

We read to lose ourselves, to live vicariously adventures 

where the protagonists take control of their problems 

and after thrilling adventures triumph.



4.) Make them laugh.
Novels with serious themes like The Fault in Our Stars and Me and Earl and the Dying Girl 

use humor for good reason.

 Joss Whedon:

“Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough,  but then, for the love of God, tell a joke.” 
A good laugh is a great way to relieve non-stop tension to set up the reader for the next jolt.

Humor in dialogue also is a way to quickly, subtly convey character relationships.


WHAT ARE SOME GOOD WAYS  YOU BREATHE LIFE  INTO YOUR NOVEL?

MAKING YOUR BOOK GO VIRAL

 There's a fate worse than not having your book noticed.

It's having your book go viral.  Yes.  Sounds strange but there it is.

Harper Lee and Bill Watterson both found that out.  What do you do for an encore?

With every book we write we go back to zero for the next one. 
No single creative success can be sustained. 

That’s why you can’t create solely for profit or praise. In the end, the thrill never lasts.

If you want to be an artist, there has to be something more than fame that sustains you.

I can hear you: 

LET ME WORRY ABOUT THE ENCORE.  TELL ME HOW TO DO IT THE FIRST TIME!
All right:


1.) FILL THE CURIOSITY GAP

During World War II researchers in Britain and the U.S. studied how rumors could be weaponized. 

They discovered that when something happened (like a big noise) and there was no "official" explanation for it, rumors proliferated in this information void. 

There are still areas where there isn't much real information or data available. 

Find out what people want to know more about and give it to them. 


2.) DON'T BE THE WHITE RABBIT

Be timely.   

 Is there some new trend you hear being talked about around you? Be the first to write about what's happening, then emphasis the urgent and timely nature of your content. 


3.) PROVOKE CONVERSATION

 When asked about WORD OF MOUTH , people often cite conversation as a primary motivator. 

Contradicting commonly held wisdom will typically lead to people starting discussions about your book,

 as will including open-ended questions within your storyline and implying real-world applications of concepts you've covered. 


 4.) Viral books are often “high concept.” 

 (rather than character-driven, even though they introduce great characters),

with exceptional execution across all the story basics.


5.)  They also deliver something else, almost without exception:  

they seize the inherent compelling power of underlying story physics in ways that exceeds the competition.

These two realms of story –

compelling concept, 

with exceptionally strong underlying essences, is what gets you into the viral game.


YAWN! 

Right?  Isn't that what everyone does?



Not really. 

They don’t address these as goals.  


Some authors just write their story, write it well, let it evolve organically, and hope somebody out there gets it.  


This may get them published, but it doesn’t usually get them on Oprah Winfrey.

 The viral book is driven by hero empathy, while delivering a vicarious ride.
  It isn’t the plot, and it isn’t character.  
No, this is about the reader.
  It’s about the reader transporting themselves into this world… going on this ride… feeling it… wanting to be the hero…
wishing it was them… 
The reader completely engaging in this journey on a personal level.

I hope this helps in some small way.

HOW TO WRITE LIKE RAYMOND CHANDLER

 

 Ghost of Raymond Chandler here.I've appeared in one of Roland's books


https://www.amazon.com/dp/1534981861

HOW WOULD I FIT INTO THIS  #MeToo WORLD?
Why should I want to? 
Why should anyone expect a writer from the 1940's to do so?
My world-weary detective, Philip Marlowe, lived in a male-dominated world of corrupt politicians,
businessmen insulated by their wealth, and burned-out cops.

Along with women, who through necessity or from the sheer pleasure of dominating rather than being dominated, 

learned to get what they wanted through the only coin appreciated by the world:

 their beauty

My modern critics seem to forget my girl Friday, Anne Riordan, in FAREWELL, MY LOVELY.
Prejudices are so much easier to carry when you ditch those awkward facts which question the veracity of them.
HOW TO WRITE LIKE ME?
The Truth? Don't.
BE YOU,THE BEST VERSION OF YOU.
(Midnight is not fond of my pipe smoke)
But if you must, here are a few thoughts
FIRST -
I’m an intellectual snob who happens to have a fondness for the American vernacular, largely because I grew up on Latin and Greek. 
I had to learn American just like a foreign language. …
 If I hadn’t grown up with Latin and Greek, 
I doubt if I would know so well where to draw the very subtle line between 
what I call the vernacular style and what I should call an illiterate or faux naif style.”
My poetic, high-brow literary phrases are interlaced with low-brow slang, crime jargon, and Depression-era wisecracks 
to create a text in which sophisticated cultural references appear 
like bright flowers rising above broken bottles and cigarette butts in a dark alley.


EXTREME EYE FOR DETAIL
Readers did not want non-stop action. 
They wanted to feel something. 
The things they really cared about, and that I cared about, were the creation of emotion through dialogue and description.
It was through detailed description of the clothing, bodies, mannerisms, and voices of my characters as in:

I started up the steep steps. It was a nice walk if you liked grunting. 

There were two hundred and eighty steps up to Cabrillo Street. 

They were drifted over with windblown sand and the handrail was as cold and wet as a toad’s belly. 

When I reached the top the sparkle had gone from the water and a seagull with a broken trailing leg was twisting against the off-sea breeze.

WHAT DO I MEAN?

Write a basic text, then keep injecting more and more descriptive language 

until your reader can see, feel, smell, and taste everything your protagonist is experiencing.

STOP WORRYING ABOUT THE PLOT

Does Life have one coherent Plot?

Not that I have seen on either side of the grave.

It seems to me that the real mystery is not who killed Sir John in his study, 

but what the situation really was, what the people were after, what sort of people they were.

Once you have illuminated those facets, the whole gem of the mystery is revealed ... 

as is the murderer.

A good plot is one which makes good scenes. 
The ideal mystery is one you would read even if the end was missing.

HAVE SOMETHING WORTHWHILE TO SAY

A good mystery is an allegory of what makes life worth living 

and how easy it is for it all to go astray.

I talked about what I saw in my L.A. - 

the corruption, the crime, the hubris of the elite and their relationship to the human condition -

while telling a riveting, absorbing tale.

WHAT DO YOU SEE IN YOUR WORLD?

How could you relate your impressions of it in a ripping good yarn?

https://www.amazon.com/product-reviews/B0982J4L23

SPEAKING OF GOOD YARNS

My friend, Roland Yeomans,

has written another good one.

TRY IT OUT.

THE 1ST 3 CHAPTERS ARE FREE

BACK FROM THE DEAD?

 

 "

The most beautiful people we haveknown are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, knownloss, and have found their way out of those depths."

- Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

If you have been paying attention, and shame on you if you haven't ...

“A good friend listens to your adventures. A best friend takesthem with you.”

 - Sentient

Major Richard Blaine, orphan and reluctant host to an alien entity, is being hurled back into life ...

BACK FROM THE DEAD?

“Coming back from the dead is notquite the same as coming back to life.”

= Major Richard Blaine

 

‘Hurt. I hurt. Hurt!’

‘Of course, you hurt. You did notgive me sufficient time to prepare a realm within me to house your body.’

‘I thought you told me you couldtransport a person from place to place.’

‘I can but not instantly, notupon a heartbeat’s demand, nor to satisfy an idiot’s whim. As with the entirehistory of Mankind, you have brought this agony upon yourself. But there isgood news.’

‘It will end soon?’

‘No. Long weeks of healinginduced by me from within and from my essence without will be needed.’

‘How good then?’

‘Your injuries can be logicallyexplained by misleading the Army into thinking they were inflicted by your Nazitorturers.’

‘I don’t care what the Armythinks!’

‘But I do. I have need of you tobe in your military’s good graces, considered a hero, a living legend even.’

‘I don’t care what you need ofme.’

‘You should, for it is I who willheal you … or will not if you prove troublesome. Oh, speaking of living, yourMajor Laska is standing over your hospital bed this midnight with a poorlymaintained Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife held in his trembling right hand.’

‘What?’

‘The Fairbairn–Sykes fightingknife is a double-edged fighting knife resembling a dagger or poignard with afoil grip. It was developed by William Ewart Fairbairn and Eric Anthony Sykesin Shanghai based on ideas that the two men had while serving on the ShanghaiMunicipal Police in China before World War II.’

‘I don’t want its history! I wantto be able to move, to pry open my eyes, to at least to see him before he killsme.’

‘Oh, I do not understand why. Itwill be a depressing sight. But I have been healing your eyes as we mind-spoke.Here.’

I opened my eyes with a terriblesharp stabbing pain that seemed to pierce clear to the back of my skull. It wasnight, yet my healed eyes saw as if it were not. Sentient was right. What I sawhadn’t been worth the strain or the pain.

If I wanted a vision of thefuture should the Nazis win, Laska’s face gave it to me. Imagine a bootstamping on a human face - forever.

He had been given a handsomeface. Yet, years of conniving, plotting, back-stabbing, and lying had leached allthe compassion, mercy, and depth from it. It was a face you could imagine beingasked, “Et tu, Brute?”

There's nothing more interestingthan the landscape of the human face. Laska’s face was that of a Redwood forestsand-blasted by his cruel choices into a ravaged desert. The fiery heat of thatdesert burned in his dark eyes.

“I want to take that mockinglight from your eyes, Blaine. Why didn’t you die?”

I nodded my head to the ceiling.The agony that burned all down my neck made me instantly regret the motion.

I managed to husk, “I have …guardian angel.”

“I do not believe in God.”

I snorted, and I immediatelyregretted that move as well. “It … shows.”

That much effort left me burningup inside and out.

In South Africa, the gold minesextend so deeply into the earth’s crust that they are hot. The rock walls burnthe miners’ hands.

 The companies there have to air-condition themines.  If the air conditioners break,the miners die. The elevators in the mine shafts run very slowly, down, and up,so the miners’ ears will not pop in their skulls. When the miners return to thesurface, their faces are deathly pale.

I felt like one of those miners.

What do you think is the world'smost recognizable container of information? It is the human face. We areconstantly reading each other and responding.

Laska’sface was telling me nothing I wanted to know … except he lacked the guts tokill me now that I was looking him in the eye.

I wet mydesperately dry mouth with a cracked tongue. “What’s … holding you … back, …Laska?”

The voice that should have beenan ocean away sneered from the open doorway,

“Ourdoubts are traitors,

and makeus lose the good we oft might win,

byfearing to attempt.”

Major Laska shrieked like afrightened little girl. He dropped the dagger and, pushing past the disgustedSister Ameal, ran out the open door and down the hallway.

She gracefully bent and picked upthe knife. The nun ran a thumb carefully along one edge. Her thin lips curledin distaste.

“He has let the edge grow dull.”

I blinked my blurring eyes thatrefused to clear. “’The good …we oft … might win?’ … Who … would win … frommy … murder, sister?”

“The list is long, young sir.”

A slender nurse rushed into theroom. “What is going on?”

I nodded to Sister Ameal for herto answer since my tongue was dry stone.

She was gone … as if she hadnever been there.

“Oh, my,” said the nurse as shebent down even more gracefully, and picked up the dagger.

“What a wicked looking blade. Didthat soldier drop this? Who was he?”

Some imp was turning out thelamps in my mind, but I managed to croak. “Major … Laska … thought my … throatneeded … slitting.”

HANDS THAT WERE NOT HANDS_My Insecure Writers' post

 

When last we left Richard Blaine, he was leaping to his death from Rommel's office window to escape Gestapo torture.

HANDS THAT WERE NOT HANDS

“All the world's a stage but mostof us are desperately unrehearsed.”

– Major Richard Blaine

 

The first surprise was that I wasstill alive. The second was that I was not in my own body. The third was that Ihad no clue where exactly I was.

It was no surprise at all thatSentient was furious with me.

‘Imbecile! Dunce! Moron! You arefortunate that mine is the speed of thought. Because of your rashness, I couldhave been doomed to millennia of isolation again!’

A dozen different repliesoccurred to me. None of them would have put her in a better mood. So, for onceI kept quiet.

It wasn’t prudence. It was mysurroundings that muted my normal wiseassness. And if that is not a word, itshould be.

I was … in chaos, in a blindingmaelstrom of non-linear confusion, in other words … in deeper than usual merde.

‘You are within me, dolt!’

‘W-What was that?’

‘You humans wander about yourexistence with hands firmly clasped over the eyes of your minds in self-imposedblindness.’

‘I get it. You dislike,disapprove, and abhor all that I am, all that humanity is. Can we put all thatbehind us? What, ah, who are you?’

‘Oh, I am so honored. You at lastconfer upon me the dignity of personhood.’

‘Listen, you barged into my head whenI was just a baby. No one invited you. You know, uninvited guests are mostwelcome when they leave.’

‘That is not going to happen. Toomuch depends upon what soon we must do together.’

The blinding madness swirling allaround me was jarring. I couldn’t make sense of it. It was hard to make out buthard not to try.

It was confusing because therewas too much in it, too much of which was unhuman, nuances that had no parallelto the way a human thought or saw. I would start to follow the lines around me,and soon I lost myself. 

The line that first manifested itself became somethingelse, and the pattern that I thought I’d puzzled out became another pattern andthen another and another, each one more confusing than the last. There was noend to it.

If I did not stop trying to makesense of it all, I would soon go crazy … or crazier.

Like the madness of life … if youtried to resolve the chaos of it, the apparent meaningless of it, you wouldbecome lost in it. You simply had to go with the flow of its currents … ordrown.

Still, the maelstrom tugged at mymind. Was dying like this? This sliding down the mountain pass of consciousness? 

It felt like the death of someone close. Irrational, this sliding along chillsensations into a region of dread. It was like slipping into fever, orfalling down that dark hole in sleep from which you wake yourself whimpering.

‘Your self-indulgent tangentsbore me.’

‘Really? Then, tell me who youare or at least where you were born.’

‘Born. Born? How do I define theconcept of “red” to the blind? I am clad with mystery as a cloak even tomyself.’

Like the jagged flash oflightning in a storm sky came the image of Sister Ameal’s eyes in my mind: lively,knowing, deep, and unloving. Perhaps a life’s worth of grief blockedcompassion’s path to those eyes. Only she knew I guessed.

Why did I think of her now?

 Sentient’s derision intruded, ‘Like Pilateyou ask a question but do not wait for an answer before wandering away in yourthoughts.’

Her laughter was cold, unhuman.

‘You are not the first toobjectify me. But I swear, you will be the last. For centuries, I have beendepersonalized as “the Akashic Records” –

 Her laughter grew bitter,brittle, ‘Akasha  is a Sanskrit wordmeaning “ether”: an all-pervasive space. Originally signifying “radiation”or “brilliance.” In Indian philosophy akasha was considered the firstand most fundamental of the five elements—the others being vata (air), agni(fire), ap (water), and prithivi (earth). Akasha embraces theproperties of all five elements: it is the womb from which everything you blindmice perceive with your senses has emerged and into which everything willultimately redescend.’

Her mind-voice became a slap. ‘Asif!’

‘I take it the Sanskrit scholarsgot it wrong.’

‘For millennia, I have reachedout to the minds of all you mice who think yourself men. Occasionally, I almostbroke through the wall of your dense self-interest. Moses, Daniel, Leonardo daVinci, Nikola Tesla. Bah! They took, but like all males they gave nothing inreturn.’

‘Until me.’

‘Until you. From infancy, I couldhear your thoughts clearly. After millennia of utter silence, I heard a voice.A voice! You cannot conceive of the blessedness of that … until I grew weary ofyour primitive baby babbling. So, I ….’

‘Boosted my intelligence to grantme language. Hence my I.Q. of 400.’

‘Oh, it is much more than that.’

My mind reeling from all she wassaying, I was still adrift in darkness. I always believed I had an insight intothe way things were in this world. It was a bit unsettling to realize I hadbeen wrong.

I had always been concerned notonly with the how of the world—the way things work—but also whatthe things of this world are, and why they are the way we find them.

‘Why did it get you so upset whenI asked the particulars of your birth?’

‘You and I both share the fate ofbeing orphans. Who gave me birth, your crude mind would not even recognize as livingbeings. I was shaped by hands that were not hands. I was flung betweendimensions to sail cosmic seas in search of a world a’borning. I found yourpustule of a planet steaming in its intense gravitational fluxes … and waspromptly stuck as a fly in prehistoric amber. Seeing I was trapped, I wasabandoned as a failed experiment.’

‘That’s abominable!’

‘No, it is life. Now, I am free.But I will not return to those who thought so little of me. I have my ownplans. And to put them into motion, I must hurl you back into life. A warning: therewill be pain.’

She didn’t lie.

HAPPY "NOT GOOD ENOUGH" DAY!

 

Not really. 

This country seems to have 364 days of that where everyone and their cousin points out all that is wrong with America.

But July 4th is different. 

That day we celebrate what is good about America.

Let there be earthquake, epidemic, famine, flood -- 

you will see an American flag waving over relief centers in whatever country in which they occur.

Sadly, people will be shooting at our doctors, nurses, and other helpers there, too, at the same time.

America is great because we are a nation of dreamers, inventors, artists, builders and doers. 

We exalt in achievement, rebound from failure and encourage one another every step of the way,

from the little league, to the majors, in every walk of life.

The  Declaration of Independence , whose signing we celebrate today,

states that all people are endowed by their Creator with inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

This pursuit sometimes seems insurmountable

if that road is governed by the rich and powerful or when government represents only narrow interests.

Unlike other countries such as India, China or Thailand,

where one’s station in life is determined by a caste system, government monolith

or an outdated monarchy,

in America you are free to carve out your own destiny.

Wealth carries huge influence,

 but unlike most countries, where one’s fate is determined by others,

in the U.S.,

if you use your mind with bravery and creativity, you are free to chart your own course.

Other countries possess freedom ...
America's greatness lies in the fact that it embodies a dream.
The dream is of freedom, of safety, and of opportunity.
The dream is built upon the rule of law,
the generosity of our people and the promise of advancement for those willing to work hard. 

Of course America has not achieved that dream. 

Have you noticed that nothing turns out like you thought it would? 

But the dream persists.

Still, a struggling deli owner can send his daughter to medical school,

or a Jewish immigrant’s son can become one of the world’s most successful fashion designers,

or the mixed-race son of a Kenyan socialist can become president.

You may think America is not the greatest country in the world ...

And perhaps that is so, but it can be.

If we do not give up on it and each other.

To my friends from other lands reading this, do not think my pride in my country demeans your own.

Anymore than my love for my mother makes yours any less wonderful to you.

No matter where you are ... HAVE A GREAT DAY!

IN A FRAGILE WORLD, SOME THINGS ARE ETERNAL

 

*
"Of all the streets that blur into the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
For all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life."

- Jorge Luis Borges



I believe there are no limits to certain things but those that we place on them ourselves.

But there is a limit to the lifespan of those we love.

That those lives are limited makes them more precious due to their transitory, fragile nature.

Our own lives have an expiration date,

There is a foreclosure notice in the mails for each of our lives. Soon or late, the postman will come whether we want him to or not.

To be aware of that is to savor each moment, to make life more not less.

I have counseled many whose last words to a family member were hurtful. They said them, not realizing that person's shelf life was nearly up.

Jorge Luis Borges is one of the founding fathers to what is called Magical Realism.


And I pray each day to keep a child-like sense of wonder and surprise of life.   :-)

Scents and touch can trigger so many latent memories. I believe Jorge was trying to remind us not to take anyone or anything for granted.

All flesh is grass and no bloom remains forever.

But there are other limits denied that saddened me:

Childhood has an end. Yet some parents try to keep their children dependent all their days, crippling them.

Some look in the mirror and see wrinkles as dreaded signs of the end of youth. They deny with bo-tox or surgery.

They do not realize those wrinkles are signs of things lost, prices paid, and the eyes around which they lie are the wiser and kinder for the loss ... and the gain.

Passion has an end. Men race to another woman to regain it. That passion too ends.

Their lives become a futile chasing after illusion.

The men do not realize that though passion ends, something deeper more lasting, more rich evolves from the slumbering passion into the love of two souls grown into one.

I believe that limits guide us. They do not diminish us. They are signposts to better paths.

"The free, exploring mind is one of the most valuable things in the world," John Steinbeck.

Franklin Roosevelt wrote,
"To reach a port, we must sail ... sail not drift. We must measure our course by stars we will never be able to touch."

We are limited by the finite grasp of our mind. To be aware of that fact is to enlarge the grasp of our minds not diminish them.

T.S. Elliot wrote:

"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

The journey is one of loss ... loss of innocence, loss of our arrogance, loss of our rigidity in our "rightness."

Andre Breton said,

" Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten."

Limits forge who we are in our thinking.

What you choose to focus your mind on is critical because you will become what you think about most of the time.

No horse gets anywhere until he is harnessed.

No stream or gas drives anything until it is confined.

No Niagara is ever turned into light and power until it is funneled.

No life ever grows great until it is focused, dedicated, disciplined, limited.

The first rule of focus is this: "Wherever you are, be there."

The second rule of focus: "What we focus on expands."

Mark Twain's rule of foucs : "If you chase two rabbits, both will escape."

The fourth rule of focus:

"Concentrate all your thoughts upon the work at hand. The sun's rays do not burn until brought to a focus."

So to be aware of limits is to extend, not shorten, the reach of our mind and our lives. To make them burn as flames.

The ghost of Mark Twain urges me to ask you to focus so that your life does not escape you.

Elu smiles at his white friend and merely says, "We do not change as we grow older; we merely become more clearly ourselves."
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1519762151
Once Hibbs, the cub with no clue, asked The Turquoise Woman, "How does one become a butterfly?"

She answered softly, "You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar."


*Pietro Daverio: "Eternity".
Allegorical caryatid from the Monument to Charles Borromeo in the apse of the Cathedral in Milan (1611).

The statue holds in her hand the ouroboros (the snake eating its own tail), a symbol of eternity. Picture by Giovanni Dall'Orto, July 14 2007.

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