C.K. Edwards's Blog

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Hey, not really updating this blog anymore. Using it to throw pics. I am updating a new blog five days a week. Check it out:

http://oliv-everything.blogspot.com/

Bad Writer

Christmas short story 2016

Merry Christmas! Here is this year's edition. I made a try at a romance this year!

It wasn't read by this Santa Elf, but she would have if she could.

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Pocket Holes is still out there. On Amazon to be exact, right here.

You can also check out the book that started it all, Pocket Hole, on Wattpad. I releasing it in a series.

Pocket Holes just came out

Yes, Pocket Holes.

It took me months to come up with that name.

It's on Amazon here.

You can also check out the book that started it all, Pocket Hole, on Wattpad. I am going to release it in a series.

That sounds fun, doesn't it? You know, a serial like the Flash Gordon movies back in the 30s. Buster Crabbe was the bomb, and who can't love a bad guy named Ming the Merciless? All of his evil was just a cry for help, in my opinion.

Actually, here is a page from the graphic novel that really started it all. Artwork by Alex Bell.

Alone With You Somehow image

I've always liked this picture by AJ Bell

Thurgood Marshall

Purported photo of Thurgood Marshall's dogThurgood Marshal did something somewhere sometime. He knew stuff and he lived in a town or a city and had neighbors. If he had a dog it probably lived in the backyard and slept most of the time. People like Thurgood Marshal are famous for a reason. Whatever they did, people wrote about it.

There are a number of things I take from this. Number one, of course, is that I have a terrible memory. Number two is that almost all of us will be forgotten eventually.

Is that a bummer?

We are a world replete with dying men and women grasping for immortality. Everybody wants to be remembered. Not sure what your religious leanings are, but what if we don't have an end?

Not having an end would certainly ease my mind about forgetting who Thurgood Marshall was . . . I mean . . . is. If Thurgood has no end, it doesn't matter that I forgot what he did. Seems to me, if Thurgood has no end, the important thing is who he was when he died.

Who will you be when you die? Obituaries argue accolades are what matters, but if you have no end, just continue on in another sphere, what you did is nice but the end product is what matters.

I would certainly be sad if I died tomorrow without ever gracing a bestseller list, but I am caught in the pull of gravity just like you. This weight we inhabit, the press of pounds, I yearn for things I cannot command. Notice me. Honor me. Celebrate me. Remember me.

We are all too unaware.

The world inside is what counts and we are the builders. Your world and my world with outside lines blurred by incursions, or the lines distinct for those who see.

What we do in this life will crumble. Who we are will remain.

Who are you?

Beware any effort

Here is a random child, possibly mine, who will serve as today's object lesson. Note the scrapes and scratches.

Look close. See beyond the subject's obviously forced, cheery nature. Pain must throb and wholly own the conscious center some might call his sense of self or current awareness. The poor waif has no ability to reason or remember, only to feel. He is consumed by the horrific injuries you see in the image I have so indelicately uploaded. And how has the boy come to this sad state of writhing agony?

In the picture he sits at his favorite spot, a location in space and time so replete with his presence that when he intermittently leaves, ghostly images of himself flicker in and out if you care to look. Should his family leave on an errand, or even go on a trip in which they forget him and leave him home, upon return they find him there invariably.

Back to the injury. Do you suppose the boy sustained these great gashes as he sat at his desk and clicked?

Nay. This post-pubescent teenager strayed from his comfortable surroundings and entered what some call the outside world. And why would he do this? Let us suppose his stated reason went something like, "I'm going to hang out with or chill with . . ." fill in the blank.As is obvious in the photograph, all who enter the outside world live (if they are lucky) to rue the day.

I am pondering this line of reasoning as I sit on my couch and watch a television program broadcast from Rio de Janeiro.

Oh, the unholy light stream inflicted upon my eyes via diodes!

What lies! Arrayed before me, legions on parade who seem to have lived fully in the outside world, eschewing comfortable chairs and computer screens for exertion, effort, injury. For what?

Behold the true sirens of myth!

Better to view and click, my brothers. Find your happy place. Inhabit your happy place. Never leave your happy place.

Better to view and click.

Worlds do end

Google Calendar can create a reminder for important dates like birthdays. The pop up for the reminder will only change as Google sends updates that alter color and format. The message stays the same.

Not so for the people on which a birthday falls.

Youth tends to love a birthday. A present, hidden in a box and further secured by wrapping paper, is a magical thing for the young. For others, the expectation of friends tendering words of appreciation is the pull. Many who are not so young, but perhaps young at heart, like a birthday for the same reasons.

All the world (when world is defined as that portion that affects us) reaches out and acknowledges our contribution to other worlds. We are all world builders, each of us the center, but depending on the introvert/extrovert combination within us, we encroach to various degrees on others.

Birthdays have a beginning but no end. My birthday will be the same in a thousand years. The world I am building commenced and is commemorated by that day.

Funny that unlike birthdays, worlds do end.

What continues is the encroachments we made while building. For some, the birthday not only continues. It is remembered.