Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 26

An AP story about a real Mr. Diabolus

After my first novel, Bobby’s Socks was published, I had several readers ask me how I came up with such a nasty character,  Mr. Diabolus. Unfortunately, they could not believe, or imagine that such a evil human being would not be easily caught, and prosecuted. Of course I got the, “why would you, of all people write a book about child sex abuse and suicide?” If you looked at me, and my pasty-white face and bowtie would you think I was a child abuse victim and had suicidal thoughts growing up and even well into my twenties? Unlikely.

The character I created is a fictional composite from several profiles that I discovered from research, and unfortunately, I had had real life first hand experience. Sadly, these sub-humans are counter to the stereotype, and they tend to be quite smart, attractive, charismatic people and would be the last person a parent would believe would molest their child. A predator, like the one detailed in the article are quite adept at hiding in plain sight.

Below is a link from an Associated Press article printed in the May 13th edition from the Washington Post.  I think after you read this article, a few key details should be noted. The man was left entrusted to care for children, and he rewarded the parents trust by taking and retaining photographs  of the children that he had drugged and then molested. As a comparison, in the novel, Bobby’s Socks, the character Ardee discovered Mr. Diabolus’ treasure trove of hundreds of Polaroid pictures. I literally had someone tell me that was an almost unbelievable moment in the novel. After you read the below article, I doubt I’ll get that question again because it is a typical aspect for the predatory profile.

If you want to see the face of pure evil, read the linked article and examine the face staring back at you. I think the one hidden issue that I would like to point out is it has taken decades for the victims to step forward. It is from their silence that the true crime foments from the shame, humiliation and trauma that literally marked their genetic code. It is a scar so deep as to be almost invisible, but a scar with deadly consequences because many take their lives completely unaware why they have suicidal thoughts.

But there is hope if a victim feels empowered to do a very simple thing, talk.

It is the reason I titled the novel, Bobby’s Socks. It is from the possessive, as in those colorful woven socks are Bobby’s. Because he had a unique story to tell, his story, about his unique genetic code, and his  unique trauma that altered the course of his life. I am not a parent by choice, but if I were a parent I would pray that my children felt safe, and empowered to talk to me about anything. And that my children loved my hugs, and knew I loved them unconditionally forever and a day.

You might need to copy and paste the link, it seems not to be acting friendly, sorry for any inconvenience. But the story is worth reading.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/nationa...

NS

 

 

 

Kentucky Home – a poem

Kentucky Home – a poem

 ———————-

A home in my heart, not so far, far away, though I sleep in the subtropics most nights these days,

And whether I am standing on any busy street corner,

Or within any concrete jungle, having stood in Shanghai, Tokyo, Paris, and Amsterdam,

They do not feel the same to me, for in my heart, I will always be a proud – Kentucky son,

So, all I need do to take me home, is just close my hazel colored eyes, And I am …

At dawn, my face warmed by a vibrant springtime yellow sun, to reveal before me a rolling blue-green hued grass carpet, as if a forever highway back home … So I decide to stroll on, and beyond me,

From the morning mists of a genteel past, emerge, haunted four-plank, winter-white fence ghosts, as I stroll along into the early morn at the blacktopped roads end within a clapboarded horse palace stall, the fresh heart of a champion, Thumps, and Thumps – within a wobbly Colt that snorts a warning that someday soon it will be ready to run,

I smile as I breathe in the clean scents of honorable farming as I touch the golden hair tipped stalks of Sweet Corn, then I walk between row and row of pale green Burley tobacco,

A Red Cardinal glides past me and across a crumpled hayfield, to hide within a grove of Yellow Tulip Poplars surrounded by plumes of Golden Rods as Happy Viceroy Butterfly’s conspire to steal fresh nectar,

I jog down a winding single lane country road to outside the rock gates for my old elementary school, a jagged line of protected limestone rock walls, so I place my hands on the rough edges that were master crafted without mortar, I shed a tear as I contemplate the dignity of terrified slaves, who built them for their antebellum masters,

But as I stroll along, remembering home, I stand inside a silent tobacco temple and beneath my shoes the Tung-in-groove floor boards moan me back in time, to vibrate like a rocking, rolling clipper ships wooden fittings, the aged Burley leaf fragrance hangs witness in the air, off three feet thick, red brick walls, reverberations of an auctioneer’s cadence – price per agreed, another bundle taken away, a generational farming family lasts – another year,

The sport of a king’s thunders past me along the curved home stretch rail, I feel my heart pound, my faced blushed crimson as hooves crush the brown soil as the fierce competition with brave riders up, leather boots mashed into stirrups, as a vibrant kaleidoscope of colorful silks strides toward Her Majesty,

Then I gaze at a summer pageant, I marvel as the horse and rider jump in unison over a barrier, silk top hat, high polished, knee high boots, as formal riders dance within an orchestrated horse ballet, for that lucky one for winning the day, a blue ribbon corsage within the perfectly manicured mane,

One hot September day as a handsome yearling paces with a jacketed groom for a rich crowd, an equine life born from the traced DNA seed of English mares and Arabian blood lines is auctioned to the highest bidder,

Then I smell an angel share wisp past me from row and row, French oak barrels, charred, fire glazed, then the purity liquid sealed for a distance day to when an auburn ambrosia is revealed, distilled by father time’s timeless atmospheric dance, I hold the tumbler up to penetrating sun light, I sip hints of molasses, brown sugar as the warmth from ancestral tradition hugs me from the inside out,

Standing atop a natural rock bridge, I behold a crystal clear fall afternoon, I can see blue heaven above, as leaves turn toward winter the immense orange, red, yellow blended beauty, a soulful Kentucky Warbler serenades me hidden deep within the lush, Kudzu infested Appalachian forest,

And then the tears I shed, invisible to our reality the innocent children born to the Southeast’s constant poverty, the once honorable coal miner replaced by the dynamite blast, a mountain top removed, progress to some … I guess,

But then I grin at the mountain cloggin’ dance, banjo music, Master folk art craftsmen,

I can taste my grandfather’s blackberry jam, I savor my mother’s flaky cornbread, baked in her ancient caste iron pan,

Then I stand at the moist bank gazing at the perfection of the land between the lakes, at the end of a fishermen’s line the splash and fight with a Spotted Bass,

Driving at Mach 1 down I-75, a brand new convertible Corvette blasts past me, driven by a gorgeous Kentucky girl, behind her bumper music to my eyes, as a ‘GO CATS’ sticker screams past,

But now I am still, standing alone staring over at a tall palm tree thinking nothing moves my mortal soul, like the memory of my Kentucky people,

It is, the simple southern hospitality to a stranger, it is, the clannish nature of the hillbilly friend,

It is, the fire-and-brimstone Fundamentalist minister, the meetin’ on the mountain, the beats of an old time Baptist chant,

It is, the now silent Shaker Village, Bread pudding, wooden seed boxes formed by experienced hands,

It is, the heartfelt songs of Bluegrass, the dulcimer plucker, the mandolin picker,

For all these truths form a whole, and if you are lucky enough to be born from this fertile reddish-brown soil, be you rich, or be you poor, you will always at one with our whole,

For it is within our minds border, we stand, holding each other’s virtual hands within an invisible circle, United we are where ever we are, regardless if it’s in the subtropics, Shanghai, Tokyo, Paris, or Amsterdam, or any busy city street corner,

For our dream will never divide and fall, as long as we can close our eyes, and dream of our –

Kentucky Home.

NS

Eternal Night – a poem

Since this is the last day of April, and Child Abuse Prevention Month, I decided to share my poem, Eternal Night. The poem in part comes from having a panic attack, feeling trapped and almost losing hope. It is intended to be dark, I Capitalize certain words for emphasis, but like all my poems I am telling a story.

—————————————————————————————————————-
Eternal Night

Flickering dead stars, black moon heart,

Spectral milky smoke waves emerge, curl, and twist, block out eternity, enraptured I sense no open door, no unlocked window for my escape, no illusions, now, for I have trapped myself – tonight,

Within my room seeps tumbling, turbulent clouds that billow black as coal dust particles, that roll in with the foamy mists at high tide, total darkness of a blind man’s sight,

Foreboding Nephilim crush the beloved to clear his path, crickets, poisonous frogs, snakes crawl, sliver, then disappear,

Hunter of the weak, abandoned child, thumb sucking cherub, innocence killed, murdered, raped, total desolation,  an owl perched on a jagged oak branch hoots a warning,

As death Angels approach, and within them Lucifer floats,

A feast in his honor, my spirit his appetizer,

My tears of regret, his nectarous, salty, velvety wine,

My heartfelt, innocent love, his debased gratification sauce,

My hopes and dreams, his humiliation of me, his all-time favorite entre,

My aspirations, infection to hallucination, His sweet digestif,

My desolate heart, his rich, dark chocolate, my-just-deserts,

I dare not close my eyes, though I cannot see,

I dare note drift to sleep, though I am tired of living,

For my dreams, become his dreams, whispers to my soul, God does not exist, faith, nothing but a fool’s paradise lost, I beg for mercy, I beg Satan not haunt me,

Demonic thief of children’s souls, the fatherless-father, seeds legions of hellion imps,

I crawl blindly to my knees, I grope, pant, I suppliant my whole, And Gabriel’s horn to pierce the clear celestial veil, A simple prayer, a simple faith, I pray as if I’m an innocent boy of eight,

No mother’s hug, No mother’s kiss, No protective cloak from the sisters of fate,

As the devils deceit evaporates into mornings spectral light, from darkness to light through the windows of my soul, The sun reignites life, the certainty I survived another night,

And the knowledge I will seek to love, and that I’ll be all right.

 

NS

Montrose Madness

Monday had started as a calm spring day in Houston, Texas as Pink Petunia and I were traveling south by two-feet and four-paws toward her new veterinarian’s office. The pet clinic happened to be located along Montrose Avenue, which is a busy, pothole infested, double-lane road shaded by lovely mature oak trees and was segmented by residential side streets that invite the passerby to investigate the transitioning neighborhood within a major metropolis.

But on that sunny day we were on a mission to get Pink luxuriously bathed. We think Pink requires a regular spa day to abate her doggy smells and to be expressed. Pink Petunia does kindly warn us it’s time for some posterior attention when she scoots her hairy tuckus along our nice rugs. But she seems okay with the experience, although I have heard her, yelp. I suspect it depended on the size of the fingers that are assigned the task to release her pent-up fecal toxins. Sorry, I swerved into a TMI moment, or Too Much Information, but I wanted to explain our true purpose because, “I ain’t doin’ that!”

As the busy bumper car traffic was delayed by a red light, we risked our lives within the greenish pollen particle raining neighborhood, crossed Gray Street and we proceeded toward the single story ranch style destination. It was within my eyesight just past a modest red brick bungalow. But the well-worn concrete sidewalk was blocked. The blockage appeared to be a troubled, sweating, middle-aged man wearing a dirty white V-neck t-shirt, and baggy blue-jeans. I don’t remember if he was wearing shoes because I was focused on the fact he was waving his pasty-white hands above his head in a sort of experimental ape like dancing style. Obviously, he was having issues. I am not a mental health professional, so I knew instantly he was to be avoided.

It would have been my preference to immediately seek an alternative route. But, he saw us. We were trapped. I considered scampering across the modest homes side yard, but I would have had to quickly bend down to clutch Pink like a fury ruby red football. But then I figured I was a bit bigger than him, sane and I’d likely have ‘Johnny-law’ on my side if we had a mid-morning throw down. But I have experience dealing with odd, crazy people at book signings and what not over my professional career, so I figured I had enough faux confidence to pull up my big boy pants and head forward into battle.

The hint that you are dealing with MADNESS is usually within the glazed eyeballs that appear unfocused. As a good rule, if at all possible, avert their gaze. Personally, I fear I might actually be absorbed into their MADNESS and my attempt at maintaining sanity would be forever compromised. And then I’d wake up one morning in a foggy pharmacological induced haze with my arms tied behind me stuffed within a padded cell. But, I tried the next best technique and froze in place in hopes his visionary MADNESS might provide me and Pink a cloaking device. We would simply disappear into his cotton candy clouds and bunny rabbit world and stroll past us. Unfortunately, we were exposed as he upped the ante and spoke at me in a sort of Al Gore after I imagine him downing several strong cocktails. “Hey, be careful, there are eight birds in those trees down there trying to teach a baby bird how to fly.”

“Yeah,” I said as I closely examined his flopping hands for any potential weapons.

“They attacked me,” he said. His statement of his factual view seemed a bit defensive. The aroma from his breath did not seem to contain any alcohol, but his stench had invaded into my personal space. But then I realized I had my opening, if I acted fast, and I just walked with purpose toward the clinic in an Alice in Wonderland – White Rabbit mode I could escape. So, I nodded, I smirked in fake MADNESS agreement, averted his gaze, and said, “Thank you”. And I pointed over at the veterinarian clinic in an “I’m late, I’m late, I have a very important date,” and waved goodbye. I tugged at Pink’s leash. Pink curiously stared up at me with her tongue wagging out.

At the time, I had wondered how the Mad Town Crier had known there were eight birds up in the tree. Why were there exactly eight birds? And how did he know the eight birds were trying to teach a baby bird how to fly? I had had one adult teach me to ride a bike, so eight to one seemed excessive to me. And by the way, for good risk management measure, as I walked toward the clinic’s side door I used the zig-zag away from the Alligator skill I had learned from living in Florida. But I kept my peripheral vision locked on the Mad Town Crier. He thankfully kept moving down Montrose Avenue.

I wondered if the Mad Town Crier felt it was his mission from God to inform other random concerned citizens that he had been attacked all Hitchcock style, and he had played the vital Tippi Hendren role in an attempt to protect Houstonian humanity from a coven of black birds? I don’t have any idea, but I am curious what’s going on behind those eyeballs.

After we were within the clinic’s relative safety, one of the reception folk asked me an interesting question. “What did that dude say to you?”

I responded in my best drunken Al Gore sounding voice, “He said, those eight birds attacked me.”

At this point, the collective clinic staff laughed, I grinned but they gave each other knowing stares. The stares caused me to wonder. The receptionist told me they had been watching the interaction, because the Mad Town Crier had been attacked by the birds because he would not leave them alone. So the birds were simply defending their nests. I shrugged. And I had my answer, he had counted eight birds.

After I got back to our temporary accommodations, I reflected on the moment, and realized I had played an integral part in the spontaneous roadside play that the staff had found quite entertaining from their vantage point and their normal daily routine. I wondered if that was a moral equivalent to the Roman mob that encouraged the emperor to point his thumb down after the Christian refused to renounce his faith and was then eaten alive for their entertainment? I think the emperor set the willing victim free.

Now, I know I had turned in my man-card many years ago after we had discovered our Cavalier King Charles friends. As the picture attests, these are not dude-dogs. They are not going to go hunt for pheasants across a Nebraska field, or wrestle each other in the mud. These are a lap dog breed that simply wants to make their master happy, and they require professional grooming. Pink Petunia is on the left side, Margaret May of Tartan (yes that was part of her name) has gone on into doggie heaven. We miss her every day. But back to my point, I wondered what the casual driver along Montrose Avenue thought about the Mad Town Crier and me, the middle-aged dude, with a full head of hair and a girly dog? If I were a respectable male, I would have been at a real job that required I drive a hulking diesel fueled truck with lots of shiny chrome, and not be hanging out near Montrose Avenue mid-morning walking with a 13 pound chick dog talking to the Mad Town Crier. For some odd reason, I did a Google search for the area, and I knew instantly I had been spackled with a stereotype. So let me quote the ever popular Wikipedia to provide some clarity:

“Montrose hosts a number of communities including artists, musicians, and LGBTs, and has thrift, vintage, and second-hand shopping stores, gay bars, and restaurants. On Montrose Boulevard and Westheimer Road, there are a few original homes remaining—a majority have been converted to businesses and/or restaurants since 1936.”

Let me tell you what I thought. I am an artist, I am an author and I even create poems. (Check, Check and Check.) I like to wear bowties. (Check.) I appreciate vintage items. (Check.) And I was seen on a Monday morning in broad day-light with my cutesy friend Pink Petunia standing near a hysterical man along Montrose Avenue.

What did I do? Nothing…

Actually, I started to laugh at the absurdity. I am happily married to my best friend. We have lived an amazing life by most standards. We have traveled all over the planet, and we have made and lost lots of money. Just like everybody else, we have had triumphs and tragedies. My point is this. It is a wondrous moment in your life when you no longer care what anyone thinks about you. It is a gift that should be savored because that is the seed from where true freedom grows. The freedom you get to manage a situation with a crazy person and not worry what other passerby’s think, the freedom to share your art, and the freedom to be yourself and follow your own path and accept your fate without regret.

NS

Childish Dreams – a poem for April

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month. Well, I was streaming the Boston Marathon this morning and I remembered the face of that little innocent boy that was murdered. And I think in part, from looking at my 3rd Grade class picture it triggered me to remember a poem I wrote several years ago. It is not a perfect poem, I might alter a few words … but, I don’t know.

The poem is essentially about a young girl. She lived within a fantasy world to escape reality, in my mind from abuse and neglect and lots of other nasty things.

I was not unlike the character. If you read the poem from that perspective I think you might understand how a young victim thinks, why they rarely talk and how precious every life is. If you read this and you are a parent, or grandparent, or whomever that mentors a child, I recommend giving them a hug. And so, I give you, Childish Dreams.

Childish Dreams

I dreamed I won the Olympic marathon, Man, after 26 miles, I ran into this big stadium,

Everybody cheered my name, Bright lights, Television cameras aimed at me,

I was important, you see, I’m standing on the top stair, And I’m sweating like I just got out of a hot shower,

Gold Medal dangled down about mid-chest, It felt heavier than I’d guessed,

Then all these people played my country’s fight song…

It could happen, maybe, someday, you never know,

But when I opened my eyes, It was dark …

And I was all alone,

Alone,

I dreamed I cured Cancer, I did in an afternoon, It seemed so simple,

I showed my teacher just after math class, I saved the bald-headed kid from certain death,

I guess, and then we all played video games until my fingers went numb,

It could happen, maybe, someday, you never know,

But when I opened my eyes, It was dark …

And I was all alone,

Alone,

I dream a lot it seems, dreaming, dreaming, I like day dreaming at school,

Dreaming I’m someone else,

Being anybody else,  but me … I do not want to be me,

Dreaming someone would listen to me, Maybe notice me,

But my dreams, they grow inside my head,

Some dreams are small, quiet,

Some dreams scare me, I don’t like those dreams … I run away from those dreams,

But I love most of my dreams, Even the ones I can hardly remember,

My dreams are my special place … a place I go to hide, I like to hide with my dreams,

Because my dreams always welcome me inside –

In my dreams, I’m safe, I’m smart, I’m pretty,

And my dreams never touch me, tease me, or scream at me,

My dreams always give me a hug, My dreams tell me I’m loved,

My dreams could come true, maybe, someday, you never know,

But when I open my eyes, It’s dark …

And I’m all alone,

Alone,

But I’ll keep dreaming, you know … I won’t stop dreaming,

My heart promised me, so, that, If I dreamed big enough,

Maybe my dreams would come true,

Maybe, someday, you never know, I’ll open my eyes,

And I’ll be …

 

NS

3rd Grade Boy

Stare back at me 3rd Grade boy with these same hazel colored eyes,

There you are, standing still, wondering about that little girl with brown hair,

Fresh faces forever intertwined within the image, black and white,

Frozen together from a forgotten spring day,

So I closed my eyes searching into my dark past,

And I ride a neutrino to heat up the night,

And melt the gray memories into perfect sun light,

The memories spill forth into a pool full of liquid time,

So I leap back without regret, to splash, to swim with them again,

Without ever getting wet,

We giggle, we laugh, we argue, or I nudge that pretty girl in math class,

So we sneak outside just before recess,

I snatch a dandelion from within the Kentucky bluegrass,

But Mother Nature whispered with her lilac breath,

That this puppy love bouquet can only bloom once, you see,

As each white dandelion seed head again floated away from me,

And each seed head had quickly disappeared from my sight,

And so I walked out into the current sun light,

And I pressed my wrinkled hands together staring up at the sun,

And I prayed that each seed head had found a happy home,

And I prayed that each seed head had loved, and had been loved in return,

And then, I smiled, and let that 3rd Grade boy go back to where he belonged.

NS

Professor Quan’s – Skin Sensor Machine

Well, I decided to provide an interesting link from KurweilAI.net Weekly Newsletter, because the link is titled: “How to create a large-area visible light-invisibility cloak”.  Since Fishing for Light is a satire, obviously, I was having a bit of fun creating Professor Quan’s Skin Sensor machine that he used to alter his appearance, as in the last chapter when he appeared a lot like a Colonel Sander’s like character hanging out at a General Beauregard’s 24-Hour Fried Chicken restaurant waiting for Ms. Prosperina to attack him.

In the scene I wrote below, it is the first time I introduced the Skin Sensor machine, and it happened just after Professor Quan discovered how to solve Erectile Dysfunction. It is an ‘old school’ approach, but as you will note from the newsletter link below and after the novel’s excerpt, you can read for yourself that I heavily researched the speculative science that I created within the novel.

And I quote from the article, “But UCF assistant professor Debashis Chanda and fellow optical and nanotech experts were able to achieve visible-light cloaking over a large area by using a multilayer 3-D open-mesh (fishnet) metamaterial to control the material’s refractive index** and thus control bending of light.”

So, now you know that I did not just “make all” the science up, a lot of the science is quite real, although I modified it to make a metaphorical point, and I did not randomly chose the words, ‘gravitational lensing’ from an earlier scene within the novel.

From ~ Fishing for Light:

““A cowboy with a slow Texas drawl,” Professor Quan whispered. “I always wanted to have a reason to wear my white Stetson Hat and lizard skin boots, let me think.”

He left the cold room and went to inspect his Skin Sensor machine; it had a teak wood frame with twelve tiny vermillion lotus hooks. The triangular shaped mirrors pointed inward. Each mirror spaced a half inch apart. Across the frames interior, the hooks held micro-thin carbon based pink spider web like sheets. Two 220-volt electrical cords connected to the bottom left vertical panel, just below an oval shaped rubber knob. Above the knob, there was a panel that appeared to be a keyless garage door opener. It had backlit green buttons with a digital timer. It did not appear to have any load bearing member to support the heavy frame. It was steadied by a guide wire screwed into the top center of the nine foot cross beam. It was pulled taught into the steal ceiling joists with the angled beams resting on two square mouse pad couplings bolted into the spongy rubberized floor.

Professor Quan stepped in front of the roll top desk. He studied a laminated world map hung behind the desk. He memorized several number sequences taped to regions within Texas.

Professor Quan decided the red state ink should mix with red state ink sub-region to create the typical voice inflections and accent. He pressed a black button on the right side of the desk; it disengaged the green leather desktop cover. It popped up, and revealed rows and trays of self-inking stamps. Each numbered with a red, blue and black sequence. As he pulled up on a red lever, rows and trays rotated until he located the correct section, and glided his fingers across to select the stamps. He snapped them together like puzzle pieces. He locked them into a square tray, and then flicked a switch and the device began to vibrate. After he flicked the switch, the Skin Sensor machine started to hum as the strong electrical current coursed through the machines circuits. The device swayed, the teak wood frame began to move as if a light breeze was blowing drying bed sheets in the backyard behind a mid-western farmhouse.

“Almost forgot,” Professor Quan said. He scampered back into his laboratory. He unhooked the Hope Diamond from its magnetic coupling. He slipped on white nylon gloves and gently grabbed the diamond with his fingertips. He went back to his Skin Sensor machine, unscrewed the center porthole beneath the frame, and locked the big blue diamond inside a cushioned chamber that resembled a grocery store bar code box scanner. It was nestled between the two black diamonds that would offset each other with positive and negative energy. His system was now in total balance.

Brilliant reflected laser blue light emerged from the box top like a communist party disco lounge. It bounced off the frames mirrors. It caused the machines mesh sheets to liquefy, but not one drop hit the floor. Each node levitated, as if balanced in a zero gravity vacuum.

“Excellent,” Professor Quan said. He smacked his hands.

Back inside the adjacent room, he snapped his fingers as he remembered a spy from Texas who had died in a Russian gulag. He had been a nice fellow, with a smooth Houstonian drawl with each word understandable and soft.

“Now where is he?” Professor Quan said. He studied his vast collection of conical flasks.

Captain Lovins opened the cold room door.

“What’s up?” Captain Lovins asked.

“Road trip,” Professor Quan said. “Let’s get the Roadmaster warmed up.”

“I’m confused?” Captain Lovins said. “Road trip?”

“Yeah, I figured it out, this spray canister, let’s find some candidates to start this experiment,” Profess Quan said.

“Far out,” Captain Lovins said. “Let me call the business office, let them know I’ll be out for a few days.”

“I’m going as a Texas business man,” Professor Quan.

“I don’t hide,” Captain Lovins said. “But, this will be interesting, you’re never boring, I’ll give you that.”

“Well, let’s start by boosting some IQ’s,” Professor Quan said, “And maybe, some other things.” – ” End – excerpt from Fishing for Light.

 

http://www.kurzweilai.net/how-to-create-a-large-area-visible-light-invisibility-cloak?utm_source=KurzweilAI+Weekly+Newsletter&utm_campaign=d9d3b534c4-UA-946742-1&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_147a5a48c1-d9d3b534c4-282140705

 

NS

Warm Socks

After a mild springtime storm, as her mother watched from behind the kitchen window, a young girl with a long blond ponytail sat on the first step for the home’s back wooden porch. She slipped on her rain boots over her colorful socks. She forged into the sun splashed backyard, and down a moist dirt path into the family’s lush green garden while clutching her empty pale.

She bent down, and disappeared beneath the dense foliage to carefully inspect the twisted, interlocked life sustaining vines, and then after careful consideration she plucked a rosy red tomato. As instructed by her mother she held the tomato fruit to her nose and enjoyed the earthly fragrance born from a single seed buried within warm, fertile soil, before she carefully placed it into her bucket.

Unaware her mother watched because she was told never to look back, only go forward because she had to trust her instincts. So, she had learned how to harvest and how to keep seeking another ripe tomato until her pale was almost half-full. And her mother had taught her to think ahead and always to remember to leave the not-quite-ripe tomatoes behind for another day. Then she returned home to show her mother the tomato’s she had chosen. Her mother was pleased, and then her mother held her little hands to show her how to wash each tomato. And her mother showed her different ways to respect each tomato that nourished their bodies.

Each season she and her mother would slip on their farming boots over their colorful woven socks. Colorful woven socks that her mother had crafted during the winter time just before she started to prepare the tomato seeds after the last spring frost. And she and her mother would march out into the cold air and her mother would show her a sunny spot to prepare the soil for future planting.

As her mother tilled the soil with a hoe, the little girl pranced over to hug her mother’s legs. “Thank you for my socks, it’s cold, but my feet feel warm,” she said. She giggled and gazed with wonderment up at her mother. She bounded forward and inspected her mother’s work.

“Whenever you wear colorful warm socks,” her mother said. She smiled down at her, but continued to prepare the soil. “Remember, I made those socks especially for you, and as you get bigger, I’ll keep making you socks, I promise.”

“I’ll always keep them,” she said, “safe in my room, I promise.”

“My child, someday I will show you how to make your own socks,” her mother said. She opened a small fertilizer bag, clutched a few grains and tossed them evenly across the soil. “See how I did that, now we add the smelly stuff, till this all together, and give it a good bit of water and we wait a few weeks.”

“I like planting tomatoes, they make me happy,” she said. “Will we always plant them?”

“No, someday you’ll have to plant them by yourself,” her mother said.  Then her mother paused, and gazed across the nearby fields bisected by wooden plank fences. She stopped working and leaned her face on her gloved hands atop the wooden handle. Then she bent down and she hugged her daughter.  “Someday, you will be on your own, and you will have to be a big girl and take care of yourself, that is why I want you to learn to grow your own food, and whatnot.”

“Ok, I promise I will,” she said. And she hugged her mother around the neck.

“Good, I have a secret that I will only tell you,” her mother said as a tear appeared and slid over her smiling lips. “It will be our only secret, okay?”

“Okay, but you told me secrets are bad,” she said.  She confusingly stared into her mother’s eyes.

“This will be our only secret, it is the same secret my mother told me,” her mother said as she tightly hugged her child. “I will teach you everything I know, but someday you will be on your own. If you feel sad, no matter where you are, I want you to promise me that you will put on the last pair socks I make for you.”

“I promise,” she said.

“Good, because just as your father and I made you from love,” her mother said. She wiped away another translucent tear. “I lovingly wove each colorful strand to make your socks. Always remember within each strand I left behind my heart, within each strand I left behind my wisdom, within each strand I left behind all my love and hope you will live a long, happy life.”

“I love you,” she said as she stomped her boots into the loose soil while inside her socks she was crossing her toes trying to feel the warm strands. “I can feel my socks, but that’s not a secret.”

“I know, but someday you might miss me, so the secret,” her mother whispered. “All you have to do is put on your warm socks, bite into a ripe tomato and remember me hugging you, right now.”

And the little girl smiled and she laughed.  “That’s not a secret,” she said.

“Yes it is, you’ll see, someday,” her mother said. “And I’ll be with you, hugging you from your toes all the way up to your smiling face, and you’ll always know you are unconditionally loved.”

And as the little girl grew to be a woman, and lived a full life. Whenever she wanted or needed her mother, she would slip on the last pair of colorful warm socks her mother had made for her. She would savor a harvested tomato, and she would smile with her eyes closed because she felt her mother’s hug.

NS

Dear Frank,

Dear Frank,

Now that I have, with some nudging from my British digital marketing friends, set-up a personal Facebook page and an authorship page under my ‘nom de plume’ Nathaniel Sewell – of which – I am certain Nostradamus foretold within one of his many quatrains that it would be a sign for the coming Apocalypse of Facebook or any sort of social media site.

“Beware of the pasty-white middle-aged scribe,

He doth lurk amongst the organized modern light that binds humanity together,

He comes from another time, doth appear to age slowly, and his bouffant, real,

Verily I say, be warned, Nye he HIP, nor he ahead-of-any-curve … word.”

                                                                         ~`Know-Straw-Dom-Us’

So, I am not certain as to what sinister part I have in this intergalactic play, but I had observed your rather cool ‘States Street Fire Station’ t-shirt. It is the reason I am writing this post – no, not the cool t-shirt that I would like to have – but that happy grin. That grin reminded me of someone, and why Blue Moons only happen, on average every 2.7 years – if the folks at Space Dot Com are accurate.

But I digress …

Alas, this morning in Houston, at my relative position, I am thankful because I know the Earth has continued its west to east spin atop Atlas’s shoulders within its annual oblong orbit around the Sun. Our Earthly home now being tilted toward the Sun post vernal equinox, and the spring season is bathed from the Sun’s light-waves to create all the refracted natural colors within the arch of a rainbow.

As to rainbows, I have a dearly departed friend that after a summer storm he and his wife would get into his expensive foreign made (in South Carolina) automobile, drive-off from our safe ‘cul-de-sac’, and seek where the rainbow began or ended. Why? He simply loved the wondrous colors in the sky. Now, he was not a dreamer, but quite a bright legal bulb, being a sought after ‘white-hatted defense attorney’ for hospitals, doctor’s that do-dumb- things (that I might have insured), and the like miscreant. But in reality, I think he just loved the chase, because I think he chose to let the chase move him to feel – happiness. Of course, I wrote, ‘have’ and not – ‘had’, because for me – he is still very much alive within the electrical synapses of my brain. If I simply close my eyes and think about him, he’s right there with me, making a joke, giving me advice, or leaving an evil Gator object hidden in our refrigerator. “That’s just cold, man, evil voodoo.”

Rainbows only appear from sunlight being refracted or reflected through the prism of raindrops, I know because Neal deGrasse Tyson told me so. But if you don’t have happy or sad tears, well, you don’t get to really enjoy or understand the true colors from a rainbow, right?

To me, I guess we all like to block out the ugly aspects from life on Earth, and go to our ‘happy eruption zone’. And you know something, not all the ‘Smiling Jack’s and Jackie’s’ at Disney are children, there are a lot of adults, sans the kids, playing about the park on a steamy Florida day that flock there to seek their ‘happiest place on Earth’. I know because I have observed them within their habitat, when relatives would come to visit us. At the time, I did not understand, and the fact my wife had been a summer intern and had seen several characters underground the park – smoking – well; all the mystery was gone for me. But I was wrong, the smiling, sweating, fanny-pack crowd ahead me in the log flume ride line, they and my friend were right. They understood something I did not, I do now.

Perhaps my friend had listened to a song written by Paul Williams and Kenneth Ascher, and performed by my personal hero, Kermit the Frog:

“Who said that every wish would be heard

and answered when wished on the morning star?

Somebody thought of that and someone believed it.

Look what it’s done so far.

What’s so amazing that keeps us star gazing

and what do we think we might see?

Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection.

The lovers, the dreamers and me.”

                                                          ~Kermit the Frog (The Muppet Movie)

Well, thanks to my friend, here is what I found at the metaphorical ‘cherry at the end of the rainbow’. Let me explain, my friend was a University of Florida graduate, yes, a Gator, and we were lucky enough to enjoy a game within that high school gym on the Gainesville campus, nicknamed the “O’Dome”.  Within the seeds from those memories, I remember the drive from Tampa to Gainesville on a ‘school night’. The fun from our middle-aged, smack-talking banter, the moist, terrible hotdogs, and other indigestible snacks that he refused to let me pay for, the aroma from cigarette smoke wafting from the open side-doors, a highly competitive college basketball game, and the fact my Big Blue team won that night.  But then we had a long drive back to Tampa, right? Oh, the deliciously unmerciful drive back, listening to my smiling pie-hole in the middle of the night down I-75, or better known as ‘risking your life down an amateur off-track NASCAR speedway’ with several 18-wheelers sprinkled in.

But you know something? I remember being at a hospital ER, and standing near my friend who had gone on to the other side. So, I’d give just about anything to take that same long road trip journey from Tampa, up I-75, across NE Waldo Road and actually avoid slowing down to go through speed-trap hell, better known as ‘Waldo’. On a ‘school night’, with a snarky Gator Alum, telling me about his investment in an ill-conceived piece of real estate in a ‘don’t blink or your past the town’, known as ‘Mango’, no I am not making this up and I am not referring to a SNL character.

But this time – on the drive back, I have on the losing pair of sneakers. Yeah, I would happily hope for my Big Blue team to lose at that high school gymnasium. But, I open my eyes, because that’s not life and we don’t get to go back in time, I don’t care what Einstein thought about wormholes (assuming he’s not reading this within his secret lair hiding out with Elvis and Professor Quan).

So, to those that really do read this, I lift up my cold, plastic cup – half-full – of Kentucky auburn colored nectar with just enough shaved ice to bring out the aged ancestral heritage, dreamed up by the master craftsman distiller, and I simply, humbly say, “Thank you to those young men that will forever be chasing springtime rainbows, thanks for letting me tag along to simply scream at the television, and complain about the conspiratorial referees.”

Then I take a sip, take a deep breath and I thank God to be alive. (Repeat as needed-)

As I gaze up at the Sun shining at my relative position in Houston, I look forward to the autumnal equinox when the days grow short, the Third Rock from the Sun’s rotation shifts toward darkness, perhaps I’ll have a few more Big Blue Hairs, a grin wearing my brand new ‘States Street Fire House’ t-shirt, and we begin our wondrous new journey to go to our collective happy zone, and seek those rare Big Blue Rainbows and wonder what’s on the other side.

Your Facebook Friend,

NS

PS – If you feel sad, or hung-over, I recommend coconut water, bacon, a pair of colorful woven socks, a forced grin and going to You Tube and finding Kermit the Frog.

Big Blue – ‘Reverse Laettner’ Groundhog Day – 18 Again

Today, April 6, 2014 – the Texas Sun is (hiding behind thunder clouds, but I know where the ‘Thunder’ comes from, and it’s named, Alex), the birds are (still) chirping (seriously) and our canine friend, Pink Petunia is tongue waggling after (another) (well, it’s her morning constitutional – so she can lose a pound the old fashioned way, and I get to clean up her – ‘bid-ness’) from a delightful neighborhood walk – but this time in (Houston)).[image error]

Last night, (as I watched with my quiet, shy wife from a local ‘sports bar emporium’ with a United Nations sampling of like-minded humans), my government funded state school that I actually graduated from – won (another) (yes, another) hard fought victory. Of course, it would seem my business degrees are not worth much per a certain ESPN talking-head, but I will ‘let it go’ into the negative trash heap comment section.

And since I use a pen name, or for those who prefer some fancy writin’ a ‘nom de plume’, it would ruin all my built up happy karma (say it with ME until (MONDAY!), “Namaste”, yes, breathe, “Namaste”) to lower my writing craft to provide a response because I’d need to use my real name, and point out all the success I’ve had in my life – even though apparently I was educationally handicapped post-graduation, and I was born and bred in Lexington, Kentucky – so my knuckle dragging genetic code has not evolved from our primordial bourbon soup. (I refuse to edit this – I still abide by this response.) (But today, I will add – Upper Kirby Houston Style – since I am pushing 50, I think it’s cool I was at the said – ‘sports bar emporium’ wearing a cool ‘Mountain Standard Beer’ t-shirt and skinny jeans, (thanks to my wife) and because I don’t have a big belly – hanging with the peeps in the ‘Fellowship of Screaming at the Television’, and bonding with a congregation with alternative points of view – “Can I get an, AMEN?”, “Why yes, AMEN!”)

It was quite nerve racking to watch the game, (AGAIN!), (YES, AGAIN!) even though my emotional response had an absolute zero effect on the outcome. In fact, (from the game before)(and this time in public) my wife pointed out half-way through the game I had turned into that blue-haired man that screams, “get off my front lawn” or in my case – screaming at the television as if the conspiratorial referees could hear me from Houston. (But in Austin, I muted the television, and watched the game alone – while my wife was dealing with clients.) (But as I noted, now I was back in Houston – learning what the term, ‘Twin Peaks’ meant – and my wife had to point it out – I’m clearly getting old-ur.) And I will not recount the game, I’ll refer you to the folks at Kentucky Sports Radio Dot Com, who are my and many others – NY Post (Page Six) moral equivalent. (And I learned at midnight, they have a radio program – again, thanks to my wife, who explained to me how to actually use my fancy portable telephone and she ‘dialed-in’ my hometown radio station. So I could listen to those with heavy twangs, and like minded voices.)

What I noted last night was the loud fan base. (Not really, I don’t know, I had the TV muted, in Austin, but it looked loud and the iHeart radioed in 630 – that I randomly listened to hiding behind closet door – sounded heart stopping.) (I still have no idea, I couldn’t hear the television inside the said – ‘sports bar emporium’) They were not the quiet blued haired – ‘we got our season tickets handed down to us’, or the ‘we made a huge donation to the university’ game watchers. I know that may seem harsh, but I think those young men on both teams fed off the fans energy. (AGAIN!) (And yes, this morning, AGAIN!) It was just cool. (AGAIN!) But just as I thought I was being Mr. Superior, I looked in the mirror and realized (again this morning – in Houston), I have ‘blue hair’, (BIG BLUE HAIR). Now, I can color my genetically gifted hair that covers my expansive (pasty-white) dome, but what about those mysterious ‘grey to blue grey’ snarls, tangles, that appear inside my nose, or in rather personal regions, or in my ears? I can pluck them out, THAT HURTS (No Kidding!) – or use the ever popular battery-powered hair zapper, but they keep coming back like ghostly specters from a Steven King novel.

(And yes, this morning, they have all reappeared, and gazing into the bathroom mirror at my puffy face earned from having a bit-a-fun, I shrugged, I don’t really care, right – Pink Petunia? ) (“Woof”, Pink said.)[image error]

(And this morning, even though I appear to have even more BIG Blue Hair, I don’t seem to care, I’m in Texas, the Sun is out (not really – it’s raining – apparently someone in Dallas woke up – THOR!) and I am grinning like a kid on Christmas morning (well, yes, that is still true). I know because my wife pointed it out as I could not resist from reading the – smack – and I have an evil grin, and I admit, I have a super-sized competitive gene that I attempt to hide – BUT NOT THIS MORNING!) (Ditto – Groundhog Day – Houston Style.)

Thankfully, I have re-learned to think about what I say or scream. (Or, to simply watch the game alone, with the TV muted, and the iPhone radio software on for 630. And I can now exit the communist party re-education camp (that my wife made me attend for screaming, poor editing and bad spelling), and again, for learning NOT to scream at the television … thank you for your mercy Oh Great Leader.) (Think about that, Freedom is not free, and it’s cool, why? Because last night – I screamed at the television(s) with my new friends at the Houston Style – Star Wars like ‘Creature Cantina’ – seriously, we had a ‘Chewbacca’ sighting, several tatted-up Ewoks (I know different movie – but play along), a ‘Darth Vader’ like person I made a serious effort not to make eye-contact with, and of course my wife played the, happy to make friends – ‘Princess Leia’ character that I skillfully steered away from the ‘Jabba the Hut’ look alike – BUT we were all FREE, free to express our view points, and order another Guinness.)

(Alas) As each season comes and goes with the constant motion of the tides, and I luckily get to age, (I cannot believe I am closing in on 50! – and with respects to the SNL Molly Shannon character – I will not yell my said age, nor mess with my armpits), I have to admit that I’m becoming a ‘BIG Blue Hair’ fan (I like the idea of being old, as in really old – I want to be a Big Blue Hair). I wrote at the end of Bobby’s Socks that the character, Bobby, smiled because he realized he got to be old. (But after THIS game, I feel a bit younger, as in somehow we all got to go back in time – and recapture a few days from being young-ur.) (And this morning in Houston, with the aid from this modern convenience, better known as a laptop computer, as I examined all the pictures from my ‘Page Six’ at the State Street ‘spontaneous gathering’ – that was being chaperoned by Lexington’s Finest, I could vicariously feel the sensation of being 18 again, and to blush from being smiled at from a happy 18 year old girl. And I hope never to lose that feeling, it is not just the magic of youth, it is the wonderment from being alive, and letting your heart go into an unrestrained wormhole you hope never to leave and happily live within on a continuous loop.)

I think there is magic in this world, and happiness is the awareness to bend down and enjoy the fragrance from a red rose, to smile from a child’s giggle, to realize a game is just a game (not really, losing sucks, and I do feel bad for those other teams, as the saying goes, ‘been there, done that’), and to have the wisdom to know those ‘Big Blue Hairs’ are earned.  I think that’s when God whispers to me to enjoy the moment, to stop, listen and pay attention because you might not be here again. (And yes, I replayed that 630 radio voice, over, and over, and over again.) (And I cannot believe he made that shot with a giant basketball paw in his face – and as Joe Dean used to say, that was “String Music!” And I have to admit, I think I like the idea of having a ‘Reverse Laettner’ Groundhog Day. Again, and Again, and Again …), (AND YES, HE DID IT – AGAIN! – I saw it happen with my blood-shot eyes at the Houston ‘Creature Cantina’ with my new United Nations friends, and yes, I have since replayed the newest – SHOT – over, and over again.)

(And yes, I feel so frenetic, I’ve had to re-edit this post several times, forgive me. And still cannot believe he made that shot …) (Déjà vu, Groundhog Day, I don’t care, I just know this morning, I feel like I’m 18, again, and I think I like it.)

NS