E.G. Manetti's Blog, page 42
August 9, 2015
Read & Reap - Bright Star Review Copies
If you have been waiting to score a lendable or free copy of Bright Star: The Apprentice Volume 2 now is your chance.
Bright Star is being featured in Shut Up & Read's read-to-review program, Read it & Reap. There are ten review copies available (epub, mobi or pdf). All you need to do is sign up!
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
Thank you Shut Up & Read moderators, Leigh, Tana, Tanecia, Alyssia, and Sheri
July 21, 2015
Music of the Spheres
For centuries, humankind has wondered at the heavens. First imaging deities, and later, when the deities faded, we imagined other civilizations.
In between, medieval philosophers tried to integrate science with wonder, defining the 'music of the spheres' or (as summarized in Wikipedia): Musica universalis (lit. universal music, or music of the spheres) or Harmony of the Spheres is an ancient philosophical concept that regards proportions in the movements of celestial bodies—the Sun, Moon, and planets—as a form of musica (the Medieval Latin term for music). This "music" is not usually thought to be literally audible, but a harmonic and/or mathematical and/or religious concept. The idea continued to appeal to thinkers about music until the end of the Renaissance, influencing scholars of many kinds, including humanists.
They were wrong! The planets do make music and it is wonderful, scary, and compelling. From my friends at NASA.
http://damn.com/nasa-space-sound
In between, medieval philosophers tried to integrate science with wonder, defining the 'music of the spheres' or (as summarized in Wikipedia): Musica universalis (lit. universal music, or music of the spheres) or Harmony of the Spheres is an ancient philosophical concept that regards proportions in the movements of celestial bodies—the Sun, Moon, and planets—as a form of musica (the Medieval Latin term for music). This "music" is not usually thought to be literally audible, but a harmonic and/or mathematical and/or religious concept. The idea continued to appeal to thinkers about music until the end of the Renaissance, influencing scholars of many kinds, including humanists.
They were wrong! The planets do make music and it is wonderful, scary, and compelling. From my friends at NASA.
http://damn.com/nasa-space-sound
July 2, 2015
Fight Like A Girl - Transgressions Excerpt
A teaser from the soon to be released book 3 in the Twelve Systems Chronicles, Transgressions: The Apprentice Volume 3
I found this image on Facebook and it was perfect.
Ninth evening bell has chimed. The only light in the Serengeti Archives is the glow around the station where Lilian is busily comparing slate to reviewer. The monthly Vistrite operations review is pending and the drop in demand due to the economic downturn has complicated the analysis. Lilian has diligently committed the past five bells to accessing several centuries of data to support her forecasts. The chiming of the ninth bell barely registers. The soft sound of the Archive door recessing brings her instantly alert. How a door recessing can sound evil is beyond her, but it did.
Martin!
This is ill. Honor is my blade and shield.
For all his ceaseless torments, Martin has always been very careful of physical proximity. Regardless of the penalty to Lilian, any untoward physical contact will cost Martin his contract. Now he is walking directly toward her, his eyes alight with anticipation.
This is very ill.
Rising, groping for her slate bag, Lilian pulls it to her as the young warrior closes. He has five inches and four stone on her, all of it muscle. He broke two of her ribs in that travesty of a training match. Lilian does not underestimate his ability to hurt her.
This time she need not forebear to use her thorn. This is not a training chamber and as milord’s conservator she has the duty as well as the right to protect milord’s property and honor. Concealed by her jacket, there are few who know she has the weapon on her belt. Martin is not one of them.
“What do you here Master Martin?” Lilian’s voice is loud in the empty Archives chamber.
“My duty Lilian,” Martin responds, the insult of the familiar
intentional. “What do you here?”
“My duty as conservator of Desperation Mine and Refinery, forecasts are due.” Lilian is as absolute as possible that she is present as Lucius Mercio’s vessel and not as a mere apprentice.
“Your duty?” The tone is ugly and so is the heat that is entering Martin’s eyes. “A tainted doxy’s duty has little to do with Vistrite and much to do with her split tail. Since Lucius Mercio does not seem interested in teaching you your duty, it falls to me. This time there will be no last minute savior.”
Malcon. He refers to Master Malcon.
Martin’s intent could not be plainer. Lilian is not to survive this encounter.
I am the sum of my ancestors.
Time becomes disconnected. It moves at battle speed, infinitely slow and warrior quick. It moves so slowly that Lilian can almost see the shift of Martin’s hand through space like a stuttering visual. It moves so quickly that he has hold of her left arm and collar of her blouse before she can draw her thorn. Wrenching into a backspin, dropping the slate bag to unsheathe the thorn, Lilian feels but does not hear her blouse tear.
Coming around the predator’s back, fast and low, her left wrist is suddenly shackled in a hard grip. Rising quickly, Lilian strikes with the thorn. A line opens on Martin’s face from eye to mouth and reddens with blood. The hand holding her wrist releases it to form a fist.
That fist connects to her jaw as Lilian’s left hand grabs the strap of her slate bag. Tucking it to her, she goes into a roll. Away from the striking hand. Bouncing to her feet, slate bag to her chest, thorn in hand, Lilian strikes the fighter’s stance and waits. The door to the Archives is behind her, the predator in front. Slowly Lilian begins to back toward the exit and safety.
I found this image on Facebook and it was perfect.
Ninth evening bell has chimed. The only light in the Serengeti Archives is the glow around the station where Lilian is busily comparing slate to reviewer. The monthly Vistrite operations review is pending and the drop in demand due to the economic downturn has complicated the analysis. Lilian has diligently committed the past five bells to accessing several centuries of data to support her forecasts. The chiming of the ninth bell barely registers. The soft sound of the Archive door recessing brings her instantly alert. How a door recessing can sound evil is beyond her, but it did.
Martin!
This is ill. Honor is my blade and shield.
For all his ceaseless torments, Martin has always been very careful of physical proximity. Regardless of the penalty to Lilian, any untoward physical contact will cost Martin his contract. Now he is walking directly toward her, his eyes alight with anticipation.
This is very ill.
Rising, groping for her slate bag, Lilian pulls it to her as the young warrior closes. He has five inches and four stone on her, all of it muscle. He broke two of her ribs in that travesty of a training match. Lilian does not underestimate his ability to hurt her.
This time she need not forebear to use her thorn. This is not a training chamber and as milord’s conservator she has the duty as well as the right to protect milord’s property and honor. Concealed by her jacket, there are few who know she has the weapon on her belt. Martin is not one of them.
“What do you here Master Martin?” Lilian’s voice is loud in the empty Archives chamber.
“My duty Lilian,” Martin responds, the insult of the familiar
intentional. “What do you here?”
“My duty as conservator of Desperation Mine and Refinery, forecasts are due.” Lilian is as absolute as possible that she is present as Lucius Mercio’s vessel and not as a mere apprentice.
“Your duty?” The tone is ugly and so is the heat that is entering Martin’s eyes. “A tainted doxy’s duty has little to do with Vistrite and much to do with her split tail. Since Lucius Mercio does not seem interested in teaching you your duty, it falls to me. This time there will be no last minute savior.”
Malcon. He refers to Master Malcon.
Martin’s intent could not be plainer. Lilian is not to survive this encounter.
I am the sum of my ancestors.
Time becomes disconnected. It moves at battle speed, infinitely slow and warrior quick. It moves so slowly that Lilian can almost see the shift of Martin’s hand through space like a stuttering visual. It moves so quickly that he has hold of her left arm and collar of her blouse before she can draw her thorn. Wrenching into a backspin, dropping the slate bag to unsheathe the thorn, Lilian feels but does not hear her blouse tear.
Coming around the predator’s back, fast and low, her left wrist is suddenly shackled in a hard grip. Rising quickly, Lilian strikes with the thorn. A line opens on Martin’s face from eye to mouth and reddens with blood. The hand holding her wrist releases it to form a fist.
That fist connects to her jaw as Lilian’s left hand grabs the strap of her slate bag. Tucking it to her, she goes into a roll. Away from the striking hand. Bouncing to her feet, slate bag to her chest, thorn in hand, Lilian strikes the fighter’s stance and waits. The door to the Archives is behind her, the predator in front. Slowly Lilian begins to back toward the exit and safety.
June 22, 2015
He Rests
Hardest Father's Day ever.
Dad was four days in twilight. Eyes closed, breath rhythmic. Swimming in a sweet gentle chemical pool. Sometimes, sinking to bottom and reliving his best and brightest days. Sometimes, just below the surface, listening, knowing. Aware. We're here. We love you.
Two days given up for dead. But he lingered. He breathed. With every breath I rejoiced and wept. After three days in twilight, they warned me. Not long now.
M (Hospice aide) said she was there for the duration. I could nap. I woke at 2a after a 3 hr nap. I was greeted by Vivaldi's 4 Seasons lilting from the dinky player. M holding Dad's hand for me. It was beautiful. The normally noisy hallway was silent, soothed by Vivaldi's brilliance.
4a and M needed to leave. She had family obligations in 4 hrs. I didn't mind. I took Dad's hand. Vivaldi reached the crescendo and went quiet. We switched to Mozart. I kept hold of Dad.
Once again, they underestimated him. A day came and went. Father's day came. His children had gathered. We told the stories. We tried not to weep. Mum kissed him and told him to go in peace.
A few hours later, to the lilting tones of Vivaldi, Dad went in peace.
I miss him. I will always miss him.
He rests.
My heart weeps. My soul rejoices.
RA Manetti
1932-2015
He loved his family, God, his country, his work, music, and the New York Yankees.
A brilliant, compassionate, and generous man, he died as he lived; in fearless grace.
Dad was four days in twilight. Eyes closed, breath rhythmic. Swimming in a sweet gentle chemical pool. Sometimes, sinking to bottom and reliving his best and brightest days. Sometimes, just below the surface, listening, knowing. Aware. We're here. We love you.
Two days given up for dead. But he lingered. He breathed. With every breath I rejoiced and wept. After three days in twilight, they warned me. Not long now.
M (Hospice aide) said she was there for the duration. I could nap. I woke at 2a after a 3 hr nap. I was greeted by Vivaldi's 4 Seasons lilting from the dinky player. M holding Dad's hand for me. It was beautiful. The normally noisy hallway was silent, soothed by Vivaldi's brilliance.
4a and M needed to leave. She had family obligations in 4 hrs. I didn't mind. I took Dad's hand. Vivaldi reached the crescendo and went quiet. We switched to Mozart. I kept hold of Dad.
Once again, they underestimated him. A day came and went. Father's day came. His children had gathered. We told the stories. We tried not to weep. Mum kissed him and told him to go in peace.
A few hours later, to the lilting tones of Vivaldi, Dad went in peace.
I miss him. I will always miss him.
He rests.
My heart weeps. My soul rejoices.
RA Manetti
1932-2015
He loved his family, God, his country, his work, music, and the New York Yankees.
A brilliant, compassionate, and generous man, he died as he lived; in fearless grace.
June 17, 2015
End of Days
Please release him. I hold Dad's hand and pray.
The demon is winning. Dad's taking in enough pharmaceuticals to put a horse on it's back. Maybe an elephant. And the contractions continue. A few of minutes rest. The panting starts and turns to groans and Dad's nose rises to meet his knees.
Please release him.
I harass the nurses relentlessly.
What else? He needs more.
Nurse P1 drags in the doctor from her rounds. She agrees. Dad needs more to pacify the demon. They can make the demon sleep. It will make Dad sleep. Hard. He won't wake to hunger or thirst. He won't be able swallow or chew. Or want to.
Let him go.
Days to a week.
It's an easy choice. It can be painful or painless. It's coming fast.
Make him sleep. Give him peace.
The drugs work. Dad snores.
My mother comes in. She hold his hand and weeps. He looks so peaceful. The demon is caged.
I call my siblings. Dad snores. His legs twitch and then his head rises. Time for more meds. Dad jerks and his eyes flutter.
Nurse P2 advises 'say it now. He won't be this alert again.'
Go Yankees!
I find the game. If Dad floats to awareness, it will be there. Maybe he'll be there. 50 years ago. Young. Strong. Brilliant. Maybe not. But it comforts me.
Days to a week.
I can't stop it. I can't change it. I can make sure he is not alone and feels no pain.
The demon is winning. Dad's taking in enough pharmaceuticals to put a horse on it's back. Maybe an elephant. And the contractions continue. A few of minutes rest. The panting starts and turns to groans and Dad's nose rises to meet his knees.
Please release him.
I harass the nurses relentlessly.
What else? He needs more.
Nurse P1 drags in the doctor from her rounds. She agrees. Dad needs more to pacify the demon. They can make the demon sleep. It will make Dad sleep. Hard. He won't wake to hunger or thirst. He won't be able swallow or chew. Or want to.
Let him go.
Days to a week.
It's an easy choice. It can be painful or painless. It's coming fast.
Make him sleep. Give him peace.
The drugs work. Dad snores.
My mother comes in. She hold his hand and weeps. He looks so peaceful. The demon is caged.
I call my siblings. Dad snores. His legs twitch and then his head rises. Time for more meds. Dad jerks and his eyes flutter.
Nurse P2 advises 'say it now. He won't be this alert again.'
Go Yankees!
I find the game. If Dad floats to awareness, it will be there. Maybe he'll be there. 50 years ago. Young. Strong. Brilliant. Maybe not. But it comforts me.
Days to a week.
I can't stop it. I can't change it. I can make sure he is not alone and feels no pain.
June 13, 2015
He laughs
Hours. Days. Weeks. Finally, they all get it - Hospice, the doctors and the nurses. The demon disease likes mid-afternoon. It attacks viciously. It contorts Dad's limbs leaving him groaning and twisting.
More frequent and more powerful meds will subdue the demon. It works and it doesn't.
Once again we (Mumma, Zim - my sweet JRT, and me) arrive and Dad is asleep, breathing deeply. It's a profound relief. The new meds are working. Dad is comfortable.
A knee jerks. The other. Dad's torso flies up to meet his knees in an involuntary and clearly painful crunch. He groans and pants. The spasm subsides, he relaxes into the bed.
His eyes open.
He sees us.
He laughs with delight.
We smile back. "We're here. We love you."
Dad's eyes close and he drifts back onto the bed. So still. So quiet. So at peace.
So still. Is he breathing? His chest doesn't move, his nostrils don't quiver. There is no sound. Is this it? Is it done?
His throat moves and then his chest. He gives a deep sigh.
Dad's not done. My heart moves with joy and my soul weeps a little with disappointment. He's resting. It's okay.
He's knees jerk, the crunch begins and ebbs. Dad's eyes open and he laughs with delight to see us.
My heart moves with joy and my soul weeps.
More frequent and more powerful meds will subdue the demon. It works and it doesn't.
Once again we (Mumma, Zim - my sweet JRT, and me) arrive and Dad is asleep, breathing deeply. It's a profound relief. The new meds are working. Dad is comfortable.
A knee jerks. The other. Dad's torso flies up to meet his knees in an involuntary and clearly painful crunch. He groans and pants. The spasm subsides, he relaxes into the bed.
His eyes open.
He sees us.
He laughs with delight.
We smile back. "We're here. We love you."
Dad's eyes close and he drifts back onto the bed. So still. So quiet. So at peace.
So still. Is he breathing? His chest doesn't move, his nostrils don't quiver. There is no sound. Is this it? Is it done?
His throat moves and then his chest. He gives a deep sigh.
Dad's not done. My heart moves with joy and my soul weeps a little with disappointment. He's resting. It's okay.
He's knees jerk, the crunch begins and ebbs. Dad's eyes open and he laughs with delight to see us.
My heart moves with joy and my soul weeps.
May 16, 2015
The latest episode
It hurts. It doesn't take a medical professional to know that his knees jerking to his nose while he's sitting is bad. It hurts to look at. I can't imagine what it feels like.
The aides run for a nurse. Dad has regular meds to control the spasms and morphine for the pain.
For a month it has worked. The chemical cocktail has kept him comfortable without turning him into a zombie. He enjoys his meals, his NY Yankees, my visits, and his beer. Not necessarily in that order.
Today is bad. Dad's limbs are stone hard and his panting moans can be heard down the hall. Nurse P agrees. More meds. More morphine. My stoic father wants more. It's shift change. I give him a beer. It's a distraction not a solution. His hands are so tightly fisted, I can't hold his hand without hurting him.
Nurse P2 arrives (yes it's confusing). P2 agrees, it's another bad 'episode.' They don't know what's hurting Dad and destroying his brain. Only that it is. Today, it's more than the prescriptions can relieve. Nurse P2 calls the doctor.
'Dad, they're coming. They're giving you every thing they can without being arrested. They're calling the doctor. I won't leave until you're okay.'
Nurse P2 comes back. It's the worst episode in awhile. He'll give Dad meds and morphine every half hour until Dad 'settles.' It's a lot of narcotics. It's tightrope. There's a tipping point that will stop the evil brain demon that's tormenting Dad and let him sleep.
There is one dose too many that will stop his heart and he'll sleep forever. Dad can't speak easily, his resigned nod says it all. He's ready for either sleep. The brain demon goes down and not Dad's heart. Dad's hands relax and the latest episode ends in sleep.
The aides run for a nurse. Dad has regular meds to control the spasms and morphine for the pain.
For a month it has worked. The chemical cocktail has kept him comfortable without turning him into a zombie. He enjoys his meals, his NY Yankees, my visits, and his beer. Not necessarily in that order.
Today is bad. Dad's limbs are stone hard and his panting moans can be heard down the hall. Nurse P agrees. More meds. More morphine. My stoic father wants more. It's shift change. I give him a beer. It's a distraction not a solution. His hands are so tightly fisted, I can't hold his hand without hurting him.
Nurse P2 arrives (yes it's confusing). P2 agrees, it's another bad 'episode.' They don't know what's hurting Dad and destroying his brain. Only that it is. Today, it's more than the prescriptions can relieve. Nurse P2 calls the doctor.
'Dad, they're coming. They're giving you every thing they can without being arrested. They're calling the doctor. I won't leave until you're okay.'
Nurse P2 comes back. It's the worst episode in awhile. He'll give Dad meds and morphine every half hour until Dad 'settles.' It's a lot of narcotics. It's tightrope. There's a tipping point that will stop the evil brain demon that's tormenting Dad and let him sleep.
There is one dose too many that will stop his heart and he'll sleep forever. Dad can't speak easily, his resigned nod says it all. He's ready for either sleep. The brain demon goes down and not Dad's heart. Dad's hands relax and the latest episode ends in sleep.
May 11, 2015
Some Like it Hot! Teaser Tuesday.
If you like romance and aren't a member of 'Some Like it Hot' (https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/...)
check it out. Among it's many wonderful topics is the 'Teaser Tuesday' thread. https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
This week it features *ahem*
.
The mods are beautiful, brilliant and insightful. Just saying...
check it out. Among it's many wonderful topics is the 'Teaser Tuesday' thread. https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
This week it features *ahem*
.The mods are beautiful, brilliant and insightful. Just saying...
May 5, 2015
A smile that breaks hearts
The sun has come out at last. After a deep, dark winter, the sky is a deep blue highlighted with bright white clouds. The birds have returned and dodge about searching for food and nesting material. The bay is a deep cerulean sparkling in the sunlight.
The hospice aide wheels Dad into the sun. His eyes close. Pleasure at the warmth or harsh sunlight against fragile lids? Where are his sunglasses? I know I saw them recently. They are somewhere in the house I have yet to unpack. Later. Another task for a 'later' that holds so many undone acts.
Today is about the sun. Another aide hands us sunblock. Rats. I didn't think of that either. I brought a beer. Dad smiles. Sips a little beer through the a straw. He loves his beer but he's having trouble today. The straw keeps slipping away.
Mum fusses over Dad's lack of a hat. The bright sun on his pale, delicate skin. The dribbling beer.
Dad closes his eyes and turns his face to the sun. He smiles. He'll stay there all afternoon and be burned to a crisp. He doesn't care. It's warm and bright and we're there and we love him.
It's time to go in. I don't want to go. Dad doesn't want to go. He smiles anyway.
It breaks my heart.
The hospice aide wheels Dad into the sun. His eyes close. Pleasure at the warmth or harsh sunlight against fragile lids? Where are his sunglasses? I know I saw them recently. They are somewhere in the house I have yet to unpack. Later. Another task for a 'later' that holds so many undone acts.
Today is about the sun. Another aide hands us sunblock. Rats. I didn't think of that either. I brought a beer. Dad smiles. Sips a little beer through the a straw. He loves his beer but he's having trouble today. The straw keeps slipping away.
Mum fusses over Dad's lack of a hat. The bright sun on his pale, delicate skin. The dribbling beer.
Dad closes his eyes and turns his face to the sun. He smiles. He'll stay there all afternoon and be burned to a crisp. He doesn't care. It's warm and bright and we're there and we love him.
It's time to go in. I don't want to go. Dad doesn't want to go. He smiles anyway.
It breaks my heart.
March 27, 2015
Defiance
DEFIANCE
Merriam Webster Dictionary
1: Act or instance of defying. Challenge.
2: Disposition to resist. Willingness to contend or fight.
- in defiance of
:contrary to: despite {seemingly in defiance of the laws of physics}
In the wake of another heart incident, Mum's back in skilled care, one hall over from Dad. The staff is sympathetic and supportive. He's having a good day
'Is Dad getting better?'
'No Mum, he's not getting worse. Bad days are 2 of seven.'
It's all a crock. What else are they going to say? There is no recovery. There is no getting better. Dad's meds are all about comfort. Last week, for the first time, he needed morphine. Not a lot. Yet.
'How's your Dad?' The business office asks, expecting a funeral notice.
'Hanging in there.' He really is. No one knows how. The experts had him buried by now.
He can't move except to twitch and blink. Except when he sees me. Then his eyes widen and brighten and that grimace is a smile. He can't really talk. Humming is communication. Pitch and rhythm indicate agreement or refusal.
A month ago, when it hurt he'd shift and jerk seeking comfort. Now, when he hurts the humming is replaced by a steady grunt and he barely moves. The spasming muscles are rock hard.
I find the nurse and discuss the change in how Dad indicates distress. We agree on the new signals. Dad gets more meds. We watch the news as he sips the latest 'Beer of the Month' through the straw. I talk about the April 'Beer of the Month' selection. I think the 'peach beer' is dubious. No question Dad agrees. That's definitely a chuckle. I promise to cook with it and find him something else. Another 'chuckle.'
The aides come with the hoist. Time to get Dad in his chair for dinner. I hate to leave. I have to go.
'I love you, Dad.'
'Luv uuu ….. 2'
It's garbled, but it's there.
Dad's dying on his terms and his time table.
DEFIANCE: :contrary to: despite {seemingly in defiance of the laws of physics}
Merriam Webster Dictionary
1: Act or instance of defying. Challenge.
2: Disposition to resist. Willingness to contend or fight.
- in defiance of
:contrary to: despite {seemingly in defiance of the laws of physics}
In the wake of another heart incident, Mum's back in skilled care, one hall over from Dad. The staff is sympathetic and supportive. He's having a good day
'Is Dad getting better?'
'No Mum, he's not getting worse. Bad days are 2 of seven.'
It's all a crock. What else are they going to say? There is no recovery. There is no getting better. Dad's meds are all about comfort. Last week, for the first time, he needed morphine. Not a lot. Yet.
'How's your Dad?' The business office asks, expecting a funeral notice.
'Hanging in there.' He really is. No one knows how. The experts had him buried by now.
He can't move except to twitch and blink. Except when he sees me. Then his eyes widen and brighten and that grimace is a smile. He can't really talk. Humming is communication. Pitch and rhythm indicate agreement or refusal.
A month ago, when it hurt he'd shift and jerk seeking comfort. Now, when he hurts the humming is replaced by a steady grunt and he barely moves. The spasming muscles are rock hard.
I find the nurse and discuss the change in how Dad indicates distress. We agree on the new signals. Dad gets more meds. We watch the news as he sips the latest 'Beer of the Month' through the straw. I talk about the April 'Beer of the Month' selection. I think the 'peach beer' is dubious. No question Dad agrees. That's definitely a chuckle. I promise to cook with it and find him something else. Another 'chuckle.'
The aides come with the hoist. Time to get Dad in his chair for dinner. I hate to leave. I have to go.
'I love you, Dad.'
'Luv uuu ….. 2'
It's garbled, but it's there.
Dad's dying on his terms and his time table.
DEFIANCE: :contrary to: despite {seemingly in defiance of the laws of physics}
