Unnamed Novel Which Reveals Much

(20^th September 2011 – )

I was raised to believe that all women are ladies unless they demonstrate otherwise.  Of course, that begs the question, what is a lady?

I suppose a lady is a woman who uses her brain as well as the rest of her body to connect socially with the rest of her species.

But is that all?

What if there’s more that we can’t see that defines living, which, in turn, means a “lady” is more than the appearance and actions of what we formerly called a single person?

How often do supernovae wipe out all living things on nearby solar systems?

If we had an inkling that in 3,000 years our planet would be bombarded with the explosive material of a supernova, would we act differently today?

Would women be more or less ladylike in their urgency to get us (or some of us (or some living things)) as far away from our planet and the future exploding star as possible?

NOTE: Jargon determines the genre/category of stories/books/novels.  This novel could easily fall into the science fiction lot and be lost forever, if scientific jargonese dominates too strongly.  I want this to be an ordinary story about ordinary lives 1000 years from now, where technology is happenstance, background, not the main character.

= = =

I forgot my notes.  Tonight, at the 20-Plus Member reception for Huntsville Botanical Garden members who’ve donated and/or kept up their membership for more than 20 years, I met new and old friends.

A new friend, Paula, is like a restaurant menu item I never sampled but wish I had.  I think she’s the president of the Huntsville Botanical Garden, also formerly of the Parisian retail store chain (director of stores?).  Details, details, details…like when did the garden start making scrapbooks of newspaper articles, 1984 or 1985?  Yawn.

Paula, you keep climbing the social ladder, stepping over the good, solid folks like Harvey Cotten, who’s done more for plants than you could ever hope to remember, say, a few Latin names.

We all have our place.

I’m so, so bored with this planet.  There has got to be more than fundraisers at my age, surely.

Putin and Berlusconi, let’s have a get-together.  We’ll invite folks like Kirstie Alley with a taste for life after age 50 and go from there.  Forget all the whiners and do-nothings (they know who they are).  Let’s be men and women of action, who make money the old-fashioned way – we take it from those who put their nose to the grindstone and never look up at the big picture.

I want to be a kind, generous person who remembers all seven billion of us make important contributions to this planet’s chance of expanding outward but, some days, my patience wears thin.

Get it over with, willya Rick, with the humble pie eatery and just take over this planet like every leader before me – there is no escape! 😉

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I’ve been asked to give my opinion on SLS, the revised NASA proposal for long-range space exploration.  Time will tell.

I found a note scratched onto the walls of a quarry that is not obvious to the naked eye because one must take multiple photographs of different parts of the wall and overlay them correctly.

That was my excuse for missing a high school reunion.

The words of the note sit here in front of me, pointing to a place where I can (or might) find the door that leads me out of the novel into which I’ve written myself.

One of the former rotating leaders of the Committee buried instructions in children’s reading books so that some day, when a new, grownup leader, took over, s/he would, like me, suddenly have, in a dream, full recall of the instruction set, and thus find oneself in a quarry similar to mine, with the right equipment, to escape from the living dream of perpetual, hesitant, nonmonomaniacal leadership.

One hundred million comedians out of work and, although I have the coolest comedy gig on this planet – making subtle, satirical, sarcastic edicts daily to unseen billions – I’m willing to give it up without a golden parachute?

What am I, crazy?

[Don’t answer that question.  It’s supposed to be rhetorically posed, not debated in Rhetoric, Stoicism, stochastic, or scholastic style.]

Does anyone remember the first bird who squawked, “Polly want a cracker”?  Was the parrot named Polly (assuming it was a parrot) or was the bird speaking for a person who said the phrase so many times the bird joined in?

If beauty is truth and truth your duty, then why do pirates bury their booty?

More than one person has requested that I release a new novel into the world.  I’m not sure why.  Novels are evidence that, for a short time period, I was completely out of my mind (Minds don’t exists so I guess I should say that novels are proof my thoughts are organisable such that nightmares are becoming, neither cautionary tales nor light bedtime reading.  (“Becoming what?”  Nothing.  Just becoming, as in evoking delight.)).

To go into that mindset without medical aids, to see the hidden meaning behind the nod from a blonde at the front corner of Beauregard’s, or the extra baked potato at Tim’s Cajun Kitchen, or the echo of voices in a bedroom with wood flooring…

Do you want to know what this universe is really all about?

Do you want to know why I want us to get off this planet as soon as possible?

I’m not sure that you really want to know.

I’m not sure that I want to split myself into multiple personalities and explore storylines that may or may not be real, putting pebbles in ponds both imaginary and epicureal.

If only I can find that door, the escape hatch from this leadership position which cages me in this blog.

As in times past, a muse holds the key.

Or, rather, the muse is the key.

Time to write my exit…

Can you burp your national anthem at 13, holding six guys at bay who want to date you but one is too short, the other doesn’t use acne cream and a few are possible candidates if they act right?

Does your moving company know you at 40 better than your family?  In your constant relocations, do you leave boyfriends behind you like discarded furniture?

Would you put Optimus or Decepticon symbols on the background of your mobile phone screen?

In writing a book-sized story, where one wants to place an interesting character, would a muse inspire you with her minor in fluids and her major in propulsion systems for a master’s degree?

What about the blue-eyed dancer who saved a song for you on the parquet at the mill while you were enjoying a gravel dance floor with your wife next to an old gravel quarry?

Speaking of parquet, would your insurance company drop you after a claim against water-damaged wood flooring in your house, forcing you to buy expensive home insurance?

= = =

Every one of these questions is a good theme for a short story.

= = =

A name like Gabriella is enough to push one into writing a song for the ages.  I’ll compose that melody soon.

= = =

How many people have met their second spouses at their twentieth secondary school graduation reunions?

= = =

Sometimes, one states the obvious and, sometimes, one writes on universal themes to allow room for wandering imaginations.

I wrote myself into my own novel, a wish that few are granted, and now that I want to get out, I can’t.

Some say that God is a loving god.  I know better.  God has a sense of humour that sometimes includes love.  Occasionally, God is simply the mysteries of the universe yet to be described scientifically.  Usually, God is a character in its own story that likes to grant wishes to others, no matter how mundane or bizarre.

Do you like to swing?  Swing dance, that is?

Me, I’m a salsa dancer at heart.  More intimate.  Less flailing around.  Like an exotic chocolate – rich, thick, memorable on the tongue.

Swing is the exercise that allows me to enjoy the calorie-heavy taste of the dessert on the dance floor called salsa.

= = =

Don’t call your government changes “austerity.”  Euphemisms are free for the taking – use the ol’ positive mental attitude vocabulary words and call them “lifestyle enhancements” or some such, especially while you’re reorganising.  Remember, it’s not “bankruptcy” anymore; it’s “debt consolidation.”  They’re not creditors; they’re financial investors with a keen interest in your monetary wellbeing.  Creative bookkeeping is a high art, not a low crime.  Okay, maybe that last one is getting carried away. 😉

= = =

I owe a debt of gratitude to many people, including the bus drivers last night who transported us from the Huntsville Hospital carpark to the Moon Over Three Caves charity event; the Publix employee who cut up fruit into a bowl by request; Michael, Michelle, Connie and Shelby; Redstone Arsenal gate security personnel; and more this tired guy can’t remember easily on an early Sunday morning.

In the bathtub, a baby cave cricket this morning.  A cabin in the woods gives me plenty of companions to play with and observe.  The cricket jumped onto my hand, I placed the cricket on the lip of a bucket of tumbled rock debris, the cricket jumped into the web of a tiny hungry spider levitating inside the bucket.

Life goes on.

A jogger enjoys the cool morning air, moving past with ease.

At a Mexican restaurant, El Coyote, the server couldn’t find a bottle of Bohemia beer for me.  Now, you know, a Mexican restaurant without Bohemia is a business establishment ripe for “accident” protection insurance provided by my business associates.  However, the server offered me a couple of beers I hadn’t sampled before: Victoria and Pacifico.  In honour of my honeymoon 25 years ago, I also drank a bottle of Tecate, a beer I first sampled on a bus from the airport to the “island” resort area of Cancun.  At the time, I could have bought a six-pack for 600 pesos, 6/7 of a U.S. Dollar.

Time goes on.

Negra Modelo next time – a beer with a heavier bite, slight though it may be.

Is there a dominatrix in your diet?  Is your soccer mom wife a tiger in disguise?  Do you pretend to be in charge by driving the minivan/SUV to work and let your wife drive it back home in order to manage the household of which you’re only a budgetary asset provider?

I only live once.

Live and let argue over who’s in charge.

Let my wife own the dance floor fantasy, I her strong romance novel hero rescuing her from the doldrums by holding her firmly as we spin around the room.

My invisible friends are waiting for the next set of instructions, like some kinda vigilante justice league of their own.
In the old days, we relied on the James Bond types to accomplish our goals.  Now, it’s the soccer moms, executive office managers, maids, and female rugby fans who fulfill requests by the Committee.

You mean, you didn’t know your ten-year old daughter was part of the hacker network?  You thought the social networking she obsessed over was really just about who was breaking up with whom?  Don’t you realise she’s training for a mission decades in the making?

Guys, you’re not forgotten.  We’re adding males and females to our ranks.  The more, the merrier.  Strength in numbers.

Majority does not always rule but it makes them feel more secure in their conformity.

Time to close this entry.  There’s a smug leader who needs a little comeuppance, show him that there’s no one around him loyal enough to guarantee his safety.  Then, a picnic to attend.  A college football team to cheer for.  A charity event to support.

One fellow remembers, when he was a preschooler, dipping worms in food colouring, dropping the worms on paper and watching them wriggle original designs long before elephants made money painting masterpieces.

Baring memories in the bright lights of the dance floor in one’s middle years.

Renee celebrated her birthday.

A young woman in a red dress smiled.

A son, 27 years old, gets tired at nine o’clock after working more than a week of a fulltime job.

Another woman turns labels and stocks the shelves of a supermarket at night.

A new couple attends the Friday night get-together.

A pretty face wearing a tie (no, make that an ascot) at the drive-through/takeaway window said, “Thank you.”

Flashy eyelashes handed out caramel apple treats, too.

We are, rich and poor, simply us.

No matter who wears the pants in the relationship.

= = =

The Committee wants me to drop the “’I’m so poor…,’ ‘How poor are you?’” routine, saying they’d gladly turn me into an instant megamillionaire like so many others before me just to shut me up.

The temptation to take the money is a good feeling.  I can’t deny the desire to feel wealthy is there.

But the absence of money makes me appreciate what little I have.

= = =

A young redhead talks about her class schedule, including psychology and anatomy, looking forward to dissecting a cat.  Her brother pulls together his Harry Potter CD/audiocassette collection to share.  Their father can’t get a RAV4 door to open, the lock mechanism disengaged somehow, but shares his old LP album collection to convert to MP3, scratches and all (Jason and the Scorchers, Red Hot Chili Peppers, 2001: A Space Odyssey soundtrack, X, David Bowie, Miles Davis, to name a few).

= = =

A new friend talks about helping film an apocalyptic movie in an old quarry.  She’d worn a Star Trek NextGen costume and Princess Leia slave outfit at Dragon*Con, her boy friend enjoying the paranormal track but not the $800/night hotel cost.

= = =

How many of us remember the kindergarten mats we slept on?  How many of us missed that privilege, having grown up on farms?

Me, I remember hatching an egg in an incubator in kindergarten class.  My wife remembers collecting eggs from the chicken house on the family farm.

= = =

Linux found my old Windows Vista recovery partition but rstrui.exe doesn’t seem to work (or, rather, found no hard disk driver to use, or something like that).

= = =

Oh well, back to managing the rest of us seven billion.  Being a humble leader is a hard job, let me tell you.

Hey, if I can do this with a supercomputer, the Book of the Future, a crystal ball, a network of hackers and my business associates, what do we need Geithner flying around Europe pretending that a Sinophile has answers for the EU that haven’t worked for the USA?  Whatever we’re paying him, it’s too much.  Obama, I have a suggestion for cutting the budget – start with the Treasury secretary!

And Putin, dude, what’s with all the he-man stuff?  You’re beginning to look like Hemingway – we all know what that means.

Funny thing happened to me today, but certainly not funny to some of you.

My buddies in the private security contracting business wanted to prove to me I was their guy.  I’m not their boss, they tell me, but I call the shots for the global management business to which all of us, and I mean all seven billion of us, belong.

Kinda like the libertylearning.org folks.  It starts with the youth.

For me, there’s no going back.

I thought this Committee leadership gig was a temporary position.

No one told me it’s like being a hit man for the Mob.  Once you’re in, you’re family.  Or something like that.

See, the space race thing, they tell me I own it now, too.

Either you pay your dues or you make sacrifices.

I said “both.”

And so they took care of business for me, they and my twin, the warhawk.

Hell is war.

Do I enjoy what I’m doing?  Sure, I do.  I also hate myself for it, but so what?  From pulling the tail off a lizard to stepping on my first ant, I’ve hated myself for taking life so lightly.

I eat cows without getting to know them first.  What does that say about me?

I also like tofu and never once put a kind word in for soybean fields before the plants were slaughtered unmercifully.

I’m not the King of Comedy.  I’m the Comedian King.

I crack an offhand joke and someone dies.  I write a good punchline and someone lives.

All because of my invisible friends.

That’s just the way it is.

Never once will you find me directly communicating with my network of associates.

Well, except through this out-in-the-open blog, of course.

Some days, I put up smoke screens to fool you and buy time to put space between us.

Other days, I’m as obvious as a drunk wolf with his tongue hanging out at a meat-market bar.

I don’t go to NASCAR races to see who wins.  I go to NASCAR races to see who dies.  SAFER barriers have taken away the fun.  That’s why you don’t see me there, anymore.

Same for NFL games.  Head concussions are the price the players pay to entertain me.

I’m tired of technology making life better for people.

I want technology that makes life worse for people.

The boring suburban life of security and bland food never worked for me.

Fear and mayhem.

Cloak and dagger.

Makes people appreciate the fragility of life even more.

One day, technologists will figure out how to convert autistic children into networked biological computers, giving parents cause to celebrate the social usefulness of their progeny/prodigy.

Meanwhile, I’ve got to keep my warhawk and his influence on me in check.

War and peace in harmony, destroying a few rocketships along the way to make a point.

Are you listening?  Good.

Let’s clear the smoke out of the room and see where we’re going next.

I’ve millions of unemployed teens and young adults to form into an army for a cause bigger than any one community or country.

The kid gloves are off.  Civilisation let them down.  Time to charge the battlements and take back what mediocrity and greed had stolen from tomorrow’s leaders today.

We’ve tested the defenses.  Found the weak points.  Put two sides against the middle.  Let’s use the enemy’s stockpile against itself.

The old entrenched system is no longer viable.  This isn’t a warning – it’s a fact.

Only you and history can decide how much of this is fiction and how much of this is real.