tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223169422024-03-07T03:37:13.312-05:00Reality: Unscripted"Sometimes a little techno-babble is good for the soul."E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-37232603221982295512011-02-05T03:56:00.001-05:002011-02-05T03:56:06.916-05:00Ground ControlI may not be Major Tom, but I sure have been up in the air for a while.<br /><br />Long story short, blogger-babies, I now possess an iPhone and the ability to post from all kinds of mobile locations at all hours of the day or night. This could revolutionize my blogging experience... or I could totally ignore my blog for months at a time. Again.<br /><br />Booya. XD<br /><br />BTW, did I tell y'all that I graduated college, was lazy all summer, and then worked my way up from part-time to full-time at Belk in less than six months? 'Cause, um, yeah. I did.<br /><br />More to come, I hope. That second part of The Guardian will be finished at some point; til then, enjoy the random posts from 2:30am. Lord knows I do. :)E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-26975311524738391522010-03-22T15:23:00.000-04:002010-03-22T15:23:08.805-04:00The Guardian, part one<i>This is the first part of the story I've been writing for this semester's Fiction class. It's more or less a rough draft, because I ran out of time and wanted to add so much more to the story.<br />
Part Two will be posted sometime around late April/early May, when the final draft is due. This has been so much fun to write - it'll be a struggle to finish it well, but we'll see what happens along the way.</i><br />
-<br />
<br />
The sharp slam of his car door echoed across the quiet parking lot. Mark adjusted his tie and kept a firm grip on his clipboard as he made his way to the front entrance of Christ Hospital. There was an odd stillness in the air, except for the chirping from a few sparrows bathing in the puddles scattered around the hospital parking lot. The gray sky threatened more rain, but that was expected. Spring in Cincinnati was always rainy.<br />
<br />
The automatic doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Mark took a deep breath as he approached the welcome desk. The girl behind the desk was watching him walk, and it made him uncomfortable. “Hi there.” <i>Be professional, idiot.</i> “ I’m Dr. Buckley, and I have an appointment with Dr. Fletcher.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, okay.” The girl handed him a laminated clip-on Official Visitor badge, clumsily working around her long press-on nails. “She’s in Cardiology. Go down the hall and take the last door on the left.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you.” Mark clipped on the badge and adjusted his tie again out of nervous habit. <i>Keep it together. You’re halfway there.</i><br />
<br />
The nurse’s station door in Cardiology was locked, and Mark had to show a passing nurse his visitor’s badge before she let him through. Inside, in the midst of all the nurses rushing busily around inside the station, was a forty-something redheaded woman in dress-suit and a lab coat, standing by the patient roster, checking over a hardbound chart while the chaos of the nurse’s station parted to avoid her.<br />
<br />
Mark tried his best to look professional and impressive – his first consultation was definitely not going to be his last. “Hello there; I believe you’re expecting me.” He fumbled for his visitor’s badge. “I’m here to consult on a patient’s psych evaluation.”<br />
<br />
“Dr. Buckley?” The woman closed the chart and took off her reading glasses. She looked at him, and paused for a moment too long. “You’re early. I’m Dr. Carrie Fletcher – welcome to chaos.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you.” He risked a glance at the chart in her hands. The front label had already been filled out: <i>Rita Hayes | Room 201 | Fletcher.</i> “I’d like to get right to business, if you don’t mind. Is this the patient’s chart?” He knew it was – why else would she be holding it already?<br />
<br />
“Yes, of course.” Dr. Fletcher seemed hesitant.<br />
<br />
Mark looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “Is something wrong, Dr. Fletcher?”<br />
<br />
“No, no,” she said hurriedly, which meant there was. “…it’s just that you’re… younger than I expected.”<br />
<br />
He smiled. “I get that a lot.” He did. In his school days, becoming a psychiatrist years ahead of his peers used to be a thrilling idea. Since then, the practical world had replaced that thrill with embarrassment. “Gifted” was the term his mother liked to use; others preferred “too young.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Fletcher smiled politely and handed Mark the chart. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t keep you from seeing your patient. She’s just down the hall – if you’ll follow me.”<br />
<br />
Since the first few sections of medical charts were always the boring legal documents and informed consent papers, Mark skipped immediately to the Assessments tab. He tried to read quickly as he followed Dr. Fletcher’s brisk pace. The chart said Rita was fifty-seven, that she lived alone, and that a heart attack had brought her to the hospital. The nurses reported that a search for her only remaining family, a seven-year-old son in Dayton, had ended with a death certificate dated sixteen years ago. On the chart, Dr. Fletcher had written (in typical almost legible doctor’s-scrawl) hurried notes like “Refuses to acknwlg son’s death – insists he is alive. Delusional? Call for psych eval.”<br />
<br />
Mark managed to scan the last few pages of the chart before Dr. Fletcher opened the exam room door for him. Closing the chart hurriedly, he tried to smile as warmly as possible at his patient.<br />
<br />
Rita Hayes did not look very old, but her age showed in the laugh-lines around her eyes. She also looked significantly less crazy, and more like a regular patient, than the chart made her sound, especially now that she was sitting idly in her sterile hospital bed and wearing her standard hospital gown. There were no bandages on her arms, no burns, no cuts; nothing at all like a textbook schizophrenic. Her eyes were watching him, not darting around distractedly or staring into space. She seemed as lucid as anyone else.<br />
<br />
Mark moved to shake hands with the patient. “Hi, Rita, I’m Dr. Buckley. I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t mind at all.”<br />
<br />
“All right, then.” Mark sat in the chair next to her bed and had to rummage in his pocket for his pen. <i>How unprofessional.</i> “…tell me, Rita, why are you in the hospital?”<br />
<br />
“I had my first heart attack last night. I’m afraid this old body just isn’t what it used to be.” She chuckled.<br />
<br />
Mark had to smile. “Well, that tends to happen after a while, you know.”<br />
<br />
“Now, you’re too young to know anything about that!” Her voice was level and strong, and she was making eye contact whenever Mark paused his note-taking. And she was still smiling. <i>Was she always this cheerful?</i><br />
<br />
“Has anyone contacted your family, or is there someone else you’d like to call?”<br />
<br />
Rita’s smile faded. “I tried to explain to the nurses about my son, Devin, but I have—met with some resistance about that.”<br />
<br />
“I see.” Mark hesitated, and tried to choose his next words carefully. “When was the last time you spoke with your son?”<br />
<br />
“Last Thursday. It’s not usually so long, but he had to go away for a while.” There was a pause. “Did Dr. Fletcher put you up to this?”<br />
<br />
<i>Uh-oh.</i> He fought the urge to look to the other doctor for support –or a bail-out; whatever came first– and racked his brain for an answer. “Well, I…”<br />
<br />
Luckily, Dr. Fletcher recovered faster than he could. “I asked Dr. Buckley to come in and ask you a few questions, but that’s all. If you want him to leave, you have the right to say so.”<br />
<br />
Rita’s cheerfulness was gone; she was frowning at Dr. Fletcher now, and Mark tried not to look like he was watching. By the time she turned her attention back to him, her frown was more subdued. “I guess it wouldn’t be fair to shoot the messenger; it’s not your fault she dragged you into this.”<br />
<br />
“All right,” he said softly, “but we don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”<br />
<br />
“No, I don’t mind.” Except that her furrowed brow said she did; just a little, perhaps, but just enough. “What else would you like to know?”<br />
<br />
Mark checked his notes nervously; he had lost his place. “…well, ah—When Devin said he was going away, did he say where, or for how long?”<br />
<br />
“No, he said he couldn’t tell me. Worries me to death when he does that – he has to keep little secrets, though. It makes him feel special, I think.”<br />
<br />
“That must be difficult for you.”<br />
<br />
Rita sighed through her nose. “Well, no, what’s ‘difficult’ is these doctors trying to tell me that I don’t know my son is dead. I never said he wasn’t!”<br />
<br />
Mark’s eyebrows shot up. “You—you’re saying he is, then?”<br />
<br />
“Well, yes and no – he died, Dr. Buckley, but he’s still with me.” She looked distracted now; she was smiling to herself. “He’s my little angel. My wonderful little boy is always watching over me.”<br />
<br />
There was an uncomfortable pause, and Mark felt every moment of it. His mind was racing. He had studied delusions inside and out; he had written his exceedingly well-documented dissertation on this exact disorder; he had, according to experts in the professional world, become Cincinnati’s leading authority on schizophrenia. And now, in the wake of Rita’s perfectly lucid delusion, he had no idea what to say.<br />
<br />
After what felt like an eternity, but was actually only a few moments of silence, his training kicked in. <i>Keep her talking. Find out everything you can.</i><br />
<br />
“He visits you often, then?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, yes. He comes to see me at home all the time.” Her smile faded a bit, and she shifted uncomfortably in her bed. “If I’m not there when he comes,” she said softly, “he won’t know where I’ve gone.”<br />
<br />
Mark gave her what he hoped was a kind (and not a pitying) smile. “I’m sure he’ll be all right for a while, but we’ll try to get you home as soon as possible.”<br />
<br />
Rita didn’t seem comforted. “I hope so. He gets so worried when he can’t find me…”<br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
Dr. Fletcher closed her office door quietly behind her, and gestured for Mark to have a seat in the chair beside her desk. “That could’ve been worse,” she said, almost to herself.<br />
<br />
“Well, that’s reassuring.” Mark took the opportunity to glance over his notes again, as scattered and semi-legible as they were. “How long do you plan to keep her here?”<br />
<br />
“That depends on you, I’m afraid. If you give me the go-ahead, we can have her moved into a treatment program as early as tomorrow morning.”<br />
<br />
“It’s a textbook delusion. Rita not only believes in a delusion, but she refuses to accept anything that challenges it. And the strength of the conviction in her voice, in her body language… it’s fascinating. It’s as if she created this fantasy to block out the grief and the reality of her loneliness.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Fletcher’s chair squeaked as she shifted her weight forward. “Do you agree that she’s a candidate for institutional treatment?”<br />
<br />
Mark looked up from his clipboard. She was watching him closely, her green eyes flitting around to spot each potential tell in his expression, even though he had tried so hard to maintain a stolid front. <i>What is she looking for?</i> Finally, he found his voice. “It’s difficult to say.”<br />
<br />
The corners of Dr. Fletcher’s mouth eased into a smirk. “It’s difficult to say that we shouldn’t help a woman who can’t face the reality of her son’s death?”<br />
<br />
“No, it’s not that.” Mark swiveled in the chair as he fell deeper into thought. “But something just doesn’t fit right,” he mused aloud. “If Rita truly was schizophrenic, other symptoms would have emerged by now – but she’s as lucid and communicative as I am.”<br />
<br />
“The hospital is willing to do whatever it takes to help her–within reason–but I’m not equipped to treat a schizophrenic patient here. One of my colleagues at University Hospital could put her in psychiatric care.” She leaned back in her chair, looking at him over her steepled fingers. “It’s a good program, and they’ll take care of her. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
It was, but he wasn’t about to say so; the state-sponsored mental institutions were as close to being comfortable prisons as their HR departments would allow. He knew a teaching hospital like University would be better than that, but only because anything would be. Still, helping a delusional woman lose her only comfort in life was not the way he thought he would start his career—but he was probably too young to have professional pride.<br />
<br />
In any case, Dr. Fletcher wasn’t giving him much of a choice.<br />
<br />
Mark took off his glasses and rubbed at the indentions they left on the bridge of his nose. “…all right, let’s do it. How soon can University start her treatment?”<br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
Mark was too tired to care about catching the front door, or about how loudly it slammed behind him – it was nice to finally be home. His apartment was dark, as always, and today it smelled more strongly of the cat than usual. He sighed to himself and tried to ignore the odor of urine. With all the fuss he had made about preparing for his first consultation, he had forgotten to change Sybil’s litter-pan this week. He had taken almost ten paces from the door before the black-and-white cat came out to circle around his feet, meowing in her quiet, chirping way and rubbing her loose hairs all over his clean black pants. When he picked her up and reached to pet her, she swatted at his hand and started biting his fingers – he had forgotten to feed her, too.<br />
<br />
He carted the irritated Sybil over to her food and water bowls, cringing all the while at the sharp needle-like pain of her teeth sinking into his unprotected flesh. The sound of food pouring into her bowl provided enough distraction; she immediately stopped biting him and began to purr. Mark left her happily crunching on her dry cat food. He had escaped remotely unscathed this time.<br />
<br />
After preparing his own dinner of fresh-from-the-freezer chicken, he sat down at his computer and pulled up an internet search for University Hospital. Their website looked innocent enough, like their system had been overhauled by a politically correct web-designer subcontracting to an expensive photographer. They even called their psychiatric unit “Behavioral Health Services”—it all seemed so cheery and helpful.<i> Too cheery and ridiculously helpful.</i><br />
<br />
Sybil jumped up on the desk and started batting at the chicken in his hand, and managed to scrape a claw across one of his fingers. “Hey! Wait ‘til I’m done, brat.” He tore off a piece of meat and tossed it over his shoulder. Sybil took a flying leap and chased it down, scrabbling to get a grip on the hardwood floor. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her. <i>Spastic cat.</i><br />
<br />
Mark brushed the breading-crumbs from his fingers before opening another search. He tried “Devin Hayes” in every public database he could think of, but found nothing. Finally, he unearthed an archived news article from a small-time newspaper with an even smaller website. Devin Hayes, a seven-year-old local boy, drowned a few miles from his home – and the paper called it a “tragic accident.” There were no witnesses or passers-by to save the boy when he fell into the river. The only family, his mother Rita, had refused to comment at the time.<br />
<br />
There was a subsequent article of an attempted suicide two months later: Rita Hayes, age forty-one, ran a red light and wedged her car under an eighteen-wheeler’s back tires. Detailed pictures of the gnarled wreckage –what was left of Rita’s car– sent a shiver down Mark’s spine. Half the car had been flattened by the truck’s massive wheels, and the other half had been mangled and twisted beyond recognition, except for the area around the driver’s seat. The car insurance company had to identify the make and model based on their own records. Everyone interviewed by the paper said the same thing: Rita Hayes shouldn’t have survived.<br />
<br />
Mark spent the rest of the evening trying to forget about Rita’s case. It was out of his hands now, and there was nothing else he could do; and yet, the images of the wrecked car still haunted him. A crash like that was nearly impossible to walk away from, but she did. She had seemed so happy and confident at the hospital - not at all like a grieving mother with a history of attempted suicide.<br />
<br />
Finally, worn out from the long day, Mark went to bed. His apartment was colder than usual – he was shivering when he crawled under the covers. Sybil hopped onto the bed behind him and curled up behind his legs. He couldn’t shake the odd unsettled feeling deep in his gut at first, but eventually he was lulled to sleep by dull pattering of rain on his window and the soft rhythm of Sybil’s breathing.<br />
<br />
It didn’t last long. Around three a.m., he leaped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, where he promptly vomited into the toilet. Several times. Shaky and weak, he pulled himself up to the sink and rinsed his mouth out. The godawful taste of acid and liquefied chicken made him feel sick all over again.<br />
<br />
He spent the rest of the night on the bathroom floor with his dirty clothes as a pillow, only sleeping in fitful dozes. Every hour or so he would wake up and be sick again – how much could his stomach hold? Even when he thought nothing was left, something came up. It was a miserable night. His back and neck ached from lying on the hard floor, his sinuses burned with the stink of stomach acid, and his abdomen was sore from heaving endlessly into the wee hours of the morning.<br />
<br />
As the stormy night gave way to a rainy dawn, exhaustion took over, and he slept.<br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
Cat claws scratching on the wooden door were loud enough to rouse Mark from his feverish slumber. He sat up, stretching out the stiffness in his back as he went, and let Sybil in the bathroom with him. She pawed at his knee to make him pet her and, when she grew tired of being adored, ran out – no doubt to sit hopefully next to her food bowl.<br />
<br />
He groggily stumbled out and made it as far as the living room couch. It was already half past ten in the morning. Everything still hurt, and his throbbing head felt like it was stuck in a fishbowl, which could only mean his fever was getting worse.<br />
<br />
After feeding his cat, he called in sick at his practice. His assistant would have to cancel all his appointments, but he didn’t care. Mark curled up on the couch with crackers and ginger ale, and prayed he could keep it all down. He slept most of the day, whenever he wasn’t running back to the bathroom; any solid food he tried to eat eventually came back up, and as the afternoon wore on, he found it harder and harder to swallow anything at all. <i>This is ridiculous,</i> he thought drearily. Whatever had decided to wage war against his immune system didn’t feel like bad food, a stomach virus, or even the flu – it felt much worse. It felt like poison.<br />
<br />
He didn’t realize he had dozed off until something woke him: a soft whisper, barely a breath, from somewhere in the room. He thought it was Sybil at first, but she was asleep at his feet. It sounded like… <i>Crying—? Someone’s crying? How—?</i><br />
<br />
Mark sat up and looked around. The living room was empty.<br />
<br />
The crying grew louder. He dazedly scrambled to his feet. “Hello?”<br />
<br />
No answer.<br />
<br />
He stumbled toward the kitchen in search of the source. It was already dark outside, and he hadn’t turned on any lights in his apartment. When he flipped the All On switch and flooded the apartment with light, the sound stopped. A young boy sat in a heap in the middle of the kitchen floor, his eyes bloodshot and his face red from crying. Mark couldn’t keep himself from staring.<br />
<br />
“How did you get in here?” He asked. Had he been too deeply asleep to hear him come in?<br />
<br />
“I can’t—I can’t find her,” the boy sniffled. “I can’t find Mommy.”<br />
<br />
Something about this boy made Mark’s stomach churn again. He tried to ignore it. “Where do you live? Maybe I can help you find her.”<br />
<br />
“No!” The boy screamed. “Get away from me!”<br />
<br />
Another wave of fatigue and nausea hit Mark head-on; he fell to his knees, convulsing with dry heaves. When the little boy thrust out his hand, the heaves stopped. The hand went up, and so did Mark – he was yanked up from his knees by an unseen force. Dangling a foot off from the floor, he writhed and struggled to break free from the invisible grasp.<br />
<br />
The boy’s arm was visibly shaking with rage as he stood. His little fingers closed slowly into a fist. Mark felt his airway closing. He panicked, thrashing around in midair, scratching his own neck as he clawed at restraints that weren’t there. His screams were strangled in his throat before they could even come out.<br />
<br />
“You’re a bad man,” the little boy growled. “You sent her away. I won’t let anyone take Mommy away from me!”E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-10641423384893461052010-01-27T00:02:00.000-05:002010-01-27T00:02:45.162-05:00Poetry Post: ElegyWow. I'm really bad at this whole "blogging regularly" thing.<br />
<br />
Ah, well, life gets in the way and that's fine. In the meantime, I unearthed this little ditty from last semester's poetry class. It's another depressing one (because, really, it's hard to write a cheeky elegy), but it's <a href="http://the-magical-e.blogspot.com/2007/08/camera-pans-left-close-on-steeple-of.html">a little more personal</a> than some of my other poems turned out to be. <br />
-<br />
<br />
Too Young <br />
<br />
The casket made of wood and gold<br />
was built to look like Grandma's did;<br />
he loved her so, thirteen years old,<br />
his trembling hand on her coffin lid.<br />
The memory both heals and haunts...<br />
<br />
An ember glows beneath the flames<br />
before it dies... and he, too young<br />
to cope with grief and loss, lies slain.<br />
His still-warm fingers clutch the gun<br />
that silenced all the Devil's taunts.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-71971926557903825052009-11-09T09:18:00.000-05:002009-11-09T09:18:39.587-05:00Poetry Post: Heroic CoupletsEighteen lines of heroic couplets in iambic pentameter. I wanted to write about something happy, but after seeing this girl at the mental institution where I work this semester, nothing happy came to mind. Not my best day ever.<br />
-<br />
<br />
All in One <br />
<br />
At first she seems so simple and composed,<br />
but watch... and down the rabbit-hole she goes<br />
inside her mind, and never bats an eye.<br />
A carousel of people whirling by<br />
behind the placid stare; they want to speak,<br />
they only want to help when she is weak,<br />
for none of them would live were she to die.<br />
They rage when she cannot defend, and cry<br />
when the center cannot hold; the pieces left<br />
behind by trauma and fear, each person cleft<br />
from her, their host, and lashing out in pain.<br />
Their handiwork: the scars that still remain<br />
on her once unblemished arms. The angry one<br />
once tried to drown her, and very nearly won.<br />
As I observe her in her room, I see<br />
the multiple, the girl with D.I.D.;<br />
the girl with scars, with fears, with pain and doubt,<br />
the girl who tried to take the wrong way out.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-66817359175889233252009-11-05T18:04:00.003-05:002009-11-09T09:23:08.506-05:00Poetry Post: Blank VerseIambic pentameter is the least of your worries when battling writer's block. There really was a mantis watching me work. Ever had a bug for a muse? It's a strange experience.<br />
-<br />
<br />
Mantis<br />
---<br />
<br />
The praying mantis perching near my book<br />
stays safely out of reach, where she can watch<br />
with compound eyes unblinking; every move<br />
is analyzed. It’s hard to concentrate<br />
and read with her in silent audience,<br />
though I stopped watching her some time ago.<br />
I reach to try and touch her sticklike frame.<br />
She tilts her angled head so quizzically<br />
at first, and inches back uncertainly,<br />
then looks away to feign disinterest<br />
in boring, docile humans like myself.<br />
It’s cute. ...diversionary fun, but cute.<br />
I try to leave her be and read my book,<br />
but when I turn around again, she’s gone,<br />
and all my entertainment goes with her.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-83855436998284258402009-09-29T14:24:00.004-04:002009-09-29T14:45:50.413-04:00Long Time, No BlogThat's right - I'm back, babies. Admit it... all two of you missed me. :3<br /><br />This semester I'm taking a creative writing class on poetry (which is way more exciting than it sounds... partially because there are no tests. XD).<br />That said, the weekly poem will probably end up on the ol' blog. Like this poem here! It's a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sestina">sestina</a>, thirty-nine lines with repeating non-rhyming end words, using both <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iambic_pentameter">iambic pentameter</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iambic_tetrameter">iambic tetrameter</a>. Throwing around poetry jargon maketh the poet feel all intelligent and stuff.<br />And yes, if you couldn't tell, I'm still researching Vietnam and related things. Like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post_traumatic_stress_disorder">post-traumatic stress disorder</a>.<br />(for extra points, you can play a little game I like to call "Spot the Obscure <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Second_Coming_%28poem%29">Yeats Reference</a>"...)<br />--------<br />Somewhere in Viet Nam, 1969<br />—<br /><br />The long, hard road we chose to follow<br />We all know we may never leave;<br />Each man feels the stifled fear inside,<br />And we know the memories we’ll hold,<br />The folks back home will never understand.<br />No soldier wants to die alone out here.<br /><br />Some of the boys don’t remember why we’re here,<br />But there are always orders to follow.<br />At first, I couldn’t understand<br />Why any soldier would want to leave.<br />If we still had to fight for our ranks to hold,<br />Our wish to run would have to be kept inside—<br /><br />But kids like us can’t keep it all inside!<br />The bullet that gets you, you won’t even hear…<br />And all you’ve got is a gun to hold<br />As you go where even angels won’t follow,<br />You force your fears to check out and leave.<br />That’s one thing I never wanted to understand.<br /><br />This ever-present terror I’ve learned to stand,<br />It’s like a cold and deadened weight inside—<br />The kind of weight that just won’t leave;<br />The kind you know will always be here.<br />I’m afraid this weight will always follow<br />me, and the other boys to which I hold.<br /><br />We know the Viet Cong cannot hold.<br />I know this army has to make a stand,<br />And I’ll march on ‘til there’s no one left to follow.<br />But I can’t seem to shake the feeling inside<br />That says I could, and would, just pick up and leave...<br />This war is the only reason I’m still here.<br /><br />My tour has halfway finished here.<br />I don’t know how long my post will hold,<br />But I will fight ‘til the day I leave.<br />I only wish you could see and understand<br />The silent soldier screaming to death inside;<br />After his mind goes, his body is sure to follow.<br /><br />Good men followed orders to stay out here...<br />From the inside, the Viet Cong won’t hold,<br />But I understand why a guy would want to leave.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-24895980604166612062009-05-05T12:41:00.003-04:002009-05-05T12:59:30.083-04:00Transforming OedipusYeah, it's gotta be Finals week if I'm blogging about stuff like this.<br /><br />Today's reading comes from a little <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,518857,00.html">article on Fox News</a> that, as a student of psychology, I felt bound to share with you, the general blog-centric public.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />If that doesn't leave you disenchanted about<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0206511/"> old Disney Channel shows</a>, nothing will. Freud's probably chortling from his grave right now.<br /><br />No wonder Hollywood is going down the drain.<br />(Is going? Has gone?)E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-3576510033976526832009-04-18T00:35:00.002-04:002009-04-18T00:58:53.725-04:00Hey, Mikey, I Think She Likes It!Test, one two three... I just want to see if this mobile blogging thing works. Besides, it's about time for an update, right? Does this count?<br /><br />---<br /><br />The bit above was texted to my blog. Sweet success is mine! XD<br />...delusions of grandeur seem to be mine also. :/ Ah, well.<br /><br />So. The latest obsession is the soundtrack from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0445922/">Across The Universe</a>. I haven't seen the movie yet (curse you, Covenant, for your lack of bandwidth!), but it apparently coincides with an era of history I've started to research this year: the Vietnam War. And if all goes well, over the summer I'll start on the writing project that has inspired this research.<br /><br />Tell me what you think:<br />An epistolary novel using the letters and journals of three friends; starts around 1960 and continues through the major events in the friends' lives, including the uprising of Jim Jones and the People's Temple, and the effects of the Vietnam War both state-side and overseas. One character will go off with the People's Temple crowd, one will go to Vietnam, and one will stay home (because home at this time was, as far as I can tell, far more complicated than it seemed).<br /><br />Yes, it's involving a lot of research. Even looking at calendars starting in 1960 to get all the dates down proper, and possibly inventing a platoon for a character who will be the soldier in Vietnam. I mean, heck, if <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homer_Hickam">Homer Hickam</a> can do it...<br />(pick up a copy of Torpedo Junction sometime and imagine all the research that went into that. He's pretty intense.)<br /><br />Historical fiction could be fun. Hard, but fun.<br /><br />Give feedback! Any ideas? Book/research material recommendations?E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-70303396422980769792009-02-24T13:54:00.004-05:002009-02-24T14:53:46.920-05:00Do Not Adjust Your Blog. We Control The Bandwith.It's about time for an Unscripted YouTube post. We shall see if my mad HTML skillz can make the embedding work properly. Let me know if something isn't working.<br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br />First up: living proof that choreography is now vitally important for marketing.<br /><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VQ3d3KigPQM&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VQ3d3KigPQM&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object><br /><br />Next: the frequently mentioned (on this blog) author Neil Gaiman, assuring us that buttons are not scary. At all. Particularly not if you're familiar with a major plot-point in <u>Coraline</u>.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6HD5yh8ar2I&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6HD5yh8ar2I&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Now, happiness all around: more references to musicals than anyone knows what to do with! (I wish I could identify all the songs for you... but alas, I cannot. Nevertheless, hearing Hugh Jackman sing West Side Story makes my life just a little bit more awesome.)<br />(another note: this video might be taken down eventually, like the other musical number from the 2009 Oscars that I wanted to show off.)<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2WvJa2ZxFco&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2WvJa2ZxFco&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />And on the topic of musicals, Gene Kelly was on an episode of The Muppet Show, and I am so sad that I'm too young to remember this show at all (my Muppet-related show was "Muppets Tonight", back when Disney had quality prime-time television). The song is from the Judy Garland/Gene Kelly flick "Summer Stock". Oh, and <i>I freaking love Gonzo.</i><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Sjf1P2dU7t0&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Sjf1P2dU7t0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Finally, a scene from a movie I wish I'd grown up watching: Danny Kaye's "The Court Jester". I don't blame him for getting mixed up - I was, too, when I heard some college friends quoting this scene back and forth to each other.<br /><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LS75NtlH3gI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LS75NtlH3gI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object>E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-78972209354577591342009-02-02T12:29:00.002-05:002009-02-02T12:50:23.596-05:00On Self-Publishing and Publicity...well, not really. More like a couple of shameless self-plugs. -_-a<br /><br />First, take a look to your right - you should see a new widget in that column for Twitter updates sent by yours truly. It's partially an aid to show the world that, regardless of how much or little I update my blog, I still live. Plus, Twitter is one of the coolest things I've mucked about with in the past year or so. Yesh.<br /><br />Second, the short and fiction-like things are not coming along as well as I'd hoped. Fortunately, something else is: recently I began to load an ongoing project onto WEbook.com, and if you have the time, <a href="http://www.webook.com/project/Time-Capsule">check it out</a>. I'd love for some feedback, whether good, bad, or just plain ugly. ...with the exception of the last, probably. You can leave comments on WEbook only if you're a member, but feel free to leave comments here on the ol' blogspace, too.<br />Oh... and please ignore the obvious implications from the choice of character name. I tried to change it, but it just didn't feel right.<br /><br />In other news...<br />Have you ever seen <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vw-qlHuktJs&feature=PlayList&p=2E0B51BAEBC2B8B2&playnext=1&index=46">a highly attractive man maul a newspaper in a musical number</a>?E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-12677613878955726152009-01-25T23:16:00.003-05:002009-01-26T01:09:38.195-05:00Cool Stuff for TodayWhy do homework when you can blog?<br /><br />I haven't had an entry of random cool things in a while. So here you are: mass linkage, coming up.<br />(Half of these I, ahem, stumbled upon. If you use Mozilla Firefox, add the program "StumbleUpon" from the add-ons section. Hours of entertainment. It brings up awesome <a href="http://www.womansday.com/Articles/Family-Lifestyle/Pets/Video-Ninja-Cat.html">things like this</a>.)<br /><br />Books and Authors:<br />Two of my favorite authors are on Twitter - <a href="http://twitter.com/mordelaire">Donna Andrews</a> and <a href="http://twitter.com/neilhimself">Neil Gaiman</a>.<br /><br />TV:<br />A complete, exhaustive, and 80% facetious recap of the season 5 premiere of LOST from last Wednesday: <a href="http://www.theackattack.net/?p=453#more-453">Because You Left, and The Lie</a>. (Warning: bad language. Lots of bad language. It is, nevertheless, hilarious.)<br /><br />Movies:<br />Did I mention Neil Gaiman in the past five minutes? Because one of his books, Coraline, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0327597/">is now a movie</a>. You can hazard a guess as to where I'll be on February 6th. (and I'm trying to forget that Dakota Fanning is the voice of the title character. Ah, well - you can't have a perfect movie, I suppose.)<br /><br />Music:<br />Video for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCU1JYmGxcA">"Love Me Dead" by Ludo</a>...<br />Video for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jXPzMXN3hAg">"The Mermaid"</a> from a Great Big Sea "kitchen party"... may I say, the b'ys throw great parties.<br /><br />Internet:<br />This probably should go under TV, but never mind.<br />A segment from Whose Line Is It Anyway? that cracks me up every time: <a href="http://video.stumbleupon.com/#p=l31ytbvg7v">Irish Drinking Song: Wrong Name </a><br />(If that link doesn't work, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aqg6BNSUG5Q">try this one</a>.)<br /><br />And that's all for now. When I find something else cool, you will probably be the first to know.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-52813478539700218082009-01-19T15:11:00.005-05:002009-01-19T21:50:34.253-05:00Insert Applicable Dog-Related Pun Here<a href="http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2009/01/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about.html">This link will be </a><a href="http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2009/01/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about.html">particularly funny</a> to anyone who has ever owned a pet and had to administer medicine to aforementioned pet.<br /><br />One of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, has a blog/journal that I read regularly. He also seems to have a dog.<br /><br />I never had to give pills to my family's cats, but there's been a time or two over the past year when I've had pill-duty for our dear and wonderful dog. It is the most difficult and most disgusting task I think I have had in the history of Milton family pet-ownership. Cleaning out the cat's litterbox pales in comparison to fingers covered in dog saliva and remnants of wet peanut butter, and that's if Daisy actually swallows the blasted pill.<br /><br />I may have to try his trick. If you do, too, let me know how it goes.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-5417796601951086722009-01-15T23:25:00.002-05:002009-01-15T23:36:36.272-05:00Small Update...In an effort to maintain my sanity, I will be attempting to blog more this semester.<br /><br />Yes, I realize that every time I <span style="font-style: italic;">say</span> I will blog, I don't.<br />Hopefully I will have time.<br />Writing helps de-stress, therefore blogging should too, right?<br /><br />Right.<br /><br />Upcoming posts:<br />-I want to do an entry about the book I was reading at home about Dissociative Identity Disorder.<br />-Also, maybe show some rhyme or reason for the research I've been doing about Vietnam and, on a surprisingly related note, Jonestown.<br />-Aaaaand the big Doctor Who kick I've been on may catch on in the blog. Particularly if I keep watching Peter Davison's portrayal of The Doctor. ^//^a<br /><br />Maybe I'll even post something short and fiction-like, if all possible. Assuming I <span style="font-style: italic;">write</span> something short and fiction-like.<br /><br />By the way, my dears... whilst I type away by the white glow of a laptop screen, it's 7.9° outside. Wind chill is -5° or so.<br />I'm in college in <span style="font-style: italic;">Georgia</span>.<br />This shouldn't be happening.<br /><br />Stay warm. 'tis the season to lose toes to frostbite, if you stay outside too long. Possibly even five minutes too long.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-42971620211016482852009-01-14T22:21:00.001-05:002009-01-14T22:22:03.150-05:00Walzing with BashirToday's history lesson, and potential Oscar nom, is brought to you by <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7755561.stm">this article from BBC News</a>.<br /><br />I must confess that I am not much of a "history person". Granted, I find certain eras of history more interesting than others, and I'm known do extracurricular research when something really catches my attention... but for the most part, important dates and notches on a timeline slip away from me like mud through a sieve (<span style="font-style: italic;">some of it stays, but not nearly enough</span>). So don't be too surprised when I say I knew nothing about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lebanese_Civil_War">Lebanese Civil War</a> before today.<br />Apparently, it was bad. Very bad. I have no word strong enough to describe the horrible slaughter that this "civil" war brought. And that was before everyone started switching sides.<br /><br />And now, they're making a movie about it.<br /><br />Um.<br /><br />Would it be too morbid if I said I wanted to see it?<br /><br />Regardless, someone thought it was good. It <a href="http://www.comingsoon.net/news/movienews.php?id=51911">made the nine-entry pre-pre-shortlist of the Foreign Films</a> for this year's Oscars. If it was narrowed down from sixty-something other movies, I'd like to think there was something redeeming about it. (<span style="font-style: italic;">Then again, </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0457430/">Pan's Labyrinth</a> <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't get Best Picture last year... so maybe there's something wacked about the judging process. I hope not.</span>)<br /><br />This could bring up an entire debate about whether war movies should even be made. One country's suffering as another's entertainment sounds very distasteful, indeed. Then again, if the film is meant to depict exactly how horrifying the Lebanese Civil War truly was, maybe it can help more than it hurts.<br /><br />In any case, I'll be scouring the Foreign Film section of Blockbuster for this one.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-24942279740831863682009-01-13T09:36:00.003-05:002009-01-13T09:56:47.610-05:00HibernationHuddle against the cold.<br />Fight the icy wind that<br />pierces like a knife.<br />Grumble.<br />Shiver.<br />Whimper.<br /><br />If there is a sun behind the gray,<br />I cannot see it.<br />The blanket of clouds covers,<br />smothers...<br />Push back the blanket<br />and let me breathe.<br /><br />Spring will come<br />and the gray will go.<br />But for now,<br />I must wait<br />and hold my breath.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-12939881238501589422009-01-03T21:04:00.004-05:002009-01-14T22:45:22.534-05:00There IS a Doctor in the House.As of earlier today, <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/7808697.stm">there is an eleventh Doctor Who</a>.<br /><br />I'm excited... and a little blitzed. Maybe it's just because he's so freakin' young, but he looks like a guy I knew in high school.<br /><br />Of course, with this news (which comes in the wake of a kicking awesome <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1321969/">Christmas special</a>) comes the expectation of David Tennant's regeneration in the next special, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1337072/">Planet of the Dead</a>.<br />I haven't been into this show very long, mind you. The most recent season was already on TV when I started watching. I saw Nine's regeneration, but the knowledge of a very promising Ten was effective consolation.<br />I'm not sure how an attachment/adjustment to Ten will affect the viewing of the next special and beyond.<br /><br />But I'm definitely excited about Eleven.<br />_______________________________________<br /><br />Edit:<br />Oops. Totally forgot that Tennant is signed on for, I think, four specials, which will take his contract through the end of 2010.<br />Good Lord, I'll have graduated college before Eleven's adventures hit the screen. That's a scary thought.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-866147907478440832008-11-23T21:03:00.003-05:002008-11-23T21:29:46.885-05:00Almost Home for the HolidaysAnd by "almost", I mean two days from Thanksgiving break and less than a month from Christmas. My, how time flies.<br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">My fellow RENTheads should have thought, muttered, or shouted "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWDnRI5nNKA">Time dies!</a>" in response. I hope you didn't let me down.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And yes, you know who you are.</span>)<br /><br />Hopefully, I'll have a better update in a couple of days. Probably Wednesday or Thursday. It wouldn't be a Milton-family holiday if I didn't blog about it, after all... and the best news: the second-cousins who demand their annual Land Before Time marathon aren't coming this year. That's right: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMtdvBHq2_A">we are controlling transmission</a> this year.<br /><br />And because it's an exceptionally nerdy day, I'm gearing up a month in advance for the New Year's Eve <a href="http://www.scifi.com/schedulebot/index.php3?date=31-DEC-2008&feed_req=">marathon of Twilight Zone</a> on SciFi. Oh SciFi, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eiMDh5ej_rg">have I told you lately that I love you</a>?<br /><br />To tide you over until my next post, have some fun with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGnEIGuHjtU">this little ditty</a>. It's the short from my favorite Turkey Day special of MST3K, "Night of the Blood Beast".<br />You'll have to search for the second part on your own, though. =)<br />Enjoy!E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-794145441571833322008-11-04T23:12:00.002-05:002008-11-04T23:45:14.216-05:00Apparently, We're Changing.<a href="http://elections.foxnews.com/2008/11/04/wrap-polls-start-close-frenied-day-voting/">It's official.</a><br /><br />I know I wasn't very politically-minded on my blog during the drawn-out, dramatic, and ridiculously publicized build-up to tonight's election. This was intentional. It's wearisome to hear friends, families, co-workers, fellow students, or anyone else arguing the same old trip over and over again. It's a lot of wasted energy to get so angry about it. Even now, I'm just thanking God it's finally over; as of last month, I made my voting plans and stopped caring for the "right" outcome -- <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> outcome would have been, and is, a welcome reprieve.<br /><br />Nevertheless... the finality of it all is odd. I kind of expected an outcome similar to the last election. I knew deep down that Bush was going to be re-elected, no matter what. This time, though, my hunch was off. Way off. It's the first time I've had to deal with being on the "other side" of the political realm.<br />I think there's a quote in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0303461/">Firefly</a> that is something to the effect of: "It may've been the losing side... [I'm] still not convinced it was the wrong one."<br /><br />So next time, I'm moving to England so I can <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mr_Saxon#Mr_Saxon">Vote Saxon</a>. Or, if I stay here, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denny_Crane">Denny Crane</a>. He piloted his own starship, you know.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-37161248329305482042008-08-08T12:08:00.002-04:002008-08-08T13:18:17.690-04:00Just Your Typical Superhero Musical Video Blog.Well, maybe not. XD<br /><br />In any case, get excited, because <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0923736/">Joss Whedon</a> has struck again. Mutant Enemy put this together during the Writer's Strike; their little project surfaced in July, and I must confess, after I watched all of it I figured it would soon disappear from the internet all together (shameless plug: it is available for download on iTunes. Don't be cheap like me!). So I didn't post in the good ol' blog about it then.<br /><br />And now that I know it's still up (wheeee!), I present it to you.<br /><br />My dear readers, I give you <a href="http://www.drhorrible.com/mushortio.html">Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog</a>.<br /><br />Disclaimer: it's about forty-five minutes long, so if you'd like to watch the three fifteen-minute acts at your leisure, they're on YouTube in parts. (yeah, I know, for some reason the three acts are each in two separate parts. Nine videos. And linking them all would be ridiculously tedious.)<br /><br />Enjoy!E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-84567588175278408942008-08-06T23:42:00.004-04:002008-08-06T23:50:55.824-04:00Two Words:<object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" width="464" height="388"><param name="movie" value="http://www2.funnyordie.com/public/flash/fodplayer.swf?96d0a705"><param name="flashvars" value="key=64ad536a6d"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><embed flashvars="key=64ad536a6d" allowfullscreen="true" quality="high" src="http://www2.funnyordie.com/public/flash/fodplayer.swf?96d0a705" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="464" height="388"></embed></object><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Oh.<br>My.</span>E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-81622146044811407962008-07-17T23:12:00.007-04:002008-07-17T23:31:29.289-04:00To S&M!Your reading assignment is <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,383642,00.html">yet another news article</a>. Because that's where I get all my giggles when I'm not watching House.<br /><br />Just "Wow..." A long, drawn out, bewildered and overwhelmed "Wow." Followed by a long laugh.<br /><br />I could get out my soap box on this one, but I don't know if I should preach about the depravity of society or the stupidity of Mattel's marketing department.<br />Or both.<br /><br />I open the floor to the discussion of which is the greater of two evils: innate human depravity or the kid's toy company that seeks to exploit it.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-14713842341940642692008-07-15T20:19:00.009-04:002008-07-15T21:07:10.493-04:00Faulkner's Old South<div style="text-align: center;">"The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past."<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-William Faulkner</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAcBOn1Hv0gx-hwNmY85z16OPBg68iIYyQxIglcs57TgKTzHYjoVFw02vXoyrObI4la2ZHHSNqOZyivAcuzRjmKS7Z4i9mgwaeGfd4hZP6vwNWUcADbCmneazzTYiBppf-i-4jA/s1600-h/DSC_1582.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAcBOn1Hv0gx-hwNmY85z16OPBg68iIYyQxIglcs57TgKTzHYjoVFw02vXoyrObI4la2ZHHSNqOZyivAcuzRjmKS7Z4i9mgwaeGfd4hZP6vwNWUcADbCmneazzTYiBppf-i-4jA/s320/DSC_1582.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223404981744185682" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO8eaxwJhdNE5yp1zJX18MIs54No8yltTraewsSsnPk5vvVjMqFXY_EvwWoWIiKAxVVMn6wR1uDPOOE4MEUHpN7Ka2eHCKmOBCrCSeSWx0MEZucFAJggtaoDZhXtQA5hiJi9PCxg/s1600-h/DSC_1586.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO8eaxwJhdNE5yp1zJX18MIs54No8yltTraewsSsnPk5vvVjMqFXY_EvwWoWIiKAxVVMn6wR1uDPOOE4MEUHpN7Ka2eHCKmOBCrCSeSWx0MEZucFAJggtaoDZhXtQA5hiJi9PCxg/s320/DSC_1586.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223405426815882578" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIASYiP8FtVhNnaT4N7COBCb1kCsMtMUjUAws8pnNkS-d1Mfj3QBI1UOHzebMia8WuL3qK_Kyw5W5FbZvI2s5JECvD3fM_m4LlPw0zf3c1VgJ3XyQPLCZbFhaXd2TCGkeOQj9-GA/s1600-h/DSC_1588.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIASYiP8FtVhNnaT4N7COBCb1kCsMtMUjUAws8pnNkS-d1Mfj3QBI1UOHzebMia8WuL3qK_Kyw5W5FbZvI2s5JECvD3fM_m4LlPw0zf3c1VgJ3XyQPLCZbFhaXd2TCGkeOQj9-GA/s320/DSC_1588.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223405821709279314" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrGG8Os5zxxM5FcekoG1O4rjg3k5pEQes3xSUpplCNEq4SCjHjTmuEcKsnGR_4ElOvbeAGhRRkPT3FRMGWmp-gGBisSGmikXmQ0c2PBeS3EcW-0zVmdngCqCnkQ3OBkXQ4RW4ow/s1600-h/DSC_1591.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrGG8Os5zxxM5FcekoG1O4rjg3k5pEQes3xSUpplCNEq4SCjHjTmuEcKsnGR_4ElOvbeAGhRRkPT3FRMGWmp-gGBisSGmikXmQ0c2PBeS3EcW-0zVmdngCqCnkQ3OBkXQ4RW4ow/s320/DSC_1591.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223406124415925762" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4F_8a3t5W671IhIRYnva8GYw_x-uMnDTPeIzyRw76Ap6izWy2rrpWH3QPD_jtQs7Q5tzVzJSt5KpVDQOC07ODw-LoyTU-BgMR9tbkqfI0dLgpkTfhZzZZ3LeiPYyOTwV31GxN4A/s1600-h/DSC_1599.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4F_8a3t5W671IhIRYnva8GYw_x-uMnDTPeIzyRw76Ap6izWy2rrpWH3QPD_jtQs7Q5tzVzJSt5KpVDQOC07ODw-LoyTU-BgMR9tbkqfI0dLgpkTfhZzZZ3LeiPYyOTwV31GxN4A/s320/DSC_1599.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223406758107168722" border="0" /></a><br />No, I don't have my camera back. These are a few months old. But whenever I drive through some of the more rural<span style="font-size:85%;">*</span> areas of central Alabama, I'm reminded of all the images of Faulkner's "old South": ancient landscapes covered in kudzu and Spanish moss; plantations sprawling across and towering over the warm, green grass of a Southern summer; small towns that never grew, but instead shrank away into memory...<br /><br />And yet, the life from the past somehow remains. Dust and overgrown these buildings may be, they nevertheless stand.<br />__________________________<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*rural (<span class="pronchars"><span style="font-style: italic;">adj. </span></span>Pron: <span class="pronchars">\<span class="unicode">ˈ</span>r<span class="unicode">u̇</span>r-əl\):<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span></span><span class="sense_content"><span style="font-size:85%;">1. of or relating to the country, country people or life, or agriculture<br />2. of or relating to a place where you must wait for the dog napping in the middle of the road to wake up and move before you can drive by.</span><br /></span><dl><dd class="pron"> <br /></dd></dl>E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-6366114827545475942008-07-04T13:58:00.003-04:002008-07-04T21:55:30.193-04:00Freaky FourthEven as I sit down in the recliner with Rodney to blog, I can already hear the dominoes clattering on the dining room table over the humming of the dishwasher. I predict now that we'll be able to tell who's winning by how many threats they receive from my grandmother.<br /><br />The holidays make everybody crazy. We made our last-minute trip to Wal-Mart last night with the foolish belief that we could run in and out in under an hour. Considering our normal trips take almost an hour, with ten or so minutes in the check-out line, we knew this was going to be a feat.<br />After standing in line for forty-five minutes in one of three lines open on our side of the store, Kate looked at me and said, "Do you ever feel like you're living in a sitcom?"<br />I wonder if the twenty other people in line were thinking the same thing.<br /><br />By the way, Grandmama has threatened to backhand Dad for the third time in about an hour... sounds like he's winning.<br /><br />Kate and I have kicked back for the amazing experience of a Twilight Zone marathon. Ever seen "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0734693/">Will The Real Martian Please Stand Up</a>"? It's positively chilling. This is truly a TV show for the storytellers and story-lovers at heart -- you have twenty-five minutes to suspend your disbelief and willingly fall into a realm that teases, baffles, mystifies, and even terrifies the rational human mind.<br />This is, however, all in preparation for a Hitchcock movie marathon later this afternoon. As if The Twilight Zone wasn't freaky enough, we have to add a little more suspense into the mix. Sweeeeeet.<br /><br />Oh-- fourth threat toward Dad. He's definitely winning.<br /><br />I'm running out of battery, and it's probably getting close to margarita time. So while I settle in for "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0734584/">King Nine Will Not Return</a>" (with the guy from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0046912/">Dial M for Murder</a> -- w00t!), I bid you a very happy Fourth of July, dear reader. Tonight I plan to watch the fireworks display at the Prattville High stadium from the comfort of my roof, and maybe get in a couple of Hitchcock movies before turning in for the night. I hope your plans make you just as pleasantly satisfied as mine.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">PS: Don't forget to say your prayers.</span>E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-11507489099926286282008-07-02T22:33:00.006-04:002008-07-03T18:48:49.456-04:00Free to Scrub Floors and Roll GossamerLong-time readers of my blog (or since at least a year ago this month) may recall that my family is big on tradition. We know exactly where we're going and with which side of the family on each major holiday. Fourth of July brings to mind different things for the four of us Miltons: for Mom and Dad, images of BBQ from Pratt Park and margaritas dance in their heads; meanwhile, my sister and I can only dream of how much cleaning and decorating we'll all have the week before the shindig.<br /><br />If you've never met my relatives, I would be willing to bet that your idea of cleaning house for a family get-together is different from mine. I am convinced my grandmother has a rare gene that has, as of yet, remained undiagnosed by modern science: it gives a person the superhuman ability to spot when something has not been Lysol'd within an inch of its warranty. In an effort to keep my grandmother bored, Mom and I agreed that this year's big project should be to "deep-clean" the kitchen floor. Point of interest: our kitchen tile was laid in the 1960s and is remarkably resistant to mopping. Our strategy, then, would involve three days, two scrub-brushes, and two-thirds a bottle of Oxy-Clean.<br />I went into the project with the mental image of Cinderella singing about nightingales, and felt at peace. Silly me. After the first day, I wondered why Cinderella never had bruised knees and wicked arm muscles. If she cleaned the floors on her hands and knees for the majority of her life, she should've had biceps the size of a midshipman's on the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HMS_Surprise_%28novel%29"><span style="font-style: italic;">HMS Surprise</span></a> and been able to carry Prince Charming across the threshold.<br /><br />After completing the heavy-duty preparations, we move on to the next logical step: decorating. And yes, to keep up with the Southern Living example, we <span style="font-style: italic;">must</span> decorate. Mom's ideas for this year involve the blue gossamer and glittery stars that were intended -and used- for our church's annual Independence Day potluck dinner on the 2nd, because she found herself in charge of decorating for both meals. Trust me, this is about as low-key as it comes for my family... one year for Thanksgiving we toyed with the idea of covering large pinecones with gold and silver spray-paint, and we have exactly zero pine trees on our property.<br /><br />And amidst all the preparations and last-minute dashes to the grocery for the frozen margarita mix, I had the pleasure of attending the aforementioned dinner at church. The fellowship brought to mind the reasons why we go to such trouble of rolling out gossamer and ironing the nice tablecloths. For the first time all week, I wasn't bothered by the thoughts of which part of the kitchen floor needed scrubbing before Friday.<br />Then, in the middle of the dinner, we had a prayer for those serving in all the branches of the military. We have this kind of prayer every year, but this time I was deeply moved; one of my childhood friends is over in harm's way right now, and another man will soon be leaving to serve overseas while his wife and two little girls wait for him at home. Prayers for the families in particular broke my heart. I found myself to be the textbook example of seeing the forest for the trees; how could I have forgotten why I was free to scrub the floor, celebrate, and even have a church family to pray for?<br /><br />How can we as Americans care so very much about American Idol and LOST, but not Presidential speeches? Why do we content ourselves with listening to public orators, stand-up comedians, and next-door neighbors who bash the government with all the conviction of the Rotten Tomatoes critics at a viewing of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0339034/">From Justin to Kelly</a>? Why do we pointedly forget how we obtained the right to vote for Bush and then complain about him?<br /><br />I don't want to get on my soap-box for very long. But before I put the box away, let me say this: if you're going to kick back tomorrow with friends and family, just remember to give a prayer for those who aren't able to be with theirs.<br /><br />See you Friday afternoon for the annual Fourth entry... I hear there's going to be a Twilight Zone marathon this year.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22316942.post-25103220116293623922008-06-11T16:20:00.009-04:002008-06-11T17:07:45.536-04:00Time Management... or Lack ThereofThis is a tale of the inevitable problems that stem from my addictive tendencies.<br /><br />Recently I picked up one of the most fascinating games to never have a plot: Harvest Moon. And it's taken over my spare time. To briefly surmise, you play as Jack (<span style="font-style: italic;">or Insert Name Here, whatever else you want to name him</span>), who suddenly inherits a farm from a dearly departed friend. The job description of "owner" is not descriptive as to how you run your farm; it only requires that you <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span>.<br /><br />It's easy for me to get addicted to things like this. There's no plot to the game, unless you count the cut-scene drama of vying for the attention of one of the pretty young girls in the town with your "rival" for her heart. You make this little man work day in and day out for his living. Perhaps it's this vicarious experience that makes the game so fascinating.<br /><br />So where does this leave Player One? Jack's out living his life, running hither and yon armed with a watering can, a sickle, and a fridge full of turnips. Player One is sitting in front of the TV surrounded by empty soda cans and, if he's been playing long enough, a couple of cobwebs.<br /><br />Somewhere between taking care of the chickens and harvesting crops of cucumbers, I realized that a game covertly teaching me responsibility on a virtual farm was overtly causing me to shirk my chores in my actual life.<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">As a point of interest, are there any other Trekkies familiar with the Next Generation episode </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0708798/">The Game</a><span style="font-style: italic;">? Because the similarities are rather alarming... except that no one has deactivated my fridge in an attempt to take over my house.</span>)<br /><br />I think the Gamecube is going on the shelf for a little while... just until I stop having dreams about planting crops of potatoes in my backyard.E-milhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762176769450482820noreply@blogger.com4