A Last Night in Lake Tahoe

It is with a sense of sad nostalgia that I write this tonight.  As I sit here with the window open, I hear the smooth sound of the waves of Lake Tahoe splashing upon the shore.  I feel the bitter, wonderful bite of the icy cold, and see the reflection of white snow upon trees, buildings and ground.  Far beyond, I see only twinkling of the distant lights of the far side of the lake.  Everything else is eerily quiet, cold and still. 

It is the last night here, the last night of my 29th birthday vacation.  Tomorrow we will take the long drive back home, back to work and reality.  It does feel like the waking of a long and wonderful dream.  We've done so much, and so little in our short week here.  We've taken a walk through the touristy nature trail, seen salmon swimming up the rapid stream, the fall colors.  We toured around the old mansions and homesteads of our fore-bearers, those who came up to enjoy this lake in the past centuries.

We walked up the side of a great mountain, Mt. Tallac, about 5-6 miles by reckoning, along a rocky path.  We stopped for lunch at an old resort camp, sat down upon the rock with nothing but the wilds of the mountains, just us for miles and miles.  Peanut butter and jelly never tasted so good.

We did a lot of nothing too, sitting and reading.  Walking and enjoying the freshly fallen snow.  We sat and watched it cascade down, and watched the wind whip up the dark waters of the lake.  We ate well, enjoying meals at such wonderful restaurants and home.  

At long last though, it is time to go home.  I wish we didn't have to leave.  I could die tomorrow and probably be very happy.  This is what it must feel like to retire, to have no worries or concerns.  I could stay up here forever, within the reach of the wilds of nature but also comfortably in civilization.  Alas, I cannot for now at least.  But here is to dreaming.

The First Snow

It is only November first, and already soft drifts of snow float down outside my window.  I am at home, in Southshore Lake Tahoe just three days after my 29th birthday and as I watch each tiny fleck I feel as if I am gazing out into a large and wondrous snowglobe.  The snow seems to hover in the darkness as if borne on tiny wings, the wind casting it to and fro to land upon the roofs in thick clumps.  It has only been an hour and it is already thick as a pillow blanket. 

This is the best weather for writing that I can imagine.  There is nothing quite like sitting in the black of night, with snow whipping outside.  There's a fire in the fireplace, hot cocoa ready at my convenience, life is pretty good.  I can sit without a worry in the world and concentrate upon my work.  Its Christmas kind of weather, so far from the sunny and probably warm and hot of San Luis Obispo where I live. 

We don't really have seasons back at home, which is something I do miss terribly.  We basically have summer, indian summer, a semi-winter, and an allergy season (which is part of summer.)  There's no fall color, there's no snow.  We sometimes get hail or a freeze, but nothing like this.  I think that this is the sort of weather that appeals to most of us when we think of warm and cozy. 

Tomorrow, I will wake to a world of white.  Where everything will be clean, cold and crisp.  Everything will be blanketed in a thick waist high layer of snow.  Kids will be out sledding, making snowballs, and animals will probably be gathering what foodstuffs they can for this strange "early" winter.  I can step outside for a moment and take in the lovely white, cold, and then step back into my comfortable space and look out to the wonders of the first snow.

Whatever may come

Well, another sleepless night.  Another evening alone with nothing but myself and my thoughts.  Strange to say, but I think I enjoy the quiet outside.  There's nothing, not even the sound of cars this early into the morning.  The sky is awash with stars and there's just a faint whisp over Cierro San Luis mountain which looms like a massive black obelisk behind the house.  Its the sort of night one should expect out of October, the night one half-expects to see ghosts out and about, walking the streets. 

I'm a fairly superstitious person.  I can't walk under a ladder or cross paths with a black cat.  For the longest time I couldn't get out on one side of my bed (because of the saying getting up on the wrong side of the bed.)  Apparently I thought the left side of the bed was the bad side.  Now the way my bed is, I get out on the left side and seem to avoid the right.  Strange.  But maybe its just force of habit now.

That said, I do believe in spirits, ghosts whatever you may call them.  There's times I'll get strange feelings, chills etc in a place that's old, or going by a cemetery.  It's not easy to explain, its just a very uneasy feeling.  Only once have I ever felt something malevolent, and that was a trip unto itself.  Something I NEVER wish to experience again. 

I know a lot of people discount ghosts and that sort of thing, but yet these same people don't discount religion.  I never understood people who didn't believe in anything though.  To think that we are born only just to live, die and then rot is a very fatalistic viewpoint.  It sort of begs the question, what is the point of any existence if that's all there is?   Whether you believe in god, goddess, buddha, or whatever, I beleive that there's a certain divine spark in all of us.  It is not simply neurons in the brain that makes us conscious beings, it is a sense of being, a sense of purpose. 

We're only on this planet for a short amount of time, and yes we are all born to ultimately die, but that does not change the fact that we must live.  I struggle all the time with the ultimate conclusion, I am sure all of us do.  I suppose the point of all this is that we all touch the divine in different ways, and I think we should celebrate that fact with each moment we live and breath.

Rain at 3 A.M.

Awoke this morning, the gentle sound of rain pitter patters out my window.
It swishes and sloshes across my roof, down my gutters,
Through the creaking branches and down the leaves.
Little wonder I do have trouble sleeping,
My dreams turbulent roll over me like a drifting sea,
awaking often and half-remembered
unable to return.

I stare blankly at the time,
red digital letters against the black
of this early morning.
I consider where I might go, what I might do
roll over and sigh. 
Why can I not find slumber this night
or any other?

----------------

I suppose this is what happens when waking this  early on.  My posts here have been less frequent, probably because I feel like I am shouting into the darkness and hearing my own echo.  I went to a writers conference recently that said not to do that.

I found some very wonderful insights into my first book.  I realize now that I need professional opinion of an editor who has seen hundreds of books go past their desk.  Its so easy as a writer to say "well this is good and this is good" but a professional editor is really needed. That said, I think I have found myself fed up with writer's conferences. 

It seems so easy to stand in front of a crowd who paid to hear how to become successful.  I couldn't help but wonder if some of the speakers could be published today.  I don't begrudge them their success, but they'd be where I was sitting without the established ties they made 20 years ago when things were a little easier. I wanted to stand and dare them to try.  To use a different name, a different picture and see how far they got. They would have probably glared at me.   Frankly I probably wouldn't mind because then I know I was right.

A Strange Case

We live in uncertain times, there is no doubt.  I have no illusions of the reason people harm each other, but the yesterday I was witness to the death of another human being - in a manner of speaking. 

I didn't see the event mind you, but I heard it.  I was out in the garden, working on planting some ground roses when I heard what sounded like a very loud "Thud".  Then there was a cry, though I realize now it was a scream, then another thud.  At first I thought perhaps someone had nearly hit someone with a car, but nothing happened after it so I paid it no mind.  There were no sirens, nothing.  Still, there was an unsettling aura in the air that I didn't like. 

I got in the car go get some lunch and as I left the market about five minutes later two police cars came whizzing by me with sirens blazing.  By the time I got home, they had the block just above me roped off, and people were crowding around.  I didn't go down to see what was going on, I know better than to crowd the work of police doing their job.  I knew then something was very wrong though.  A few hours later my parents called and told me what happened and I was shocked. 

I don't know why I was shocked.  Just because I live in a small town doesn't mean murders don't happen here.  San Luis Obispo is a small town, and to be honest I in all the time I've lived here there have probably been many other cases like this.  Things happen all the time at Cal Poly, I hear about them through word of mouth, but this was a personal experience.

I can't help but feel strangely guilty.  I know I shouldn't  I had no knowledge of the events unfolding in that house, the domestic dispute that lead to this.  Still, one wonders after this, "could I have done something?"  I secretly wish I could, maybe seen the man leaving his car with the gun, called the police.  But I didn't.  I don't know if anyone did. 

In two minutes, a woman was alive, and then she was not.  In a few more, a man was arrested, and now lies in jail.  There, he will sit and wait for many years hereafter, most likely to die for his crimes.   Its a strange circumstance, an unfortunate one.  That he chose to kill another, and she died.  That I was within a block of an act of violence, literally within earshot of death.

A simple Memory

It's funny what can trigger old memories.  Sometimes we will spend years apart from a person, a place or an object and then suddenly out of the blue there will be a trigger to our senses that brings it all back.  It can be something simple like the smell of warm cookies or the sound of the ocean.  It can be the taste of blood in your mouth when you loose a tooth or the sight of an old photograph.  It it was the latter for me recently. 

My mother has been putting together old photographs of her mother (my grandma) on a shelf by the kitchen.  On a whim one sunday morning I picked one up and looked at it.  I haven't thought of my grandmother in the some six or seven years since she did.  I had an image of her last days in my mind, frail, mind failing due to alzeimers.  She could barely comprehend most things, but she could still play music on her organ in the little home where we'd put her.  

This picture however, was of some time before that.  She was holding this one purse with flowers on it.  I'd completely forgotten it, but my grandma had always carried little purses like this.  They were almost crochet covered, knitted but with plastic or leather straps.  I remembered picking one up as a kid and trying to figure out what exactly was in it.

In that moment I could suddenly remember the smell of the purse, how it felt in my fingers as I traced them over the strange bony protrusions along the edges. That memory triggered other things, thoughts of my grandma's house, what I did there, the sound of her voice or her music and for the first time in a long time I felt on the verge of tears.

So many years after her death, and still the memory of that pain is very fresh.  It made me realize how very soon I'll have to go through it again with my surviving grandparents.  I don't want to think about it, yet it looms so large in the foreseeable future.  In the end, such things are beyond the power of mere mortals to comprehend.  We are just infinitesimal specs in the eyes of time, death and the universe.  But in death, there is still hope beyond the eternal mystery.


My Mom once told me about the day my grandma died.  She had just passed and she and my father were in the backyard.  I think they were talking when they noticed a very old dove sitting on the top of the house.  The dove was cooing softly, then it spread its wings and took flight.    When my mother told me this I wasn't so much surprised as humbled and awed.

There are a great many things no one can explain about death.  Many would argue that the dove was merely circumstance.  These same people would say that the only point of life is to live then die and that there is nothing afterwards.  In that moment, I think, my grandmother would strongly disagree.  She was a very devoutly religious woman, and it was from her that I started learning my first lessons about death when my grandfather died.  There was a strength of resolve that remained within her, even to her last day.  A brightness in her eyes that I never want myself or anyone to forget.

The senses of summer

Summer is almost done, and so I do something which I try to do at the end of the season:  consider what parts of summer I love best to observe with my senses.  The four main ones are very easy, but it there are more than four senses to summer in my humble opinion.  Its a fun exercise that I think I stole from a writing class somewhere, but I believe anyone can do it and be satisfied to retrospect their own view of the season.  It is very easy to look back with fond memories of an easier time at work with more ability for vacation, the making of new friends and going to new places.  In any case, these are my senses of summer.

Sight:  Shimmering waters, warm waves of air, the pristine pines of Lake Tahoe.

Smell:  Ocean breeze, salty air, the smell of warm peanuts and stale beer.    Simply walking along the shores of Avila I can get all these smells in an instant.  I suppose the two latter smells also remind me of my childhood when we would go to USC games and I'd smell lots of peanuts and beer.

Touch:  The feel of sand beneath bare feet, the warm touch of breeze in evening or a cool fog in morning.

Taste:  Rootbeer Marble, a rare ice cream treat.  I have seen this only sparsely, and had it even fewer times, but it is my all time favorite ice cream.  Like liquid fudge, the rootbeer syrup is mixed with pure vanilla ice cream creating a rootbeer float taste.  Combine this with a real rootbeer float, and you will be in seventh heaven.

Thought:  The relishing of each moment and sense, each new experience.

Word:  In words, Summer should be beauty, passion.  It is fleeting like life itself.  Scarce, it flees so quickly to hotter weather of so called "indian summer" which I hate.  Summer should be the three months we please it.

Action:  To go, to do, to see and sense all that we can.  To enjoy

Obon

Its been two years since I attended the local SLO Obon Matsuri at the Veteran's Hall here in town.  Long story short, when I started my current project I started going to the local Buddhist Temple to not only research but make connections.  The first time I went I was a bit overwhelmed, I had fun, but I suppose I felt a bit sheepish being put in the spotlight when several members pushed me into doing Taiko and some volunteering.  Its only now I realize that they were trying to help me feel included, but I have hated being pushed into doing anything since I was a kid.  So, I stopped going, and haven't been back.

This year however, I took the trip and it was well worth it.  Delicious food, great people, etc.  There were a lot of Japanese people here from all over California, all participating in various capacities.  It was a very warm sunny day, but everyone took it in stride.  I saw a really amazing Bonsai demonstration where a very, very aged gentleman took a standard Juniper plant and transformed it into a lovely fledgling Bonsai within about 30 minutes.  It was amazing to watch this tiny, frail looking man with almost shivering fingers working his magic.  He had all assortment of strange tools from chopsticks to a ground down trowel and other various things.  His son stood by and explained each step he was taking.  It was lost on me, but it was fascinating to watch.

Then there was the Kendo.  I've always wanted to take Kendo, but now I am not so sure.  Watching the master on the stage with his high yells really was impressive.  You could feel the pounding on the floor every time he lept forwards and started beating against the other students with his wooden stick.  Finally was the food and vendors.  There's not a lot in terms of Japanese "stuff" per say.  Some book vendors, t-shirts, etc.  There's pretty good food and of course information on the local temple.  The older priest I recall from last time was not there, but there was a very young one in his place.  He spoke Japanese beautifully, and it made me a little jealous that he's that good, because in his place I'd be off working in Japan.  In any case, I enjoyed myself, but now I am left with a new quandary:  do I return to the temple?

My reasons would be very just.  I want to enjoy meeting and learning about Japanese culture locally.  The only problem is I understand nothing of the chants and they wear on my ears.   The temple proper has a very small group of people in it, mostly older, but that's not a bad thing in the least.  Its an inroad to a larger aspect of something I love.  Even if I am a Catholic, there are aspects of Buddhism that appeal to me.  We will have to see tommorow morning, though part of me is scared to answer why I was gone so long if someone asked.  Most of the people there I recall didn't seem to recognize me, maybe that's good for now.  A fresh start.

Summer Rain

There is nothing quite like a summer rain.  I cannot recall the last time it was this cold or this rainy so close to the season.  Usually by this time of year its terribly, unbearably hot.  Many would point to global warming for the unseasonable changes.  Me?  If this is global warming, bring it on.  I hate hot weather.  Hot weather you can only take so much off to get relief and being without air conditioning is really hard.  Give me storms, give me rain on the windows and a warm fire in my hearth.

Rainy, stormy weather is the best kind for writing, at least for me.  For my work, not so much.  Dodging showers with a cart of perishable supplies and cleaning classrooms that don't have rain cover is not ideal.  I used to judge potential job sites I wanted to go to by the amount of rain cover because, believe me it matters.  Too often schools aren't built with rain in mind, which is odd considering these are children we are allowing to get wet.  Of course, kids love to do so.  They step in puddles simply because they are there.  Any other time I would laugh and watch, but when I am at work I cringe because I know I have to clean up the mess later.

I am not saying I want rain every day.  I could never live in Seattle per-say.  We need some sun for plants to grow and things to be healthy.  But that's

Close to Completion

Book one of my new series is finally, finally closing in on completion.  I am about to begin editing on the some 200 page manuscript and I'm terribly excited, but also very cautious at the same time.  I've always been cautious about hyping my own work, but I truly think this book is something special.  Phantom Express spoke to one part of me, the part that had to deal with death when I was a child.  This series of books however, is more fantastical and based on my lifelong love of all things Japan.

Despite this, I've hit a snag in my second book.  I know its strange to start writing a second book before I publish the first, but I've always been that way.  I have a clear story...and I want it done and on the page.  Still, I've hit major writer's block, I just find myself with little time or desire to write of late.  Work exhausts me, and I come home too weary to think.  All I want to do is curl up and go to bed.  Its not conducive to writing.  I suppose I just need to make time, because this series is going to be worth it.

What I need most, is someone with better knowledge of Japan and Japanese culture than me.  I took classes on the subject years ago, and I am rusty at best.  I am hoping among my friends or those who follow me that I might gain some suggestions.  Where should I go?  What should I do?  Japan itself is out of the question at the moment.  What else is there?

A Essay Poem out of Nowhere

I have no idea where this came from but here goes.

There is, in all life and love, a story to be told, a dream known only to ourselves.  Within us is the power to interweave it into the tales of others.  We are, all of us, fragments of imagination, dreams brought to life in words, thoughts and deeds. Within each moment and each life we touch, there is an eternity to touch, see and explore.  In the waning hours of existence, it plays back before us, and we see it all: the good, the bad, the indiscriminate decisions and the endless possibilities. Our memory beyond death is in the story of our life.  Those who remember us, remember what we did and who we are carry on our story.  In that telling, our life goes on, we live on, and the story of our dreams interweaves ever more.

Deathly Hallows

It is rare when I have to eat my words.  Not two posts ago, I railed Harry Potter and JK Rowling.  But tonight, I gave in.  I went out and saw the conclusion of this series.  I loved it.  In the end, I was wrong.  I fully admit I was wrong.  Harry Potter is not about death, it is ultimately about life, hope, perseverance.  This series of books, this writer, I can only hope to emulate what she has done.  I am just a piddly little writer.  I write because I enjoy writing.  I have ideas, thoughts, inspirations.  Here I sit however, utterly stunned.

I have to admit, I cried like a little girl when certain main characters are killed.  I cheered when villains got what they deserved, and I left the theater satisfied.  Sure, the movie takes liberties with the book, they always do, but ultimately, the spirit of this series has been kept wonderfully in tact.  This truly was a great revelation, not only to me, but to my writing.  I work very hard at what I do.  Its hard because I often don't see any ground gained.  I have two followers, I doubt very much anyone really reads what I have to say.  But I hold the same hope I believe is in those works of fiction that I can make something of myself.

This truly hit home towards the end.  I will not spoil it, but there are allusions to the ghost train, a train which when boarded carries the dead to the other side.  When I saw this, I had to congratulate Rowling.  She's remarkable.  I still don't want to read the books, I just can't get into them, but through these movies I've seen the work come alive, and I appreciate what she has contributed to literature.  Maybe, someday, when and if I find myself in her situation, I can meet her and tell her how I felt tonight.  Who knows, maybe she will read this, maybe not.

I have no illusions of that grandeur.  No, star studded ideals that may come true.  Chances are I'll be dead before any of my work sees fruition.  But I like so many people, can take hope an inspiration from Harry Potter, a boy who truly lives within all of us.

Fourth of July

A day late and a dollar short, but here is my blog for the fourth.  It's become a tradition in my family to go to Lake Tahoe for Fourth of July.   The fireworks are spectacular, even if the crowds and the drive are horrible.I haven't gone back in a year because of the drive, but really its worth the effort. This year was no exception in the regard to crowds.  There were a group of young Liberians who insisted on showering the entire south shore with loud, obnoxious music and rude behavior. They smoked my family off our own porch.

There was another family right next to us who's kid climbed a small structure that held a fire extinguisher.  Of course, the thing broke under his weight and they were very rude about what happened, blaming the structure and not the child or their own lack of supervision.   Unfortunate circumstances.

Despite these things, however, everything was still enjoyable.  The fireworks are always the highlight and afterwards I can sit and watch all the boats on the lake make their way back in the dark.  There is the sound of many roaring engines, the lapping of the waves, the distant rumble of the echoing fireworks.  Then, everything becomes quiet and still.  It stays that way after, and Lake Tahoe becomes the tranquil place I truly love.

My grandfather came here when he was a child with his father.  Together with his brothers they piled into a car and worked the lake over at Meek's Bay.  My great grandpa single-handedly built a lot of the benches and the pier there, supposedly.  The story goes that the heir to Meek's bay offered the bay and their house to my great grandpa for a hundred thousand dollars.  Of course, this was the depression and my great grandpa didn't have that kind of money as a teacher.  It is the thought that counts though.

The tradition continues on in me, and I hope it will continue in my children and grandchildren.  There is a sense of peace that I find going up there.  It's a thing I cannot accurately capture in words.  I promised I would go back sooner than I had last time, and its a promise I hope to keep.

Harry Potter

For the longest time I have hated Harry Potter.  Now, I'm not one to disparage the book, or its author.  J.K. Rowling is quite frankly a genius in her art, but frankly these books make JRR Tolkein look quite tame.  I don't understand how a children's book can be marketed with such a high character death count.  Tolkien highly discouraged anyone from thinking any of his books were for children, including The Hobbit.  This fact surprised me when I first heard it, but when you really look at all these books they aren't appropriate for children.  War and death abound in Tolkein, who took a great deal of inspiration from fighting in World War I.  In fact, the Dead Marshes in Lord of the Rings are a direct impact of him seeing dead soldiers in the trenches.  For a child to see such images of wanton destruction was probably more than Tolkien could have imagined.  Even in the Hobbit there's a great deal of nasty things, not the least of which is the terrible battle at the end, yet still many consider this a children's book.

Which brings me back to Harry Potter.  From book one, there's a high death count, and it seems that from the start Albus Dumbuldore has a pretty good idea what is going to happen to this poor kid.  He seeks to protect Harry from the dangers he will face, but at the same time he also catapults him into them.  I remember sitting in maybe the third or fourth movie, Goblet of Fire and wondering why the heck Dumbledor would put Harry into such brazen danger all the time.   It was reckless...almost heartless.  In the end Harry essentially has to lose EVERYTHING and everyone to finally find peace, much like Frodo in Lord of the Rings.   Gandalf is no less to blame than Albus is for putting Frodo in such danger, but there seems a greater reluctance on his part at least from my perspective.

There's other things that get to me too.  Some of the plot points of the book seem obvious, at least from an Author stand point.  I'm not going to spoil things for those who haven't read the whole series, but I had a pretty good idea what was happening and how things would end when I first heard about book one's plot.  Ironically enough, however, I think in large part my dislike of the books is a bit of jealousy.  Just before book one came out I was in High school and toying with an idea for a book about a school for magicians.  Its a very neat concept, and frankly Rowling's take on it far exceed's my preliminary notes and sketches.  I guess the fact she got to it before I could was a lesson in, write it while you can.

Summer Dreams

I can hardly wait for summer.  Every year I say it, but it's not until the last week that the desire really hits home.  Recently its been more so.  Technically last week should have been our last, but with a two week spring break (courtesy of the CTA) we're out next week.  I'm not complaining, but it feels long.  The kids are riled up, teachers are tired and cranky, and frankly so am I.  Part of my job, unfortunately being the night custodian, is to be the "old" guy who growls at the kids to keep in line.  Andy, the night custodian when I was in elementary school was somewhat this.  He's a nice guy, friendly enough, just kept to himself mostly.  After five years doing the kind of job he's done for longer than I've been alive I can see how one gets to be that way.

Its a lonely job.  Not many really know who you are or what you do.  Many times parents or kids simply see you as the hired help.  I can't tell you how frustrating it is to find piles of messes not two feet from a trash can in a classroom.  Different teachers and kids require different needs and its tough keeping them all on track.  Above all them is my supervisor who is busy with her own thing.  She works hard and tries to help me learn to be a better worker and hopefully take over once she's gone.

In the end, I'll be glad to see summer come.  I'll work, cleaning things up, making the whole school sparkle like new.  Then when summer's over, the kids and teachers will come back and things will go back to the same old mess.   But I won't mind.  Summer will rejuvenate me, as it does with everyone else.  If my job, and life have told me anything, its to appreciate the little things. In the end, I've been there five years.  I've made a lot of friends, helped a lot of kids.  I'm recognized now and I'm appreciated for my hard work.  The positives outweigh the negatives, and there's room for more improvement.  So here's to summer.  Let's hope the kids will be safe, enjoy their time off, and come back refreshed as I will be.

In Memory

Yesterday was Memorial Day, a day in which we remember those who have given their lives in the pursuit of defending the freedoms we enjoy.  It is a strange irony but our country was founded out of a pursuit of peace, yet for our entirety we have had to pursue war to maintain it.  Some may argue about certain wars, the futility of war.  Vietnam is a good example, as are the more recent conflicts of our current century.  Whatever we may think or believe however, our men and women have always tried to stand for the stalwart, upstanding values we all hold dear.

Army Sergeant First Class Leroy Arthur Petry is a good example of this.  For those who aren't familiar with him, he is the only living recipient to be awarded the medal of honor in several generations.  Petry's story has been all over the news, how he went back for his fallen companions when they were ambushed by Taliban in a secluded valley in Afganistan.  On Sixty Minutes, Petry described himself as a mediocre soldier, no better or worse than any of the other men.  His humility, selflessness, and righteousness should be an example to all of us.

Petry and other soldiers fight for people who will probably never see real conflict like what is going on overseas.  The constant bombardment of rockets and the threat of attack isn't some vague concept debated by conservatives or liberals, its real.  Men and women die by the hands of others, violently.  The pictures of the true horror of war are not often seen on television or in the news.  We like to keep it out of our minds I think.  But on this day, of all days, we try to remember, to think about those who have given and are giving their lives for us.

In my view however, this is not enough.  We need to think of our soldiers every day.  We need to hear more of their stories, get more of them involved.  The amount of elderly, homeless veterans in America is 16 percent.  This is astounding.  We should have none, no homeless veterans.  The thought of these people, these brave men and women living under a bridge is a travesty to our country.  We should be ashamed, no we are ashamed.  We look the other way.  We spend billions on war, but nothing on our wounded warriors.  I've said it and said it again, we need to do more.  For them and for the memories of all veterans.

Of the Rapture

May 21 was supposed to be the Rapture, at least that was the claim of a certain pastor and some of his followers.  These people gave up lives, money and time in the expectation that Jesus Christ was going to come down and wipe out all life on Darth and deliver them unto heaven.   Frankly as a Christian and a Catholic, I am very insulted.

I never understood the prophecies of end days.   People seem to gleam onto these stories with an almost mindless and slavering belief.  They give up all self-respect, all other doubt.  They listen with such attention to stories of such terrible death and destruction.  They hope, no, WANT for these things to happen; for fire to reign from the skies, for rivers of blood stream from every mountain top.  People want to see the four horsemen of the apocalypse ride up to their door and politely ask them to lay down so that they can ride over them.  I am sorry, but even as a believer of Christ I cannot buy into such a vision of the end-days.

If people want to see war, famine, pestilence and death they need only turn on the TV.  Violence and aggression is the word-of-the-day on the news.  Radio and TV announcers bicker back and forth, the sharing of equally important ideas diminished to one person shouting over another and then the first shouting over them.  Discourse has become a thing of the playground folly I see at work. Men and woman regress into little children with their thumbs in their ears singing "Blah blah blah" I cant hear you.  In other words, if we want to see examples of the end of times we need look no further than the present, not the future.

I sometimes wonder what Jesus thinks when he looks down at us.  Certainly all the worlds troubles are not limited to Christianity.  I don't doubt Mohammad and Moses stand beside him and shake their heads in disbelief.  I highly doubt any of our religious fore-bearers would want to see any of their followers so singularly fixated on the end of times.  Aren't many of the teachings in the religion about the preservation and the living of life?   Do we not have short enough spans as it is without wanting it to end sooner?

Certainly we all want to live a long and happy existence.  Were the end to come tomorrow, however, I think we would want to look back on both the good and the bad in our lives.  We wouldn't want to see a reflection of ourselves with so singular and narrow a purpose waiting only for that end-time.  As it is, I for one would like very much to wake up in the morning and be glad to do so.  

The Audacity of Youth

Again I am two weeks without posting, which is my own fault.  Things get busy and between back and forth shifts its been a tough one.  Still, work has once again inspired something I want to discuss.

The other day while at the elementary school where I work, amidst my duties of cleaning up after the children, a little girl walked up to me to ask a question.  Now, I'm used to questions.  Being the school's night custodian I don't usually get a chance to talk to the kids, so its always nice when I work days to interact.  She was probably a third grader, if my five years experience around short people is any indication of understanding age, very bright eyed and bushy tailed at 8:00 A.M.  I remember standing near the door and she padded up to me, resting her hands behind her back and asked, "Did you dream of being a Janitor when you were my age?"

My first reaction was one of slight irritation.  I hate when people apply the term "Janitor" to me.  It seems like a very derogatory term, almost like demoting me to the stereotypical shlub who does nothing but mop floors and sit back in a chair eating chips telling folks he is on break all the time.  That is not me.  I work hard at my job.   Its taken me five years to get to the point where they've started calling me Mister Johnston or even William in some cases.  I have to thank the the teachers at the school for teaching the kids to call me by my name or proper title.

The second thing that came to mind was that frankly, no I hadn't dreamed of that.  When I was her age I dreamed of being a teacher.  That was what my parents and my grandparents on both sides of my family had been.  It wasn't until I'd graduated from college and shadowed a special education teacher that I learned I just didn't have what it took to stand in front of kids and keep their attention for a day.  Ultimately it was my dad's suggestion that moved me to work as a custodian.  It had good pay and benefits and he suggested there was room to move up in the world of education.  

Back to the present, and to my story though.  I smiled to the little girl and said, "No, hon.  I didn't.  But you know what.  I dreamed of many things, like being a writer, and I still do writing in my day job when I am not here."   She seemed satisfied with this answer and went out to go eat and play with her friends.   After she was gone though I got to thinking.

When I was a kid, I and the other students always looked up to Paul Reinhardt, the custodian at our school.  We liked Paul and he liked us.  He always treated us with respect and we did the same.   Strangely, never once did I or anyone else ask him the question that was asked to me.  We had a hard enough time believing it when we saw our teachers at a grocery store.  So far as we were concerned I guess, we thought teachers lived and worked at the school without lives of their own.  (This is probably more true a case sadly given the state of education today.)

I wonder if this little girl will grow up and look back on the conversation with me when she grows up and has a job.  I wonder if her daughter or son, or any child she works around will ask her if she dreamed of being in her current job when she was their age.  I suppose that is the audacity of youth, to wonder and ask things no adult would dare ask.  That is the grace of being a child, the freedom that they have that is so quickly cut short by life's responsibilities.  Whenever I see them at play or in school I quietly remind myself that it wasn't so long ago I was in their place.  I envy them, but I also am glad that I had the opportunity while I did.

Giving Back to our Troops

I wanted to follow up on my blog about Osama Bin Laden.  So often it seems that my generation doesn't really think about war or the true cost.  We are a generation that does not live in the days of a draft.  If we did, I am certain more people my age, including me, would know the true cost of war.  I cannot speak to the rightness or wrongness of war.  War is a part of the human condition.  But I think more people my age need to give thought to those of us who are brave and stalwart enough to give their lives in service to our country.

My good friend, Sergio Del Veccio is one of these people.  I knew Sergio in junior high and high school, though we have grown apart over the years.  Sergio came into the country with his parents illegally, but they forged a life here and are some of the hardest working people I ever knew. Sergio wanted to become  veterinarian, but he couldn't afford the expense for such a schooling as a vet requires. After high school, Sergio could not remain at home, so he planned to join the military to get medical training.  Then, 9/11 happened.  I know this weighed heavily on his decision.  Ultimately, Sergio joined.  He's served in Afganistan and Iraq for the extent of the war as a medic.  In his own words he has seen things "no one should see."  This, above all, speaks to the horror of war.

After last night, I got to thinking of Sergio.  I wonder where he is, what he is doing.  The last I heard, he gained US citizenship and was based out of the East Coast.  He has a wife and a beautiful baby and I am sure he thinks of them every day.

I wasn't sure how I could give back to Sergio, or to other members of the military.  As a citizen, there's only so much I could do.  Then I hears about http://okbox.org/page-2.html and Andrew Gary on the radio.  Andrew sends care packages to our soldiers overseas.  Contrary to popular belief, our military doesn't give our soldiers everything they need.  Listening to him, and reading about him, I plan to donate to his cause to send care packages overseas.  I will hope that my friends or those who read this will read through his website and donate themselves.

Osama Bin Laden killed

I have just watched the announcement and President Obama's confirmation of Osama Bin Laden's death.  All I can say is thank God.  It's been almost ten years since the tragic events of 9/11.  I remember that day vividly.  I was still in college and I got up that morning to go to class.  I sat down next to a girl who turned to me and said, "Hey did you hear that a plane slammed into the World Trade Center?"  I turned to her, confused and said, "No I didn't hear that.  When was this?"  She shrugged. "Just this morning, it sounds pretty bad."

I wasn't sure what to make of this.  I had no idea the scope or immensity of the attacks until our teacher took us to a nearby dorm and we turned on the TV.  I remember watching in horror as the first plane slammed into the building then the second.  The teacher dismissed us and I went back to my dorm and sat with my dormmates in the common room and we watched the rest of that day.  I remember thinking to myself, "This is the Pearl Harbor  of my generation."

As information about Bin Laden and the attacks came out and as the World Trade Center and three thousand people sat in a pile of smoldering ash thought then that I would see the beginnings of a new world war.  I saw that my generation would probably be called to do something as our grandparents had done.  I was more or less right on that, though the call was not as large as I had thought, nor was it compulsory.  I didn't volunteer, though I did think about it.  In some ways I suppose I am glad I did not, considering.

In the end though, as the years dragged on I kept wondering, "when are we going to get that sucker?"  It seemed like every opportunity was missed.  I heard the conspiracy theories, and I immediately dismissed them.  I am never one who is so weak minded as to believe such things as gospel, which is why so much of what I listen to on the way to work makes me go crazy.  But that is a topic for another time.

It is here, finally tonight, that I feel a sense of resolution.  I certainly don't think anything is over.  The terrorist network set up by Osama Bin Laden is much larger than ever before, and I don't doubt they will attack out of vengeance and to prove they are still relevant.  I do fear another large attack to accentuate this point, and I pray we can prevent it.    We have been at war for the extent of this ten years, and no matter where anyone stands on the politics and decisions that caused things, I think we can all agree that we want the destruction to end.

I cant speak for Islam.  I know no Muslims in my life.  I would hope that they all wish for peace as much as we do.  Certainly most of the conflict of the past century or so has centered around the desire for oil in their countries.  But there is such a rich history, a diversity, a unique culture.  I only wish we could find more common ground, prove that we are friends, not enemies.  So often I hear people say "well just bomb them all, kill them all."  That scares me, because that is the mindset of the very people who carried out the 9/11 attacks.  If we resort to such tactics and thinking, we are no better than those who attacked us to begin with.  In the end, the cycle will only continue until the end of time.

As Gandhi once said, an eye for an eye makes the world blind.  What more can anyone say when it comes to terror, war, and Osama Bin Laden?

Followers

I've been remiss in posts for the past few weeks due to work and being ill.  I usually try to post on Sunday at least, perhaps just out of habit.  According to blogger, I only have one follower thus far.  I don't expect to have a ton of people following me at once, especially since this blog is very new, but I wonder how it is one collects a following with a blog.  I look around at other blogs and people seem to have at least ten or so people following them.  How do these people find the blog?  Is it chance?  Is there a connection somewhere that I miss?  I don't know.  I would like to hope that people read my writing and get something out of it, that people read me because I write something of substance.

I suppose many people who write in blogs start to do so due to the movie "Julie and Julia."  This book, about a woman who blogs about trying every recipe in the Julia child cookbook, is an example of how blogging can help an aspiring writer to market themselves.  Julia didn't have success straight off.  One of her first followers was her mother who commented something like "I don't know about this whole blogging thing."  My parents don't blog, so I don't have them as followers, but I do share my writings whenever I can.

I want to know what the trick to success is here.  Of course I don't expect Julie's success.  Maybe my aspirations are too humble, but I would like to hope that I am reaching someone out there.  If I am I would like to know any suggestions for marketing myself to more readers, please leave comments.  I would like to see what people think.

An Evening in Cannery Row

John Steinbeck begins his book, Cannery Row, with one of the most unique descriptions in modern literature.  He says:  


"Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, 'whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches,' by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, 'Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,' and he would have meant the same thing."  (Cannery Row, page 1.)

The context and plot of the book is a fairly simple one, yet so uniquely profound as all Steinbeck literature tends to be.  John had a knack for catching the gritty realism of 1930's California, specifically Monterey and Salinas areas respectively.  Being from these areas he knew them well, but it was due to his relationship with the legendary "Doc" Ricketts that Steinbeck probably became such a deeply intriguing writer.  Ricketts was a brilliant scientist to whom we may thank for pioneering the Monterey Marine Sanctuary and many other Marine Biological discoveries.  He probably introduced Steinbeck to the strange assortment of individuals mentioned above.  


Ricketts encouraged Steinbeck to look deeper into the human condition, an ability "Doc" is known to have possessed both in reality and in his many reincarnations in Steinbeck mythology.  You can find at least one character based on Doc in every Steinbeck book, though Cannery Row probably has the closest incarnation to the real man.  


Decades later, after the death of both men, Steinbeck's fictional depression era description of Cannery Row could be as accurate to the modern city.  Sure, the canneries are gone, replaced by huge gaudy monstrosities of hotels.    There are still scattered weedy lots, strange little "flop houses" atop more expensive restaurants and cliche California Chic stores.  The hum and bustle of life here, however, hasn't stopped.  Indeed, I would venture a guess that if not for the buildings, Steinbeck might feel right at home in the hustle and bustle of life here.  The denizens of the row in that era were working men, not tourists ready and raring to spend their hard earned cash, but there are stories here ready to be told. 


The reason I bring all of this up, of course, is that I love Steinbeck and I love Cannery Row.  I attended college up in Monterey and I always was fascinated that the majority of the book takes place in the immediate two block area of the Monterey Bay Aquarium.  Doc's lab still sits there, an unimposing little wooden house wedged between a huge hotel and the famous fish sanctuary.   When I lived up here I would come here often, hoping perhaps that some of Steinbeck might rub off on me.  Alas it probably never did, but the mythos of the place still retains a lot of its original splendor.  I once commented, of course, that I miss the old row.  There used to be more empty spaces where you could see the ocean.  It was more run down...more true to the story.   Now, well, if you've been there its a man made canyon.    


In any case, we've come up here for my mother's birthday and by luck we managed to get a set of rooms at the Spindrift Inn right on the older part of the row.  Here there are still lots, still places wide open and rugged, tugging at my nostalgic heartstrings.  


Sitting in my room, with a window open on the row this evening, I listen to the quiet hum of the row.  I start to hear the gentle grating nose of cars passing by, the soft swish of the ocean passing over the sandy beach.  There is the smell of the ocean, of fish, birds, people.  Far across the horizon the fading light casts a strange shadow over the buildings and the bay.  The larger crowds have left and the jazz bands in the cafe's have just begun to play.  This is the true essence of Cannery Row, the time between evening and dawn.  A time when life is simpler, a poem waiting to be written by those ready to be like Steinbeck and Ricketts.  They speak if you listen, whispering so softly.


"Get out into that grating noise, that stink and way of life, that dream, beyond the reality of the Modern Row.  The ghosts of that time still wait to be discovered."

Jobs and Searching

Lately I have felt a little disillusioned with my line of work.  Not that I hate it, but I've been in my position for five years and I guess I've grown tired.  I do the same thing just about every day, and the lack of mobility sometimes troubles me.

Of course, I am very glad to even have a job at all.  Most people my age cannot say the same, especially locally.  I think about opportunities a lot, seeing what is out there, but it is so easy to think that maybe I cannot do something.  I spoke to my mother at length recently and she thinks I should look at parks, as in rangers etc.  This has a certain appeal.  I always love the idea of being out of doors, leading nature walks, and explaining things.  I always love to learn and share what I learn with others.

I even thought about going back to college for a time to learn Political Science, but then I remembered my own college experiences.  The thought of siting in political classes listening to the politics of teachers has no appeal.  I usually disagreed with the political motivations of my teachers long ago but I usually stayed quiet so I wouldn't potentially fail a course.  Still I have a lot of dreams lately where I'm back in college, probably because it seems like an easier time with less responsibilities, more free time and fun.  Easy to look back in time with rose colored glasses, especially since it was never easy.

So I am left with myself and my job.  At least I have the security, and I have time for my writing.  Thats all I need.  I just hope that maybe one day I can do more with my talents and abilities, a job that applies to what I love.

On Japan

I was going to write this on Sunday, March 13 but given my internet troubles I never had the chance.  I had many more ideas that since have fled, but I'll do my best.  Here goes.

There are so many words to describe the crisis in Japan:  overwhelming, astounding, tragic, heartbreaking just to name a few.  The pictures of the waters coming in, of the faces of people, of devastation ... I can't imagine it.  The whole ordeal sounds like some bad dream.  Part of me hopes to wake up and find that it's some sort of nightmare.  I am an ocean away, but I'm living it every night on the news, in the day on the radio at work, and in my own heart.

See, I love Japan, Japanese culture and history.  I have since I was a little guy who had a Japanese friend back in elementary school.  I remember going over to their house and trying seaweed for the first time and being hooked on everything Japanese from then on.  This is not to say I am an expert or an "Otaku" as another term in the popular culture is applied to extreme lovers of all things Japan.

I always wanted to go to Japan myself.  I was planning to in May, but of course that plan was canceled.  I honestly don't know if I will ever get to go.  I can only hope.  The Japanese people are a fine, tenacious bunch, and I can only hope that things will work out for the best, especially with the nuclear situation at the Fukushima plant.  That whole situation raises a different set of concerns that don't need to be mentioned here.

My current project, one book that seems to have blossomed into three, is a result of my love of all things Japan.

The story itself is a simple premise.  A young man goes to Japan to teach English.  He falls in love with his translator and ends up in a more interesting situation than he originally imagined when another outside party falls in love with him.  This may seem like simple love story, but when the outside party is a mischevious Japanese spirit things change dramatically.  At the moment I am struggling with some very terrible writer's block in the second part of my story (the second "book").  I seem to get that a lot recently what with working back to back shifts constantly, I have no time to really rest and get my brain back.

This story is one I almost took myself.  Before I started my current job, I toyed with the idea of going to Japan for a while to teach, learn the culture and get first hand experience in this mysterious land which I have so longed to go.  Now, considering what I hear about foreign workers fleeing Japan, I am somewhat glad I didn't go.  I also wonder about the future of my story as much as I do about Japan's.  I pray for the people there and that whatever god or gods watch over them that they deliver them from this disaster to a brighter horizon.

Charter Communications Gaff

My internet went out last Sunday and technicians didn't arrive until Tuesday. I  was informed that the internet would be up the next day.  No such luck.  Apparently they forgot to tell the company, so now I have to wait until this coming Monday.  So I've had 8 days without any ability to do much.  Oh well, so it goes.

That Ultimate Question

Recently my Uncle Dale passed away.  He was some eighty-five years young, and he left behind my Aunt Kay who is perhaps one of the sweetest and kindest women one could ever hope to know.  Dale had been suffering from Alzheimer's for a long time, and he and Kay had moved from their home in Texas.  It's a very sad thing, and I cannot say I know either of them well.  We attended their 50th wedding anniversary long ago, and I don't remember much about them.  It wasn't until recently that they came back into my family's lives.  Given Dale's condition, my mother sent Kay a copy of Aboard the Phantom Express.  Given the book's subject, and her own situation, I was nervous about how she would receive it.

Kay was remarkable.  She read the book cover to cover and loved it. She shared it with her friends and book club.  She could have been my agent to several publishers for her enthusiasm. It was her comment about it that stunned me the most.  She said that after reading it, she had a sense of resolution, a sense of letting go of Dale.  Even though he had not passed, his mental facilities and all else were long gone, even though he himself remained.  Still, as anyone who deals with Alzheimers can tell you, this is not living...but I won't go into Alzheimers this time.  Kay read this book as I originally intended it, as a way of dealing with that ultimate finality of death.

It's strange to look back on my first years writing this book.  I was very young when my grandfather (on my mother's side) died, and although I remember very little about him, I remember clearly the emotions of the time when I was told.  I was traumatized.  Up until that point, I knew nothing about death or its existence.  The concept that my grandfather was gone and not coming back just didn't register.  I remember curling into a ball on or under my bed and crying very hard for a long time.  To this day I think on the time and shudder.  All told, I lost a lot of loved ones young.  Each of us in our own time is bound to. 

Over the years, coping with death is a constant struggle.   We all know we will one day cease to be, and I suppose the thought of a ceasing of consciousness is especially hard for me. The dark, unknown void frightens all of us.  It twists in my brain sometimes like a terrible snake, or it wrenches at my heart for a few minutes, then it passes. 

It's funny that I started writing out of self preservation.  I thought if I wrote, some part of me would remain.  I would remain alive in some sense in others' imaginations.  I wrote and found I loved writing but still the lack of resolution remained.  Then I stumbled on the Phantom Train and I thought, "what a perfect way to explore my phobia ... that ultimate question that nags everyone.  'What is on the other side?  How do I get there?'"  I started to write so that I could find that resolution, so that I might find peace.

It's been fifteen years of constant rewrites, of toying with different thoughts and ideas and still this book is an unfinished or rather unpublished work.  Sure, I had self published it, but somehow the lack of widespread diversity hampered what I felt was the true spark in it.  When I got the letter from Kay, I finally felt like I had accomplished what I set out to do. 

A few weeks later I showed it to my boss, and in reading it she started to cry.  She'd lost her aunt very young, and reading the book she got a sense of the same resolution.  In the end, this is a children's story, and kids love the adventure and mystery of the train.  Ultimately, however, it's adults who have come to grasp the story's true meaning and purpose.

I don't have an answer myself to that ultimate question.  I don't know if anyone has or ever will.  One day we all must take that journey, like it or not.  If we are lucky, a part of us will remain in those around us, in the works we have done for others.  I suppose it is there where part of the answer to the ultimate question lies.  In life, and death, there is always love.

Oscar Night

Well it's the one year a night where many of us will sit down and undertake one of the most grueling tasks to curse the TV viewer.  I of course refer to the Oscars, the only night in TV when you have five minutes of programming followed by five minutes of commercials for about one and a half hours.  This was ridiculous.  I apologize, but I was just astonished at how often we cut to commercial.  Obviously the Academy is short of money for all that they spent putting this on at the Kodak this year, because we had so many commercial breaks.

Overall, this was a bad year for movies.   Sitting in previews, my parents and I make a habit of turning to one another when we see a really bad looking film and saying, "Miss that one." We said that a lot this year.  It's kind of like picking wine.  I don't drink the stuff but I know there are good and bad years.  In the end though, I had two top picks that are the best vintage of 2010.  Its always so interesting to see the nominations for short films, documentaries and things we really rarely see in the main stream culture.  There are movies featured here I've only seen listed at the local Palm Theater, an establishment to itself for independent films in San Luis Obispo.  I think Hollywood needs to wake up and make more films like these.  Hopefully this year will be a better vintage for Hollywood gold and the 2011 Oscars will be far more sweet to my viewing pleasure.

Thank you to Hollywood.  You stood and delivered the Best Picture to a film that truly deserved it.  The King's Speech was the only good movie I saw this year, and this was a black year for films.  This movie is what movies should be: heartwarming, emotion tugging, true story mixed with fiction that's written well and paced superbly.  Its a grown up movie, no doubt about it.  It didn't have flashy effects like so many of the top billed movies.  I don't think the lack of effects detracted at all, in fact, it was refreshing to say the least.

As a person who has suffered from a learning disability, I know what tremendous courage it takes to face that disability and look it in the eye.  Watching this, I had to cringe to think that people treated another person as awfully as they did to George VI.  It was heartbreaking, especially having dealt with people in past and present who do not understand my own learning difficulties.  No one would want to go through what this man undertook.  Bravo to Colin Firth, Geoffrey Rush and all the rest.  I hope this film can be a reminder to anyone with any disability that they can overcome it.

The Phantom Train

Some might wonder why I chose this name.  As it happens it is the subject about my own first book Aboard the Phantom Express.  The idea of a Phantom Train isn't a new one. In fact, it's been popularized in several different cultures and medium.  The origins of this train are somewhat obscure, and it's different from the phenomenon known as a Ghost Train.  A ghost train is simply a ghostly train.  The Phantom Train, Death Train or Train of Souls is THE train that takes the dead to the great beyond.  The train is a sentient presence and living thing not just a machine.  It is usually neither good nor bad preferring to remain neutral in most affairs of the mortal world.  It simply exists and does its job until the end of time. That is its sole purpose as decreed by whatever force lays in the great beyond. The Phantom Train has been seen in several popular medium including movies, cartoons, plays and even a video game or two.

I first became aware of it in the series, Final Fantasy.  In the sixth game, a group of characters accidentally boards the train and has to find a way to get off.  This particular scene was a part of a greater story arc in the game that was truly well thought out.  I need not go into particulars other than to say it creates an emotional experience one doesn't usually expect from a game.   The real significance of the train's existence didn't sink in, however, until I was sitting with my grandparents in a restaurant and saw a poster on one of the walls.  It depicted a strange ghostly train with the image of a conductor holding out a lamp ahead of him.  At the base of the poster were the words LeTrain Fantome. 

I became intrigued.  I started to notice the train in other things.  Perhaps the most famous instance of it comes from the Tom and Jerry cartoon "Heavenly Puss."  Anyone who's seen this one knows that Tom gets "pianoed" (for lack of a better term) and rides an escalator up to heaven.  There he sees a magnificent golden train waiting for him, but he's told he can't get aboard unless he can get Jerry to absolve him of his sins back on earth before the train departs.  (He doesn't succeed.)

Most of the stories remain the same.  The basic premise is usually a train that ferries the dead to the other side.  Those who accidentally board need to get off (lest they be mistaken for souls themselves).  In the end, they succeed, but not before meeting the spirit of someone they know who needs to pass on.  It's a story of accepting that ultimate end, letting go and moving on with life.

I liked the idea, and I used it as the "vehicle" literally and figuratively for my first real foray into the world of writing.  The result was Aboard the Phantom Express which I have worked on improving over the years.  Now that I am writing a blog, I guess I want to harness a bit of that mystery and wonder that first captured me long ago.  The image of a strange train shrouded in the mists of time and space has a certain unearthly appeal.

Maiden Voyage

I tend to be an introspective person.  In fact, up until now I shied away from blogs, Twitter and I treated Facebook like I had an allergic reaction to it. I just didn't see the need to tell everyone what I was doing or thinking in that exact moment.  I felt like a salmon trying to swim in the opposite direction of all the other salmon.  In this day of mass communication, with everyone knowing everything about everyone else, I guess I was content to sit and watch everyone else surf the technology wave.  This from a communications major, from a writer who wants to be published.  In fact, it is my writing that brings me here at last.  Everyone I talk to in the writing biz says you have to be hip, get with the program, get out there.  They tell me that "publishers and agents want you to market yourself, be your own best advocate."  I guess as a writer, I have to think of a blog as just an enhanced journal.  I'm better at typing than handwriting, so hopefully this will stir my muse.  Here's to the beginning of a new journey for me.  Next stop, the unknown