dear cassandra levesque

For background, please read this New York Times article detailing the state of the legal age of marriage in different states in the U.S.

Dear Cassandra Levesque:

You don't know me, but I am an adult who recently read of your attempt to change the age at which individuals can get married in the state of New Hampshire. I am writing to applaud your sense of civic responsibility and the effort it must have taken to get the bill introduced.

Many times, older people --you were very young at 16! --misunderstand what kids are about these days. We think you're all selfish and glued to your iPhones. You have proven us wrong, and thank you for that.

I would like to encourage you to keep going, despite the shortsightedness of your legislature. Adults don't like to admit this can happen very often, but you are right and the adults responsible for the laws of your state are wrong. 

How can a kid be right when you're just a kid? Because you are speaking up for yourself. Not only are you speaking up for yourself, you are doing it in a way that helps other people your same age, including some who may not be able to speak up for themselves. You are doing it in a way that operates within the law. It was very clever, actually, and shame on them for discouraging someone like you (they may have tried, but I seriously doubt they could!).

I would like to encourage you to keep going. Please consider going into politics or doing something related to law when you are of a legal age to do so. You've got your heart in the right place, and we need that. 

Thank you for trying. You are a role model for adults across this country. I wish more of us would be like you.


Update 6/4/2017: Your mother told me you'll be going to school to become an elementary teacher (because you're 18 --must work on my fact-checking!) and will continue your advocacy for children. Best news I've had all day! Please see below.

spring cleaning (writer's edition)

Spring cleaning!

Now is the season when our Circadian rhythms (or at least the little angels on our shoulders) decide it's time to clean house. We dust and scrub, and we throw things away. This year, I am extending this sun-induced frenzy to include my writing folders.

I have been writing pretty much constantly now for over two years, and my writing folder is littered with the corpses of abandoned ideas and fully-formed orphans. It is not understatement to say, if my writing were on actual paper and not on a computer, I could possibly have killed off a small forest by now. This is what happens without focus and moments of reflection.

So now, I am reflecting.

I've been trying to figure out why I spent time and effort on things that end up abandoned. What is to follow here is for the pantsers (i.e., those writerly types who make it up as they go along). Maybe if I publicly excoriate myself, it'll be helpful to someone somewhere. At the very least, I am processing so as not to do it as much.

Many of the pieces strewn hither and yon are short. I got an idea, and I followed it through to its natural conclusion. I do this a lot. This blog post is a good example. I write to process the world, and I write to get things out of my head so I can move on. With this blog post, there is a place to put it, and it's done. I also do this because writing formal poetry is a way I relax, like doing Sudoku with words. I have many things that are done but that don't have any place to go. These tend to be poems (as mentioned), picture book texts, short stories, and essays.

Then I have the half-begun things. Many times with these, I hit a wall of vagueness. I have not planned, so I have no idea --really --where I'm going. They fall into several categories:

• The "I need to research to get background";
• The "I got most of the way through this short story, and I don't know why";
• The "Half-done outline";
• The "Random sentence that's phrased so well, I can surely use it in something"; and
• The "Oh yeah. I forgot about this because I got distracted by that ..."

Most of these, I will never do anything with, history tells me. If I were going to do something, surely I would have already? Some of them, upon seeing, I don't even remember writing. With the exception of the "I need to research to get background" group, I'm not sure they're worth saving. Or maybe I need to organize them differently? I don't know. This organizing thing doesn't come naturally. I am a pantser through and through. Need to try, though. It's like hoarding ideas --you can't do anything if you can't find anything and you can't move.

One thing's for sure, anyhow: spring cleaning is satisfying when it comes to clearing away cobwebs and bad habits. Here's hoping the clearing brings some clarity. So far, so good.

a morning, like any other

She wakes up to the sound of an alarm. It's rude to shriek in someone's ear when they're sleeping, she grumbles, before realizing she asked it to do that. A few more minutes would have been nice, though.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed and propels herself upward. 

Brush teeth. Wash face. Take meds.

She makes sure everyone else is taken care of --breakfasts and lunches --before she realizes she hasn't had her first cup coffee yet this morning.

Tomorrow, she'll sleep in.

no one would blame you

What happened last night in Manchester was terrible.

When things like this happen, there are people who have to deal with them and cannot take breaks. Those people are the immediately affected, their families and friends, the emergency services, and --behind the scenes --the investigators. Those are the people in the immediate area who can render appropriate assistance. Shortly afterwards, that  group will include everyone who helps with the grief and related stresses, rehabilitative services, and those involved in rebuilding in every sense of what that means.

There is a danger in concentrating too much on the details of horrific events as they unfold. The people who are actively dealing with it now need people around them who can share a bit of strength with them because events like this are hard to deal with emotionally, physically, and spiritually, and because there is no sense in this. They have to deal with it --they have no choice, and they will have no rest right now.

It is your responsibility as a bystander (talking to myself here, but if you can take something away from it, please do) to choose respite because you can. The worst thing you can do in a situation like this is take it on because it will make you feel powerless. It is your responsibility to preserve your strength because the people who have to deal with it now, who can't take breaks, will need it in the weeks, months, and years to come. It is your responsibility not to forget and to be there for those people, but to take breaks so you can do that more effectively.

Today, I will go work with children. I will appreciate their laughter even more than usual, and I will approach them with an extra dose of patience. I'm sure no one would blame me.

the sevens

So we're all familiar with that movie with Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt in which Kevin Spacey puts something in a box (Hey, where'd Gwyneth go? Could have sworn she was in it, too. Huh ...).

This morning, I thought I would blog about the Sevens. Those are the Seven Deadly Sins and the Seven Virtues. For those of you who are mathematically-challenged, that equals a bunch of Sins and Virtues. You're welcome. 

The movie was about the Sins because, frankly, Sins make a much more dramatic theatergoing experience. You likely already know the Sins are Gluttony, Sloth, Envy, Greed, Lust, Wrath, and Pride. Their Virtuous counterparts are Temperance, Diligence, Kindness, Charity, Chastity, Patience, and Humility.

I am not a religious person, but I still find value in visiting the Sevens every once in a while. The Sins are traits that lead to disharmony in the world and in our personal lives. If you are a writer, they make great motivations for characters that get themselves into predicaments, but in life, we probably want something a little less dramatic. The Virtues are traits that, in their best form, can bring harmony, but can actually lead to problems themselves (more about that in a moment).

Each Sin has a Virtue that is a counterpart. They are Gluttony-Moderation, Sloth-Perseverance, Envy-Compassion, Greed-Charity, Lust-Purity, Wrath-Prudence, and Pride-Humility. You'll notice I changed some of the Virtues? That is because I felt like it. Some of the Virtues in their original state deny that a little bit of something considered a Sin can be okay. Like I said --I am not a religious person. For example, sticking with Diligence as a Virtue, it seems to me that resting would be considered to be Sloth. Perseverance seems more appropriate because resting in order to persevere is sometimes needed. Too much of anything is probably not the best idea. Moderation is a Virtue, right?

In my life, I suppose I dip my toe into all of the Sins, going up to mid-shin in the pools of Sloth, Gluttony, and Pride. Pretty sure I do. I am trying to be more aware when I do it, and I am trying to be more thoughtful about practicing the Virtues in my everyday thoughts and actions. Am I perfect yet? Nope. Am I trying to be better and better for the purpose of making the world the kind of place I'd like to be in? Yup.

Why am I blogging about this? No idea. Might be Pride, but I'm pretty sure my intentions are altruistic and I'm trying for Compassion, possibly Prudence.

So random thought for the day: do you think the Sevens could help you?

may I have your attention, please?

*taps mic* Is this thing on?

Now that I have your attention, I’d like to talk to you about ...attention. Specifically attention seeking.

If I were to take an unscientific poll of anyone reading this, I’d guess roughly 127% of you would say attention seeking is a negative thing. You may have a picture in your mind of a person --usually a woman, but perhaps a man --who is shrill and does outrageous things at exactly the right moment for maximum impact. You may have a picture in your mind of a person who sulks and says things in the hopes of being contradicted with praise. You may have a picture in your mind of the person who talks about the time they had a day 2.5 times worse than yours could possibly ever be when you share about a bad day. You may have a picture in your mind of someone extremely annoying.

The purpose of what I’m writing is not to confirm these pictures you may have in your mind. The purpose of what I’m writing is to offer some background and another viewpoint.

In the work I do professionally, we regularly discuss the reasons people act the way they act. There are four reasons --and they all begin with the letter A, to make them easy to remember:

• Access --the person wants something from someone else
• Avoidance --the person does not want something from someone else
• Attention --the person wants social interaction with someone else
• Automatic --the action is reinforcing in and of itself and usually doesn’t involve other people.

If we take a look at this definition of attention, it is not a negative thing. Nearly all people want some kind of social interaction. If we didn’t, there would be no social media. Why post your pictures? Why post your thoughts? Why reply to things people say? In this sense, we all seek attention, if for no other reason than to know we are not alone.

So then we come to more extreme behaviors. These serve the same purpose. Unfortunately, where many attention-seeking behaviors are adaptive (think life skills), some are maladaptive (think behaviors that won’t get you very far in life). As an example, if a person posts a picture of their grandchild on their Facebook, this would be a way of sharing their pride in their grandchild with other people in a way that would be considered appropriate to the majority of people (adaptive). If a person enters their grandchild in beauty pageants, even though the child has no interest in being in beauty pageants, and then posts picture after picture of themselves with their grandchild at pageants, it starts to veer into the realm of inappropriate to a lot of people (maladaptive).

Take this post: I am currently writing it because I have an automatic need to get the words out. I never need to show this to another person. It could be a diary entry. If I post it, though, I am seeking attention. I don’t necessarily expect attention, but I would hope if I share it, someone would read it.

Where it would veer into maladaptive attention-seeking territory is if I threatened to do something or revealed something shocking. (Note: this can actually be an adaptive strategy if I hope to gain something like employment from it, and then we’re talking about access in addition to attention. Although that could also be maladaptive … . Yes, this is confusing stuff!)

Let’s say I say something shocking like, “I’ll never write anything else ever again because I suck and I’m a horrible writer!” If I have never said this before, you might pay attention and take me seriously and reassure me and give me a pep talk. If I have said this again and again, you will notice patterns. This pattern would likely become bothersome. If I start heading into maladaptive territory, I may actually quit writing until someone approaches me and talks me through it --hiding, in a sense, to see if anyone will look for me. Before saying, “Oh, there she goes again …,” though, look at what I just described …

I learned the first time that, if I do something (threaten to quit writing), I will get social attention for it. I will be soothed for a time because people were nice to me. I might try it again, without thinking about it, the next time I feel the same kind of stress --because, believe me, writing is stressful sometimes. Depending upon how much time has elapsed, I may get the same response from other people. At some point, however, if I keep doing it, people will stop paying attention. That’s when the attention-seeking behavior increases. It’s just me trying to get my needs met through a pattern that we all agreed on in the first place.

Now imagine this has been the only pattern I’ve ever known for my entire life. And using my example above, the original cause was likely anxiety. There I would be alone, languishing with my anxiety, not expressing myself or expressing myself violently, and nobody cares except maybe the police. Attention, if you will recall, is what we seek so we don’t feel alone. That’s a pretty bleak situation.

Instead of going through the cycle again and again, with it getting worse and worse, it is better to break the cycle.

For the attention-seeker: it is best if you approach people directly with your need for attention. If someone isn’t available, ask them to help you find someone else. In my frustrated writer example, I might say, “X, I’m feeling really crappy about my writing. Can I talk to you about it? Or can we talk about something else?” Try not to pick the same person every time. Be brave. Widen your circle. And seriously, if you have access, consider a professional --they have to talk to you, and most of them are really nice people.

If you expect attention, you also need to give it, too. Reciprocity is what social relationships are built on --if you want people to be there for you, you need to be there for them, or they wander away.

For the attention-giver: ask questions, if you have time. Instead of launching straight into comfort (which you do because you are fundamentally nice people), ask open-ended questions. Why do I think I’m a terrible writer? What makes me say that? And probably the most important question you can ask is, what do I need? Listen to the answer. If you don’t have time to ask or listen, be honest. None of this half-listening stuff, if it can be avoided. Set an appointment and keep it.

Save your attention for people who deserve it. A person who deserves your attention is a person who attempts to reciprocate and demonstrates interest in you in ways that do not benefit them. Sometimes, people can be a bit of a mess, but if there are consistent signs the other person is trying, honor that in a way that doesn’t burn you out.

Realize you also get something from the relationship. Think about what that is. Chances are, it is also attention.

So, is everyone straight on attention seeking now? Yes?

Good. *drops mic*

the second first (three) chapter(s)

Seriously, I have these things laying around like ships in a ship graveyard. Many first chapters sank to the bottom, only to be forgotten under the waves of time. If you think I'm using this metaphor because it's a pirate book, sorry --but that gives me an idea for another book ... 

Tangents are a bit of an issue. Lots of ideas, little focus. I am slowly learning & refocusing, though, and in the end, anything that can be a book will be a book. My habits are getting better. The book I wrote about in The First First Chapter? It is proceeding nicely now. It took a little nudge provided by publicly shaming myself in the nicest way possible.

Let's explore today's, shall we? This is the first chapter to a children's book I started a gazillion years ago called The Runaway Bestseller. Because they are short chapters, I'll give you three chapters for the price of one (which, incidentally, is free). I have gotten slightly distracted by my desire to teach children how to read while they are reading, but they're not awful chapters. I'm not sure I'll start this one up again. I may be struck by inspiration now that I've brought it out of the shadows, though --we'll see.

The Runaway Bestseller

Chapter 1

Mrs. Reed smiled.  “Milton, I have the perfect book for you!”

Milton hated books.  Milton hated reading.  Milton hated library on Wednesday.  Mrs. Reed was nice for a grown-up, but Milton did not like her very much right now, either.

“Mrs. Reed,” Milton shook his head.  “You know I do not like reading.  I did not like it in kindergarten.  I did not like it in first grade.  I did not even like it in second grade.  I am almost 9 years old now.  It is not going to happen.”

“Of course.  No reading.  Check the book out anyway.  Okay?”

“O-kay.  What’s it about?”  Milton asked in a way that told Mrs. Reed he did not care, no way was he reading that book.

“It’s called The Runaway Bestseller.”

Milton gave her a look.

Mrs. Reed smiled again.  She smiled too much.  “It’s funny.  The book is called The Runaway Bestseller, but it can’t be.  A runaway bestseller, I mean.  That would make it a book that everybody knows.  Nobody knows this book.  Funny, don’t you think?”

“Funny.”  Milton rolled his eyes.

“Let me go get it for you.”  Mrs. Reed walked through a doorway and closed the door.  Milton could not see her in there, but boy, could he hear her!  Some bumps.  A bang or two.  A bunch of thumps.  Milton even heard a clang.  What was going on back there?  It sounded like Dad working on the car in the garage.

The door opened and Mrs. Reed walked out.  She looked different than when she walked in.  Her cheeks were red now.  She was breathing hard.  And her hair –oh boy, was her hair a mess!  Did she look for a book in there, or did she have a PE class?  

Milton saw a small brown book in her hands.  The book was not there before she went in. 

“Here we go.”

She set the small brown book down on the counter.  The letters on the cover looked like they were made of gold --gold covered with dust.  Milton read the words in his head:  The… Run… away… Best… sell-er.  So this was the book.  It did not even have a picture on the cover!  Or maybe it did.  It was hard to tell with the dust.

“Oh, let me clean that off for you.”  Mrs. Reed picked up the book and wiped off the dust with a rag.  Milton was right.  No dust now and still no picture.  Mrs. Reed handed the book to him.  He stuck out one hand and grabbed it.  The cover felt soft, like his dad’s leather coat.  A leather cover?  Weird for a library book.

“I can’t scan it, so I will write down that you have it,” Mrs. Reed said.

“I’m not going to read it.”

Mrs. Reed was writing on a clipboard.  She smiled again.  “Enjoy the book.  Looks like your class is lining up.  See you next Wednesday!”

Chapter 2 

Milton put The Runaway Bestseller in his backpack when he got back to class.  He tossed the book into his backpack the way you toss an apple into the garbage can when you are done eating.  Then he sat down at his desk and took out his math. 

Milton did not think about the book at all during math.  Or during recess.  Or during lunch.  Or during any part of the school day.  He did not think about the book at all until it was time to go home.  

He needed to put his homework folder in his backpack.  The book was in the way.  He moved it out of the way.  Stupid book, he thought, and he stuffed his folder into the backpack.  He stopped thinking about the book by the time he zipped the backpack shut.

Dad was home when he got opened the front door.  Dad called out, “Hey, Mom is still at work.  What do you want for dinner tonight?”

Milton was in charge of dinner?  Awesome!  He called back, “How about pizza and ice cream?”

“How about no?  Try again.” 

“I don’t know.  Just no broccoli.” Milton made a face and walked into the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the counter.

Dad smiled.  “You got it, chief.  Do you have homework?”

“No.”

“Nice try.  What is your homework?”    

Milton groaned and dropped his backpack on the floor.  “The usual.  Reading, writing, math.” 

He started with math.  It only took five minutes to do.  Milton was great at math.  He  did not need any help with that.  

Next came writing.  The writing homework took more time and he needed Dad’s help.  He had to start a report about an explorer.  He had to choose one, so he and Dad looked on the computer.  They picked Vasco da Gama.  

Then it was time for reading.  He pulled the brown leather book out of his backpack.

“Remember: you have to read at least 30 minutes.  It’s 4:00 now, so read until …?”  Dad stopped and looked at Milton.

“4:30.”  

Dad nodded.  “That’s my boy.  You can read in your room while I start dinner.  And don’t worry,” Dad said. “No broccoli.  Promise.” 

 

Milton walked into his room and closed the door.  He dropped the book and himself on his bed.  He thought about what he had told Mrs. Reed.  “I’m not going to read it.”  He did have to do his reading homework.  Milton would not tell her.  Reading the book would be his secret.  

Chapter 3

Milton opened the cover to the title page.  The paper was yellow with age.  The page was kind of crispy.  An old book.  There were the words again: The Runaway Bestseller, typed in black ink.  Under the title was the word ‘Anonymous’.  

It took Milton a minute to sound it out.  An –on- ee- moose, he thought to himself.  That was where they put the writer’s name in books, so that must be the writer.  An –on –ee –moose.  Anonymous.  Weird name.  Weird name for the weird writer of a weird book.  And there were still no pictures.  Ugh!

He turned to page one.  He smiled.  Maybe this book was going to be okay.  On page one, Milton saw six words.  Six words!  The book looked like it had 100 pages, but only six words on a page?  This was going to be easy.

Looking at the words, only the last word was going to be hard.  He knew the other five words, but that last word was really long.  He read in his head: Read, this, word, out, loud.  Easy.  Now for the last word.  

Humblebumbleflumble.

Milton groaned.  He needed to break up the big word.  He saw the letters ‘u-m-b-l-e’ three times.  Um –bull.  Now he just had to add the letters that came in front of um –bull.  There was hum –bull, and there was bum-bull, and last was flum-bull.  Hum-bull bum-bull flum-bull.  Hum-bull-bum-bull-flum-bull?  What kind of a word was that?      

He turned the crispy yellow page.  The next page had no words.  He flipped more pages.  There were no words on any of the other pages.  

The Runaway Bestseller was not just okay --it was the greatest book of all time!  A kid only had to read six words, but parents and teachers would think a kid was reading a 100-page book.  

Mrs. Reed was right.  This was the perfect book for Milton.   

.   .   .

The next day, homework time came again.  Mom was at work again.  Dad was in the kitchen making dinner again.  Today, they were having macaroni for dinner.  Milton closed his door and flopped down on his bed for reading homework again.  

This time, he had a plan.

He would read the six words and flip through the rest of the pages.  Then, with the rest of the time, he could play or maybe draw.  He had to stay quiet so Dad would not know his plan.  If Dad found out, he would have to choose a different book, a real book with real words.

He opened The Runaway Bestseller to page one.  Read this word out loud: humblebumbleflumble.  It was way easier to read that long word today.  Milton stopped. 

“Wait a minute,” he said to himself. 

He was thinking too much about reading the words.  He was not thinking about what the words said.  Read this word out loud.  The writer wanted him to read that long word out loud.  Weird.  Milton was in his room, so no one would hear him.  Since he was alone and no one would hear, he gave it a try.

“Humblebumbleflumble,” he mumbled.            

BANG! 

.   .   .

the lion & the mouse: a modern retelling

Once upon a time, not so long ago since this is a modern retelling, there lived a lion. 

He was the King of the Jungle. He gained his status through accident of birth (he was born into a family of lions instead of into, say, a family of aardvarks). Later, he maintained his position through brute strength at some times, and cunning at others. It wasn't important how he got there --he would have gotten there, regardless. He was more majestic than the rest of the beasts, so he was the King.

The other animals gave up challenging the lion after a while. After that last time, when the monkey challenged him, they learned: you don't challenge the King. That poor monkey. No, none of the other animals wanted that to happen to them. And besides, sometimes, he threw one of the other animals a scrap from whatever he was gorging himself on. He could be generous, as long as you told him how resplendent his mane was or complimented his ever-increasing mighty figure.

Time passed. The King remained king, and the other animals kept out of his way, except when they had to bring him something to eat. Then, they crept up quietly, in case he was sleeping, and dropped off his meals. I won't go into what he was eating, but I will say the Jungle was no place for the old or infirm. Everyone was required to bring his meals. It was quite something when it was the smallest creature Mouse's turn. Dragging that carcass took every ounce of energy she had in her small body! She was exhausted by the time she got to the lion, and so, she was careless when she dropped the elephant off for him to eat. The trunk landed on his left paw.

"WHAT?" he roared, startling awake.

"I'm sorry, sir!"

All of the animals moving nearby froze in place, as did Mouse, who was sure she would be eaten as an appetizer before he started on the elephant.

"I was sleeping --SLEEPING! How dare you, you pathetic little critter? You! Gazelle! Come here!"

Gazelle slowly neared the two and the elephant carcass. Gazelle was chastising himself for not being somewhere else at that exact moment.

"Take this ...mouse and drop it into the river. I am too busy doing important things, or I'd teach it a lesson myself." He licked his chops and prepared to eat the elephant. The mouse was not worth eating, so drowning it in the river made more sense.

Gazelle hesitated.

"DO IT!" he roared. "Or I'll call Cheetah over!"

Gazelle gathered Mouse by gently gripping her tail with his teeth and carried her off towards the river. 

On the way, Mouse pleaded with Gazelle, "Oh, please don't drown me! I was so tired! I didn't mean to drop the elephant, but it was so heavy ..."

Gazelle set Mouse down by the river. "Don't worry about it. I'm not going to drown you. That guy's a jerk. He wouldn't notice if I drowned you or not. In fact, why don't we stay over here for a while? I might invite a few friends to join us."

So Gazelle and Mouse continued to live by the river and the other animals began to join them. There were a few animals who didn't move right away --Hyena and Vulture, for example, refused to believe that things were changing since they did alright for themselves under Lion, and he must surely be as powerful as he kept telling them all to have kept power for so long. Even they began to recognize that Lion's meals were shrinking, however, and thought maybe they too should be moving along.

In the end, Lion was left alone, bewildered about who would bring him his meals. He wanted to go look for the others, to get them back in line, but found he had difficulty standing on his own.

Mouse, in the meantime, thrived. So did Gazelle. So did the other creatures. Not dragging the dead to feed the King did wonders for them all.

weight loss secrets!

"Are you on a diet? You look like you've lost weight. You look great!"

Raise your hand if you have ever had this conversation with anyone or overheard this conversation. I'm seeing a lot of hands raised --or I would, if you all had your webcams on.

This morning, I'd like to offer something else you can say to someone if you notice they have lost a lot of weight, because people (oddly enough) are not always trying to lose weight.

When I lose weight, I lose weight for two reasons: 1) I have cancer, or 2) I have a major depressive episode coming on. Both are bad, in case you weren't sure.

With cancer, it's often one of the first tell-tale signs, losing weight without trying. With depression, I lose the appetite to eat because food doesn't taste like anything and food in my stomach makes me feel nauseated.

There are a myriad of other reasons people lose weight, too, besides actively trying to lose weight through diet and exercise. Anorexia, bulimia, hyperthyroidism, poverty, ...

Because not all weight loss is good weight loss, I'd like to offer an alternative thing to say when you notice someone is losing weight:

Observe, then ask.

"You look like you've lost weight. Are you trying to?"

Most of the people I've come across lately have been trying to, and I think I may have weirded them out by saying this instead of immediately praising them and their appearance. 

These people have answered that they were trying and then proceeded to explain their weight loss regimen, which usually involves portion control. 

I generally follow up with an observation that it looks like they've really done a great job sticking to their diet, and sometimes explain that I always feel like I need to check first to make sure they're trying because, sometimes, people aren't. The people I've had this conversation with are pretty good-natured people, so they took in stride, and we continued on with our conversations. 

I'm horrible, really, about not praising people's appearance when they've lost weight, but I can't. It may be that they were trying, but what if they weren't? I wouldn't want them to feel like their weight is all I value about them. Their health is infinitely more important. 

Something to think about. 

an unfinished poem

Here is another unfinished piece I had forgotten about tonight, a poem. This one, I don't intend to finish because I found it distasteful to think about. You'll see with the subject matter. Why post it? Honestly, I'm having trouble finding words tonight. Part of the reason words aren't coming is due to the subject of the poem. It seems like poetic justice (get it?) to share it, since I'm having trouble writing anything new. 

It's written in verse. It's not at all well written, but I was working through some anger, apparently. If you'd like to finish it, feel free.

Song of the Phallus Palace

Erect and proud, it bears my name;

It stands so grand and tall --

A fitting tribute to my fame

(Enormous fame --NOT small).

It’s huge! It’s filled with majesty,

As I myself am filled --

Of course, this thing is mine,

For I’m a man of industry,

And all the girls are thrilled --thrilled! --

To come. They stand in line.

It doesn’t merely scrape the sky --

I’d say it penetrates it.

Six hundred sixty-four feet high --

Only jealous people hates it.

Those people wish that they were me

(Including those who built it

And who I may not have paid

And who then sank into poverty.

If you think that causes any guilt, it

Won’t, ‘cause guilt won’t get me laid).

...

the first first chapter

Here's something I've been toying with the idea of doing: posting first chapters of pieces I'm writing that I haven't finished yet. 

It's a way of keeping me honest. These pieces are not done because I haven't done them. They are longer, which tends to be an issue with me. I can finish shorter works in a single sitting, and do. Longer pieces, I run off and do life and get distracted and then remember, oh yeah, that thing ... .

It's not the work's fault. Usually, there's a bit of the overall story that is fuzzy in my head, and that's where I hit a roadblock. A wiser lady than I would just keep ramming the roadblock until it got out of the way, but as I said, life. That, and I go write something else that's shorter. It's not that I'm not writing --I write all the time. It's inefficiency. I'm working on it.

In the meantime, here is the first chapter of something that is not available yet: The Infinite Monkey. It will be. If you are someone who knows about philosophy, medicine, or academia, I'd love feedback because it's complete and utter fiction.

1.

Dr. Bartholomew

“Where does one find primates for short-term lease?”

Dr. Nathan Bartholomew was generally full of practical thoughts. At the moment, his practical thoughts involved monkeys, which left Dr. Bartholomew feeling unsettled and staring at his framed diplomas. Preparing a study with monkeys was proving to be a challenge as it was his first time working with animal subjects. It was certainly different than preparing a study with human subjects.

“At least there’s no need for informed consent,” Dr. Bartholomew muttered to himself in an attempt to soothe his nerves. How would one seek informed consent from a monkey?  Chatter at it, offer it bananas, and hope it would say yes? It would be completely impractical and, fortunately, was not required.

His mind drifted back to some of the undergraduates who had served as human subjects in past research studies. The monkeys might be better equipped to understand the consent paperwork. He shook his head in an effort to refocus. He stared hard at the calendar on the wall. What day was it? September 8. There was work to do.    

Other more practical questions bullied their way into his mind, shoving the undergraduates aside. He would have to organize; a man of intellectual inquiry requires order. Dr. Bartholomew scrubbed at a spot of tomato soup that marred his favorite blue-and-white striped tie with his thumb. Lunch had an unfortunate habit of succumbing to gravity when he ate. One does not worry about how to eat soup, however, when one is contemplating the Universe. He scrubbed some more. Julia would take care of this. She’d have it out by tomorrow without difficulty, like she always did.

Julia. Julia wasn’t there.

No, he would figure it out himself when he got home. That would be later. Now, a list was needed because a man of intellectual inquiry requires order. He swiveled his chair back towards his desk and the computer with purpose. He stroked his bearded cheek absentmindedly with the back of his hand, then began typing.

Where does one find primates for short-term lease?  He assigned this task to one of his research assistants, the tall one who looked like he should be playing basketball.  What was his name?  Matthew?  Mark?  He typed an M.  That would do for now.   

Has the paperwork cleared for conducting research on animal subjects?  This one would be handled by the the improbably-named Kimberlee, another research assistant. Kimberlee had a very pretty face and an excellent mind, but Kimberlee?  She would never be able to advance in her career with a name befitting a trailer park resident.  

What do monkeys eat?  He was certain it couldn’t possibly be bananas.  If Nathan Bartholomew had learned one thing in his thirty-seven years as an academic, it was that the most obvious answer was almost never correct.  Indeed, entire careers had been built on finding obscure answers to questions that the rest of the world never bothered to ask.  He assigned this job to that short one with the purple hair. Eugene?

Where will we house the monkeys?  Dr. Bartholomew gave that task to Kimberlee again.  Of the three lab assistants, she was the one most likely to get things done, despite her pretty face and horrible name.  Struck by this thought, he also assigned her When do we get the computers for the monkeys?, Do monkeys require special sleeping arrangements?, and Are monkeys toilet trained?

The grant had seemed like a good idea at the time it was written; money is always a good idea when one seeks paid work.  The grant proposal---Nonhuman Primates & Generation of Meaningful Text: A Case Study Examining Viability of the Infinite Monkey Theorem---was a logical one for the Department of Philosophical Inquiry of the University of New College to tackle under the direction of Dr. Bartholomew.  

He and the department were building a reputation for innovative thinking. From the time he had arrived from Patrick Henry University eight years earlier, Dr. Bartholomew had set immediately to work establishing himself as an academic with vision and an ability to carry out groundbreaking research. He was beginning to suspect, however, that even he would have difficulty with this latest grant.

Monkeys. What had he been thinking? He shook his head and stroked his chin. He must have become overly confident based his previous successes. He could not allow this monkey study to become another Las Vegas. He took a deep breath, glanced quickly back at his diplomas, and exhaled. No. More than likely, this would be another success.

His first project in the Department of Philosophical Inquiry had certainly been successful. Based on Wittgenstein’s concept of Internal Language and the pain scale typically used in hospitals, it could be conducted quickly at very little expense. Any project requiring limited time and money which related to the field of medicine was guaranteed to be funded, Dr. Bartholomew had reasoned correctly. His grant had been approved without difficulty, and the study---comparing the pain scales of people undergoing the same surgical procedure---had been simple to supervise. The resulting articles (cited as Bartholomew et al., the first time he had been the primary author) had appeared in journals with impressive titles: American Journal of Pain & Palliative Care, Northwest Journal of Medicine.

Dr. Bartholomew had tried to explain the basis of the study to Julia at the time. It was one of the few instances she had listened, he recalled, pursing his lips and frowning.

“Wittgenstein said that feelings and perceptions are like having a beetle in a box,” he had told her, trying to simplify it for her as if she were one of his students. “No one else can truly know what is in that box---only you can. Maybe there really is a beetle, maybe there’s no beetle. Only you know. Things like pain and color---they're like those beetles. You can describe them, as people do with pain scales, but it's not the same.”

Although Julia’s voice was growing quieter and quieter in his memory, he could still make out her words: “We all have a bit of the beetles, don't you think? People can never really know each other's beetles.”

“People can never really know each other's beetles. ...”

Dr. Bartholomew waggled his head for the second time that afternoon, wanting to erase that moment. He stroked his bearded cheek absentmindedly with the back of his hand, then checked his email. It was time for monkeys, not beetles.