To Everything There Is a Season...

The process of writing down my thoughts seems strange on a very esoteric level. (Don't worry, I don't know what that means either...it just sounds good.) In my general, everyday life, I have random thoughts (or strings of thought) that are triggered by some sight, sound, other thought, etc. When it runs its course, that is the end of it. It is forgotten.

Taking the time to capture those thoughts in writing is what I consider the hallmark of a great thinker. If you can't organize and relay those random ideas, it is just internal background noise.

But when effort is put into it, even if it is one short sentence, then it can be looked at, expanded (even if over a loooong period of time) and become the bais of something greater. How many times have I heard about someone who wants to write a book but never even starts?

Ursula K. LeGuin (one of my favorite authors as a youth) wrote about this when explaining her response to the question: "How do I become a better writer?" She gives a two-step process: First, learn to type. Second (and I'm paraphrasing here) put something, anything, down on paper. The best way to learn is to do. She also mentions that her response tends to irritate people.

LeGuin has a point, though - one that made a lot of sense to me (and still does). I spent a lot of time in late high school and early college writing whatever came into my head - dreams, observations of classmates, snippets of fiction, random thoughts. I remember even writing about not having anything to write about. I just kept my pencil moving.

In college, my English 201 professor was, by far, the best writing instructor I ever had. I actually enjoyed his class. However, when it came to the final paper, I was at a complete loss. No matter how much I struggled with it (in hindsight, I probably could have spent more time in the struggle), I couldn't get started. So I dithered and delayed until the second-to-last day. (I'm sure none of you have been in that situation.)

In desperation, I just started writing. It was supposed to have been a research paper, but it ended up being some complete farce of fiction where a private-eye detective was looking for a topic. I wish I still had a copy. I was so embarassed that I was turning such tripe in that I came in on the last day, threw my paper on the pile, and left as quickly as possible. (There was no official "final" test - the paper was it.)

To this day, I have no idea what that man thought about my paper. But, by all I hold honorable and true, my final grade in that class was an A. It was the only A I received that semester. I dropped out of college (again) a semester or two later, and I never saw that professor again.

Nowadays, I have gone back to just letting the random thoughts come and go. I feel bad about it, honestly. Especially when I'm reading some of these classic books, I feel I should be recording my thoughts so I can review and expand on them (such as my thoughts about the senator from Uncle Tom's Cabin and how that relates to other areas of politics). The easy thing to do would be to mark it down to personal laziness, but I can't believe that is the whole issue. (Of course, I could just be fooling myself. Maybe it is due completely to being lazy.)

Sure, every now and then I break out with a blog post that goes a bit deeper than surface thoughts and actions. But, admittedly, they are few and far between. I'm not sure I'm at the point where I want to commit to writing every day. Let's face it, writing a stream-0f-consciousness blog post (like this one) is easy. Wrting something with a set purpose is harder. Writing something with any redeemable value is harder still.

Maybe what I need to do is write a stream-of-consciousness book. Yeah...(heavy on the sarcasm) I'm sure publishers would love something like that. I do have some ideas I would like to explore, but this time in my life might not be the right time.

To everything there is a season...

Day 8: Start a Journal

Ta da! How convenient that I just recently blogged about something very similar. I'm marking this one done!

Why Do I Blog?

I made my first online blog post nearly 5 years ago (7/7/04). At the time, my posts were completely game related (not surprising as it was on boardgamegeek.com). About a year later (6/5/05) I started up this particular blog, mostly as a way to write out some thoughts. I kept it fairly private. It was my own personal sandbox. Two months later (8/12/05) I told my family about it and while topics have generally ranged all over the place, my blogging has morphed into more of a "family update" sort of thing (meaning: telling my extended family about me and my thoughts instead of about "The Family").

So here I am on my 210th entry and the question looms large (well, maybe not that large, to be honest): Why do I blog?

1. I enjoy writing on occasion.
2. It feels good to be able to put down in a semi-permanent form some of my beliefs.
3. It lets my wife know what's going on inside my head...sometimes.
4. "Keep a journal or portions, as you go along in life, a record that can be woven into a Book of Remembrance, telling of difficulties you have been able to overcome, challenges met. Express your inward feelings and thankfulness. These are part of your Book of Remembrance passed on to your children and decendants..." (although I'm not entirely sure I can "pass on" a blog to my decendants)
5. It helps in mitigating any "reconstructive memory" to which I might be susceptible.
6. There is always the possibility that something I write might affect (hopefully in a good way) some random person who came here by accident.
7. It humors me to think that I might actually be funny every once in awhile.
8. I've found I'm much more comfortable with writing that I am with speaking.
9. It's entirely possible that I might post goals and then feel somewhat compelled to stick to them and give an accounting of my progress...but don't hold your breath...
10. I can give myself a pep-talk in a way that doesn't make it feel like someone is talking down to me (prideful little bugger, ain't I?).
11. I can go off on a rant with the possibility of getting a modicum of sympathy.
12. It allows me to use words like "modicum" and other words I don't normally use in speaking.

I could probably come up with more. There are tons of topics I could write about that come along in life, but I can guarantee that very few people would be interested in reading about them (generally game related or about my passion of the moment which changes far too frequently - but I guess that hasn't really stopped me in the past. But believe me when I say it could me MUCH worse).

Writer's Envy (and my 200th post)

I'm feeling a bit envious today. I don't particularly find my job intellectually stimulating on good days (it pays the bills, barely, and I have quite a bit of freedom, but still...), but I was scanning through a blog written by someone whose writing I really enjoy. She's had articles, stories, plays, a book, etc. published and works for a company that puts a lot of emphasis on creative writing (even if I'm not entirely sure what exactly she does during the day).

I'm not saying I am not appreciative of what I have or want to give up/change my life, but I do have an annoying feeling of envy. One of the reasons I started blogging way back when (200 posts ago!) is because I wanted to be able to have a place to get thoughts from my head into a written form (and I'm a much faster typing than I am with my penmanship).

Ursula K. LeGuin (a favorite author from my childhood) gave two responses to people who asked her how to become a writer. First, learn to type. Second, start writing. By that, she meant just start putting something, anything, down on paper (or on-screen nowadays). A lot of it is going to be terrible, but if you don't start somewhere, you'll never get better and you'll never develop those seeds that are planted deep in your brain.

I spent a good portion of my teenage years writing all kinds of stuff, alone or with my friends. I started slacking off after my first year in college (1992-93) and only in the past few years have I even attempted to start back up. It's not easy. Especially now that I'm older and have a lot more garbage running around upstairs. Not only that, but there is the time issue as well. There are so many things in life that I want/should be doing that it is difficult (impossible) to find time for everything. How much time should I spend on frivolous pursuits that I enjoy when I should be making sure my family is comfortable and my duties are done?

What do I want to be when I grow up? I guess that is the crux of the issue. Too schizophrentic in my pursuits with not enough passion in any one to keep it up for any length of time. To steal/paraphrase a quote from a movie: "It's my lot in life. It's not a lot, but it's my life."

Yarr! Legend of the Nine!

"Places, PLACES EVERYBODY!"
"Cecil, bring up the lights just a bit. THERE! That's it."
"Will SOMEBODY get that CHICKEN off the stage! That doesn't come in till scene twenty-three! Sheesh!"
"Okay, let's see."
"The Swashbuckler's hair is out of place - MAKE-UP!"
"Better . . . can't disappoint the Teen Idol crowd . . . "
"Are we ready? Let's get this show on the road!"

"ROLL 'EM!!"
* * *
I – The Fall of Eris
(In which she is killed by the Enemy…yada yada yada…)

At the top of the mountain of a lone island, Eris the Ocean Master clung to a tree trunk as if out of breath. The sun was setting below the horizon of the Ocean and the light was beginning to fade.

I’m tired, she thought. I know it is because of him, but I am tired all the same. No energy to run any more. Where are the others? It shouldn’t be like this.

She looked down along the beach. A lone crab wandered its way slowly across the sand. Eris paused to contemplate the plainness of its existence. How simple it would be to just be a crab, she thought. As her mind strayed, the crab suddenly disappeared. No, wait! There is its trail in the sand. It’s as if I blanked out and didn’t see it walk away, she thought.

It’s him. He is here. He has found me.

Despair descended upon her, the fingers of its alien presence curling around the thoughts of her mind. Finally her heart stops, frozen in the grip of eternal forgetfulness.

The Azure light of the Ocean dims. Midnight comes.

II – Concerning the Enemy
(And in this corner…Mr. Bad – with a capitol “B”!)

Before the Great Cleaver created the first of the Oceans, there was the Web of Life. The strands of which stretched throughout eternity connecting intelligences of different worlds with different ideas. But woven into the Web was the Enemy. In the beginning he was there, and he was strong. The intelligences felt his presence but were nigh unto helpless in fighting him, for they were as yet young and weak.

It was a struggle for the intelligences to stay connected through the Web – the Enemy was there, trying to thwart their unity. But the intelligences learned, over time, that while they could not defeat the Enemy yet, they could weaken him. And weaken him they did. The intelligences wove new and stronger strands and added them to the Web, strengthening their nodes, increasing their own numbers.

Although not as strong as he was in the beginning, the Enemy still holds tremendous power over the Mortals of the Oceans. Even the Great Cleaver is unable to fully contain his influence. But by the same token, the Enemy has little hold over the Great Cleaver and his resolve to carry on the fight.

The Enemy’s purpose is the ultimate destruction of the Web of Life. He is the source of the weakening of the fabric of the Oceans, rot, weathering, and corruption. He seeks to bring all things to a stop, causing oblivion. Mortals sailing the Oceans, although never seeing the Enemy, feel the effects of his presence nearby as matter is destroyed, energy is dissipated, time stagnates, and new thought is stopped.

But not all oppose the Enemy. There are those who choose to fight for this great evil. These foolish servants can be found all across the Web. They can easily be identified by the arcane form of language they use, such as the vile incantation: “0/\/\f6 /\/\y l33t 5ki11z pwn j00! ph33r /\/\3h!!11oneoneone”

Mortals have many names for the Enemy. The most common is derived from the stupor of mind and body felt, the lagging behind in reaction to the environment – the Enemy is then simply known as Lag.

III – Trials of the Nine
(Cleaver creates ten. Enemy tempts. Nine remain valiant. Enemy sulks.)

The Great Cleaver stood over the body of Eris. The mighty fall but the fight must go on, he thought to himself. Bending down, he scooped together ten mounds of sand from the Beach. To these he added the salt water of the Ocean. From this he fashioned the bodies of ten persons – five female and five male. The wind of the Air he directed into their lungs. From the body of Eris he gave each one a drop of life-giving Blood.

And they awoke and stood amazed at the world around them.

They walked along the beaches and under the trees with the Great Cleaver, learning all that he would teach them – from the heights of the Air to the depths of the Ocean. They learned they were sculpted by his hands and given life through the Blood of Eris. But, as happy as they were, it did not last.

“I must leave ye for awhile,” Cleaver said. “There be other matter to which I must attend to. I will send for ye when ye are ready. Fear not, and may the wind always blow in yer favor!”

The ten Children of Cleaver grieved at his absence, but in time the joys of their world and their companionship with each other dulled that grief. The days were long, the nights were warm, and they were happy once again.

One looked out over the Ocean with furrowed brow. “What is the matter, brother?” Others gathered around with concern. He pointed out across the sparkling waters and asked, “Do you all see that ship with the sails as black as night?”

“Yes. What of it? It has always been there. It never moves. It just IS.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “It has always been, perhaps from the Beginning. I have been Watching it. It occurred to me today that Cleaver might have left it for us.”

“Yes,” said another. “He said he would send for us! Perhaps this is his call.”

“How can that be,” a third asked. “It was here when Cleaver walked among us.”

“Can you not feel the power of the Ship? Even from this distance, I can feel something akin to the power of Cleaver, but somehow different, too.”

“We must go out and see if the Black Ship is indeed a call from the Great Cleaver.”

“No! I too feel something - but not wholesome, not safe. We must wait here for Cleaver. Surely he would send a clearer message?”

Long into the night they discussed the mystery of the Black Ship. Eventually, one showed great Wisdom in convincing the others closely explore it. If it was from Cleaver, then they should make haste in going out to it. If not, then they should learn what they could and report it to Cleaver when he returned.

They agreed on this counsel and on the morrow, the ten Children of Cleaver left their home and set out for the Black Ship. As they drew closer, their Blood started to race as if in remembrance of a forgotten past. Their minds started to doubt and, for the first time, they knew fear. Clearly this Ship was not sent by Cleaver, but from a presence full of hatred, destruction, and astonishing malice.

Several wanted to go back, flee from the onslaught of dread they were now facing. But one called out to the others, “Sisters and brothers! We must not turn back. We must Persist and overcome our fears. This is an Enemy to Cleaver – for such I now feel in my very soul.”

“Yes,” answered one of her brothers. “We must be Brave. For we are the Great Cleaver’s own children!”

Such encouragement brought the others back and together they continued on, pushing through their mind-numbing revulsion, until they all stood upon the mahogany planks of the Black Ship. The sails, as if made of Darkness itself, blocked the warming rays of the sun. The Children huddled together for warmth as they looked across the deserted ship.

Nothing was to be seen, but their attention was drawn to a hatchway that led below decks. “We must go down there,” one said. The others remained silent and followed.

Down below, the world they knew faded and despair hung in the very air. As if dreaming, they wandered the endless halls, lost. After a combination of eternity and mere moments they came upon a velvet couch whereupon lay the form of a woman, both beautiful and terrible to behold. Asleep or dead they could not say, but deep in their hearts they knew whom they looked upon.

“It is Eris! She in whose Death we have Life,” they whispered. Their whispers echoed, and with each echo a soft, woman’s voice was brought back to them.

“Yes, my children,” it said. “I am she whom you call Eris. I am the giver of Life, and Life I am able to take away. I am your Mother, your Father, and your World. Come to me, my children, and I shall take away your fears, your worries, and everything that troubles your mind. I am greater than Cleaver, and able to break the confines of the Oceans. I am the Great Spider on the Web of Life! I control the destinies of mortals and can show you the secrets behind the nothingness of the eternities – come to me!”

In silence they stood, afraid of the malevolence that radiated from the darkness with each word. Yet one moved forward. “Show me your secrets,” he said. “Give me your power. I am your Son and I will bring all to you so that not one will be lost.”

“Yes,” the voice hissed. “Come to me!” He stepped towards the form on the couch and was swallowed up in the shadowy mists.

“No!” The shout woke the others from their shock. “You are not Eris! You are an Enemy and your vileness is shown in using her form.” The sister’s voice rose to it’s own level of hatred. “For this travesty you shall be destroyed!”

The voice of the Enemy laughed and became a voice that was neither female nor male. “Come to me! Your Dedication can make you powerful! Come to me and I will show you my weaknesses so you may overcome all! Come to me my daughter!”

“We will never betray the Honor of Eris or Cleaver! Brothers and sisters, we must leave this place!”

“Our brother! We cannot leave without him!”

“Yes,” the Enemy in the Darkness whispered. “Your brother is here. Come to us!”

“NO! All the Resources of the Oceans and of the worlds connected to the Web of Life we will use to fight you! We will find a way, you will be defeated!” With that, the remaining nine clasped hands and ran from the velvet couch with the form of Eris upon it. But the voice remained right behind them.

“Fools! You speak of worlds beyond the Web, but what do you know of such things? Pitiful mortals who waste their lives in search of oblivion – I WILL give it to them…and to you!”

They felt their minds slow and their hearts race. Still they struggled on. When they felt they could run no more and that the Enemy was about to overpower them, a flash of brightness pierced the Darkness and there before them stood the Great Cleaver with a burning fury in his eye.

With a mighty stroke he brought his weapon down upon the floor and the world seemed to split asunder.

IV – The Naming
(Who are these people anyway? Cleaver reveals all!)

All Nine drew together on the deck of a gigantic ship; it’s wood glowing white as the nearly transparent sails captured the bright sunlight and sped the vessel through the crystal clear waters. The Great Cleaver stood magnificently before them with the Elder Ocean Masters arrayed behind him.

“Me Children! Ye have set yourself against the tasks I placed before you. Ye are truly worthy to become Ocean Masters and have yer True Name revealed unto ye!”

“Ye have shown great Honor and leadership. Ye shall now be known as Amphitrite.”

“Ye have been Dedicated in the fight against the Enemy. I give ye the name of Nemesis.”

“Great Resourcefulness has been yer mark. Dionysus shall ye be hereafter known as.”

“When others feared, ye have been Brave. Prometheus I now name ye.”

“Yer road has been difficult, but ye have shown the value of Persistence to the others. Yer name shall be recorded as Bia.”

“Yer Wisdom will forever be of great worth across the Oceans. I name ye Clio.”

“While others rested, ye remained Watchful. Welcome, Hypnos!”

“Ye, the eighth,” Cleaver pointed to the last male. “How have ye fared in your trials?”

“I have done nothing. I am not worthy of any honor.” He hung his head as if ashamed.

“Nothing?” Cleaver boomed. “Is it nothing to not fall from grace? Is it nothing to fight alongside your brothers and sisters and not give up hope? Avast! Ye are much too Humble my son! Ye shall be honored and not forgotten – I bestow upon you the name of Lelantos.”

“With Humility I accept your great gift.” Lelantos bowed respectfully.

“And now we come to the last of my children,” Cleaver smiled.

“But what of our lost brother,” she interrupted. “Should he not also receive a name?”

“Nay,” Cleaver replied. “Though he was one of my elect, he chose to ally himself with the Enemy. As such, his doom is to wander namelessly across the Oceans forever leashed to his master, unknown and unloved.”

Cleaver paused before continuing. “But for yer Mercy and Love in thinking of him, ye shall be honored with the name of Eurydice. Now take yer place among your brothers and sisters. Behold! The New Nine!”

V – New Oceans, Old Enemies
(Oh lookie! Mortal playthingies!)

The oceans of blue:
Old Midnight’s hue
And Cobalt newly shine;

Viridian’s gleam,
Chaos supreme,
Gave rise to Masters Nine!

And thus the Great Cleaver removed the veil from their sight and at last they cast their eyes upon the mortal realms. Although not as dark and terrible as it had been in the presence of the Enemy, it was still dim and seemingly dreary when compared to what they had known before their Trials.

They looked out over the Three Oceans and beheld the influence the Enemy had over those mortal realms. His servants roamed to and fro while the youngest mortals wandered in disarray and confusion. Their hearts jumped in alarm as they spied a Black Ship sailing across the waters.

“Fear ye not,” Cleaver said. “’Tis but a Ghost of the real Black Ship, sent to punish those mortals who prey upon their weaker brethren. Ye have nothing to fear from it.”

Even with the Great Cleaver’s assurance, their new stewardship seemed almost too daunting a task. Bia was the first of the Nine to speak: “It looks like our fight has just begun.” She pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. “Let’s get to work!”

Old Counsel, New Format

"Keep a journal or portions, as you go along in life, a record that can be woven into a Book of Remembrance, telling of difficulties you have been able to overcome, challenges met. Express your inward feelings and thankfulness. These are part of your Book of Remembrance passed on to your children and decendants..."

Such was the councel given to me in September of 1992. I have been pretty diligent in ignoring this over the past thirteen years - which, in hindsight, is unfortunate. Over the course of a nearly a decade and a half, I have dropped out of college several times, joined the military, gotten married, had four children, and moved more times than I care to think about. A lot has happened to have not recorded it anywhere. I still have my memories, but with each passing year they are subtly changed with what my father-in-law calls "reconstructive memory."

So this is my attempt to remedy the situation.

I admit that it is a little daunting to put this out where anyone can read it. I have my reasons, which I may or may not share at some point in the future. Although I used to consider myself fairly computer-savvy, I have only recently become aware of blogs. I have been out of the loop for a long time...and I can't say I miss it. I left the computer field in order to have more time to spend with my growing family. The irony is, perhaps, that I still don't spend as much time with my children as I should.

Having faults is a part of mortality - and this is my story...