Gotta love shameless self-promotion!

My short promo film for my latest full-length play.

"Foppotee". A simple-minded person.

(I'm late on the September assignment...see my previous post. It didn't dawn on me until after I finished to set this story in an Irish pub. Even the picture below is from my recent trip. But I was too lazy to rewrite it.)

A man walked into a coffee shop unaware that a book signing reception was in progress. Looking around, he recognized no one. Course he wasn’t from the area so why would he recognize anyone. The coffee shop was a-buzz with activity – people eating cheese and crackers, sipping wine, a violinist playing a cello in the corner (the cello player took sick), chit-chatting and – drinking coffee. In another corner there was a stately, middle-aged gentleman signing books. The author. The man walked up to the author and, noticing a few hundred books stacked on the table, grabbed one and paged through it.

"This your book?" asked the man.

"Yes," confirmed the author. "Would you like to purchase one? I'd be happy to sign it for you."

"No thanks." Uncomfortable pause. “What’s your book about?” asked the man.

“Growing up in Cambridge, Wisconsin.”

“Cambridge? Never heard of it,” said the man.

“It’s near Madison,” said the author. He returns to signing books.

Odd, thought the man. He imagined anyone could write a book about their childhood, particularly if they grew up in an interesting place. But Cambridge, Wisconsin? Never heard of it.

The man stated, "Now...if you had written about your life growing up in Madison, I might have found that interesting."

The author smiled. "But I didn't grow up in Madison. I grew up on Cambridge."

"Yes," said the man, "so you've said."

Madison would have been much better place to write about, the man thought to himself once again.

The author asked the man, “If you'd like some wine or cheese..."

“No thanks,” said the man.

“Well - enjoy your visit,” the author said and returned to signing books.

The man nodded at the author - and stood there for a few seconds. “Foppotee,” said the man to the author.

“Excuse me?”

“Foppotee,” repeated the man.

“What does that mean?” asked the author.

The man stated firmly, “Foppotee.” He paused. “Foppotee, foppotah.”

The author sat there dumbfounded. He chose his next words carefully. “You’re a simple-minded person, aren’t you?”

The man stared at the author. It's not known whether the man was staring at the author or staring through him. It made no difference.

“Foppotee, foppotah.”

Then the man turned, walked out of the coffee shop as quickly as he had entered it. The author stared at the door for a few seconds then returned to signing his books.

“Foppotee,” he muttered under his breath.

From Los Angeles to Waterford, WI, then to Waterford, Ireland and back again.

I wanted to apologize for being absent from the blog. My recent move from Los Angeles back to Wisconsin, and then my 12-day trip to Ireland has left me little time to write. That - along with finding work, getting acclimated to the Midwest after 11 years of being away, looking for a place to live...well, you get the picture.

I look forward to contributing to Ditalini Press once again. Such a wonderfully creative outlet, isn't it? In the meantime, if you're interested in reliving my trip to Ireland, bookmark "Good Craic. Welcome to Eire". I'll be updating it regularly. I wanted to put a more artsy, maybe scenic picture up here. But this shot was the one day I wore my kilt. I think it looks good - especially standing in a 15th century castle in Oranmore, Co. Galway, and sipping port in front of a roaring fire. There's plenty of of cool shots on the blog.

The trip was great. My traveling partner is an asshole and I wanted him to O.D. on his medication. Yes - that bad. Katie...wish you had been along with me. We would have had SO much fun...

Night Terrors

Heart stopping screams awaken me as she cries out once again from her bedroom down the hall. She is caught between sleeping and waking, unable to make the transition safely. Another night terror.

I rush to her side, seeing her as always, bolt upright, eyes wide open, saliva running from her lips; in mid scream. I try to hold her, comfort and waken her, but she stares at me and whispers, "SHHH. He'll hear you".

I do not touch her. Do not speak. The hair on my arms and neck stands on end, because I do not know who "He" is and am afraid that she may be right. Perhaps he really is in the room with us watching and waiting. And so, I sit beside her silently trapped in this night terror with her. Wondering if we will ever be free from it, If we will ever feel safe again.

It's been three months since she's slept through the night in peace. I thought at first it was just normal childhood nightmares and they would pass, but I see now that such optimism was foolish. He is in her mind now and uses her to hear what goes on around her, just as he uses all of the children now. She knows he is there and fights to keep her secrets from him.

We were so naive to give our children over to this invasive terror. But those who tried to warn us were labeled conspiracy theory alarmists. They spoke of side effects, lack of testing, hasty production and over zealous scientists. We listened instead to the government and the media as they flashed headlines of pandemic, death, and the most at risk population, our precious children. We led them as lambs to the slaughter, thinking we were providing safety and protection. We parents didn't participate. There was a shortage of supplies, we were told, and so we bore the risk of infection ourselves in order to provide for our offspring. What parent wouldn't make such a sacrifice? But now, too late we have discovered it was the children who were lain on the alter not us.

Is he really here with us now in the darkness? Or has her mind been tricked into this constant state of terror? Either way, we remain together locked in this nightmare, unable to undo what has been done. And I think to myself, it was just a vaccine, a simple vaccine.

October Subtopic: Compound Creation

In honor of last month's topic, Save the Words, this month let's make up a compound word. Post just the new compound word, or the word with definition or the word in any type of writing expression. This idea was inspired by Katie Grace's blog site CloudPrints, the Coinstar company, and Mattie Stepanek's poetry book Heartsongs. Start using your new compound word and have fun!

The Revised Lincoln

People are born, grow up, and spend a large proportion of their lives aging.
I remember an old Negro woman from my youth. She lived in a small house across the street from our family.
She was a private, but active person, busy with chores, washing clothes and gardening. Constance was her name.
As a child I would see Constance occasionally. She was polite toward me. Oddly, from a distance
she appeared a bit withered and weary. Up close she somehow changed into an evasive figure
who wore an older body like a teenager. Not comfortable in her skin, as if a young spirit trapped.
I remember thinking how old folks should perhaps be more relaxed, not energetic.
I however knew little of her generation, nor her racial environment.

Mother said that Constance had been a slave in her youth.
And, that she had suffered hardships, and had led a lot of her people to safety
via the underground railroad. Nobody believed it. Constance would have to be 115 years old
at the least had this been true. As it were, she appeared old, but of an undetermined age like many
of her race. She remained a mystery.

Years passed and I grew up. I became more physically capable and began doing chores for
Constance after school, or weekends. I would occasionally sense that she was a pure and peaceful
soul underneath layers of something I could not approach nor apprehend.
I didn't have much cultural exposure to the black race. I think she sensed that I was a thoughtful
young man and knew I also worked part time as clerk in a local bookstore.
She could read very well, but did not seem fluent in literature, past or present.
She would sometimes turn her head to the sky, as if something was speaking to her.
She would also grin at the oddest moments. I asked her one day if she had ever been to church.
She replied, "which one?"
I looked back at her and didn't bother to answer. She had a way of cutting to the chase.
Constance rolled her lip and went on with chores.

It was the fall of 1973. I had graduated from High School and was working full time at the bookstore.
I also was learning about the art of photography. I was interested in the works of William Blake
and Rene Descartes. Early I had entered a philosophical period in my life. Or, at least I thought I had.
As I became more attuned to the esoteric implications of life, I would get flashes of Constance in my
mind as I reviewed some of the words she had spoken to me briefly, or it was her general persona
that would penetrate me with a strange depth. I guess I can describe Constance as a silent mentor.
Simply by being herself was enough to show me I had a simple surface understanding.
She knew something, had earned a rare quality, and what that was, I could not explain.

Youth wants to sprint across the bridge of wisdom, not earn it through life experience.
Constance became a secret refuge of counsel for me. I would wake in the morning primed with all kinds of
questions I wanted to ask her. I would go to work and through the course of the day would find the answer
in a book, or coming freely from the lips of a customer, or delivery person.
At days end I felt a deeper satisfaction within.
She was not the type who liked people frequenting with regularity.
I wished I had spent more time with Constance in my childhood, but later would appreciate the balance of
contact I had with her.

I did see her one last time that fall. It was dusk as I walked home from work and saw a lamp
burning in her front room. I walked up to her door not knowing exactly why. The porch gave a creak as I stepped
onto it. She pulled the front door open and smiled and invited me in. We sat by the oil lamp.
Constance looked waxy and weathered in the dim light.
Her thick silvery hair was pulled back neatly. She became calm and still.
The light flickered and I could catch glimpses of unearthly age that she wore.
Her feet were like the gnarled roots of an ancient oak with her trunk and branches above showing the wear of
a thousand storms.

She leaned a little forward toward me and began to speak.

"I think you will do well in your life Aaron.
Son, I have seen some things. Things that could would not seem proper to fit into
the space of time. Most souls only look backward at life, like riding the caboose.
Learn to be aware of what the engineer of the train is seeing. Listen for the
whistle and get to know the lurches and sways of the track. And, remember details.
Know what is around you at all times, here and in your dreams."

I sat there captured by her few words, and prayed that she didn't stop speaking.
This is the longest line of sage advice she had ever spoken to me.

"I will be moving on shortly. I am approaching the winter of my life.
Everything is arranged and in order, 'cept for maybe a couple of things.
And while you are here we can square off one of them...
Aaron, when a book is revised, they make some changes in
the new edition, am I correct?"

"Yes ma'am, there can be changes, updates, corrections, perhaps new illustrations."

"I have something I want to give to you.
The world is becoming very complex and it is necessary for the world to recognize how
complex we are too." Her voice tailed off hoarsely.

I became apprehensive about her offer.
"Was there something that happened to you that you can't talk about?"
I took on an aggressive, challenging tone.
A distant fascination could quickly transmute into repulsion if I sensed an odor of
confinement and restriction by anyone, especially the trappings of the lonely and old.

"Silence can be the refuge of sanity....believe that I have lived there more than not.
Do you know about Harriet Tubman?"

"The abolitionist?"

"Yep, I knew her, as well as anyone could.
She helped me, and I helped her. I liked her, she was harsh like myself.
We both had a rough time of it. I worked with her for a time in the Underground
Railroad....
Harriet told me about some places she had been.
I think she was referring to the spirit world, or some life in the past.
She was not a literate person, but she knew things others did not.
How the ancient Africa and
its past were connected to slavery issues and Lincoln. Harriet had me read her the
newspapers back then. I forget what they said, or what they were.
She had me clip articles or tear pages out at her request.
She put them in that big wooden ball. There was a discolored round object beside her roller top desk.
Harriet said there may be proof whether the power from the past will sway the future, or the future powers
will sway the past.
I never opened it, it's sealed.
I'm getting too old to become a detective, so you use your skills to determine
what Harriet was collecting. She told me someone would come along who could
take charge of the contents, and I think it must be you Aaron."

"What was she saving do you think?"

"Lincoln...things about him, and battles."

"Like an archive, is that it?"

"Only of the things she selected. She would receive impressions.
As I recall, she would listen to what I read her and
then either have a reaction or not.
There was one battle in particular, she had a bad reaction.
Suffered a seizure. Just went out of her mind for a few days.
Mostly I saved the items she would have a reaction toward
if I remember correctly. She could be a very moody, difficult woman."

"Was she empathetic about all the death?" I asked.
This was becoming very strange.

"Harriet was very psychic at certain times. She had her head bashed in by her owner.
She should have died, but, got through it and was changed in her vision.
It also disrupted her normal patterns.
She didn't know Lincoln at this time, but said that she knew him from before.
I thought she was crazy.
She told me things about the civil war before they occurred.
And, usually they did.....then.
There came a day when she said it all changed. She could not follow it anymore.
She was very angry, upset and frightened.
She said something horrible had descended.
The battle over which she had that seizure, she was kept uttering 'blood beast', all that
night in her bed. She was not in her right mind for sure, but, empathy wasn't carried by her.
She was harder than nails,
her visions were hard natured as well. Something collided into her.
I was frightened by things she saw and did most of the time."

"Wow. So you knew Harriet! It was rumored that you had been a slave
as a child, I honestly thought it was fiction."

"Araminta was her real name."

There was a long dead silence. The lamp flickered
eerily.

"Revised history. Is that what you are getting at?", I asked.

"It's inside that ball. Harriet told me it had a lock. Some sort of thing Pythagoras
had discovered about geometric solids holding a zero base.
I have no idea what that means except that you may only open it under a full solar eclipse.
Chisel the cap off or break it open somehow."

She got up slowly and handed me the wooden ball. It was a bit larger than a bowling ball.
My hands were sweaty, the ball was rather light, as if hollow.
I thanked her, and she thanked me. It was one of her last orders of business to take care of.
I could tell she felt lighter, her eyes twinkled.
She patted my back as I exited her front door and walked home.

That winter, on a cold January day, Constance passed away.
I didn't feel a tinge of sorrow. She simply didn't have an endearing composition.
It felt as if a tough old soldier had turned to vapor. There was a moment of reflection and heartfelt gratitude
at getting to know a little of this complex individual.

Some years passed. The Vietnam war had drawn to a close. I was living in a small flat and had become a dealer
in used books. I was at a local book fair in the fall of 1976. Somebody had mentioned that there
was going to be a total solar eclipse 2:10 p.m. on Sunday. I didn't think anything about it.
It was Saturday, and it was getting late. I had found a few titles I was looking for and was browsing through
some boxes of books someone had hastily brought in. Lots of Civil war titles. Autobiographies of Lincoln, Histories of
Lincoln's War. Obviously an estate collection taken in to recoup a few dollars. Lincoln, that weathered face of his
looked like the sordid woes of humankind were etched into it. Then it struck me. I realized I could open that ball tomorrow afternoon.

I had some mixed feelings. I wasn't sure if I were qualified to tear open something that had belonged to
Harriet Tubman. If in fact, this was true. Opening it under the eclipse made it seem mysterious and
compelling. Although, my logical mind wasn't holding any great expectations, I held the procedure as a matter
of trust regardless of the outcome. I took some time and considered using a private space in my parents back lot
far behind their house. It was filled with weeping willow trees and other thick overgrown brush and tall weeds.
I could procure privacy because the area was swampy and stunk during the summer. I knew where a paddock of
field rock were piled and would provide a suitable dry place to open the ball.
I would load my camera with a fresh roll of 35mm Tri-X high speed black and white.
The small aperture would hold foreground and background in stark focus.
I realized that the few minutes of the eclipse would force time constraints, yet I could photograph a before and
after sequence to document the event.

I arrived at the spot an hour and a half before the eclipse. The sky was clear as crystal.
I had made a small shadow box to monitor the eclipse. Light entered through a pin hole. A basic camera with no photosensitive medium. The solar disk was the size of a dime at the back of the box and the eclipse would register visually
when the sun had been completely obscured by the moon. I began taking a few photos of the scene.
The ball, a 2 pound hammer, a saw, a hatchet, a chisel and a brass punch.

The eclipse was underway. The sun had a quarter of itself showing when I began to tap on what appeared to
be wooden pegs holding the ball's cap affixed. The wood was old and dry and the pegs were easily loosened.
I drove them down until they stopped moving. I kept watching the shadow box so I could move to open it
as soon as the sun was obscured. I became anxious. A minute or two was excruciatingly long.

The sun disappeared. I struck the cap with a hammer and chisel. The wood was harder than I anticipated.
I struck harder and began shredding wood from the joint around the cap. I kept hitting it until I could begin
prying it open with the chisel. Finally I tore it open with my hand.
I sat it down and took a photo looking down into the hollow interior.
The sky was now a dark cobalt and I carefully reached in to remove a small bundle of neatly folded newspaper
clippings. The moon and sun were now diverging. A sliver of bright
sunlight began overtaking the lunar disk. I had no sense of whether I performed the opening correctly or not.
I began to wonder if Harriet had suffered from insanity, because what I had just done made no sense at all.

I felt relieved, but confused about what to do next.
I was lacking instructions on just what it was I was supposed to study or find.
The newspaper itself appeared crisp and clean looking. The interior of the ball was not rounded. It consisted of
flat areas geometrically spaced. It was a very odd design.
I picked up the largest folded wad of paper and then unfolded it carefully.
It was a copy of the Washington Times dated July 1863.
The headline read: North Forced into Negotiations after Rout at Gettysburg

I fell backwards landing flat on my back. I had never been hit so hard by anything before or since.
I could not think, I could not move. The paper was laid out over my chest. I lifted my arms to shove it off.
It would not move, my arms would not cooperate. I tried to blow it off of me.
I think I may have passed out briefly, I cannot be certain. It was an awful place to be in every way.
I got up after several minutes. I threw everything into a bag and marched straight back to my car.
I saw my mom as I tossed the bag into the backseat.
I was soaking wet with sweat and muck. She was planting some flowers.
We both said 'hey' and I drove off.

I dared myself to look at one more of these clippings after a couple years had passed.
I chose a small piece gambling that I could accommodate with more rationale.
It was an obituary: Former President Lincoln dies at Syracuse NY
He had passed away from aggravations of old age at a Sanitarium.
From page 3, It was a small write up. He was not a celebrated figure.
The brief content was of a magnitude beyond my mental and spiritual capacities to apprehend.
Obviously these could not be real clippings, or at least, they were no longer real.

I did find that the strange interior shape of the ball was a 20 sided isometric form.
The icosahedron. I can only conclude that this ball was a simple time-lock.
Meaning the contents were isolated from subsequent changes in the space/time continuum hence the
day of their being sealed away.

Meaning, that since Harriet selected certain vital clippings, somebody or someone had seen fit to go back and
change what happened. I guess I may have to continue the kind of life led by Constance. Silent, contemplative
and desperate. I pray that later in my life I may be granted the wisdom to find an answer to what happened
to a continent full of people in the mid 1800's. I have not the fortitude nor courage at this stage in my life.

The paper fiber taken from the ball is a perfect compositional match to the newsprint from that time
used by the Washington Times.

Aaron Sharp
June 23, 1989

October Topic: Sci-Fi/Fantasy

I was asked to sub for the previous assigned member.
I have been thinking about the science fiction/fantasy genre
and wanted to invite members to write a short piece in this
catagory. If you don't like this subject, you could write a parody,
or modify your favorite field of literature to fit into a sci-fi, fantasy
setting. Have fun!

Chiasmus Corner

Have you ever been intrigued by John F. Kennedy’s famous quote, Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country? Perhaps you are familiar with the late great Mae West’s observation, It’s not the men in my life, it’s the life in my men! If so, then you have already been introduced to two examples of a chiasmus. Once awakened to these chiastic phrasings, it’s almost impossible to become unaware of them. They await discovery, whether it be a line in a book, a motto, a lyric line, part of a comedian’s routine . . . or absolutely anywhere and everywhere a lover of language might leave a mark.

It's not having what you want, It's wanting what you've got - Cheryl Crow, Soak Up the Sun lyric

When the power of love conquers the love of power then the world will know peace. - Jimi Hendrix

Where there is Peace, there is Culture; Where there is Culture, there is Peace - Nicholas Roerich

You don’t have time; time has you! - George Carlin, Phoenix performance, 1978

I often tune in to a long-running radio show on my 6 a.m. weekday morning commute where a daily call-in contest is featured. A new weekend evening talk show on the same radio station, hosted by Bob Earley, invites the public to share their views on various topics of interest. Bob has already attracted a strong following of regular callers. Recently, the host of the morning show, Stan Piatt, urged his own listeners to try and win the contest by stating, You don’t have to be an Earley star-caller to be a star-caller early!

For more chiasmi visit www.drmardy.com. There you’ll find genius wording entertained by an entertaining word genius!

Feel free to post chiasmus discoveries from now on - under the heading of Chiasmus Corner!

Curmudgeon

Grandpa seemed to have the richest vocabulary in all the world. His love of words added a richness to his conversations and he created the world's best puns. He talked about places with sylvan glades and fruits called kumquats and referred to himself as an old curmudgeon. I believe the word 'curmudgeon' is in need of saving and it was brought to mind when I was at market. There was an old man with a green apron selling potatoes. His body reminded me of a big bean. Two teens walking lightly in white sneakers filed by his stand holding cans of coke. He yelled, "Coca Cola is not good! Coca Cola is not good!" I had some pieces of candied ginger in my pocket and I offered him one after he talked a long while to me about his 500 acres of land and his asparagus/potato farm. He'd never tried ginger before and he asked me what it was and I told him it was a root. Someone corrected me: no, it's a rhizome. (I still think its a root.) Somehow the conversation turned to Nepal and the old man didn't know where that country was and he complained about his plastic bags being too chintzy for the price he paid. When he opened the sliding door of his white van there was a tumble down pile of small waxy potatoes, dusty red potatoes, and buttery oblong potatoes in blue mesh bags. He told me that happily potatoes store up for one year. I watched him break the steady stream of customers to waddle over to the pastry shop and come back with a huge profiterole with chocolate icing in his mouth. The people just kept lining up to buy his potatoes. Was it because he'd been selling potatoes (and asparagus in spring) for thirty years? Or was it that twinkle in his eye? He brought to mind the word curmudgeon, a word on it's way out and which officially means: a bad-tempered, difficult, cantankerous person.

Lip-smacking Lardlet Lunacy

Greetings my dear friends and faithful readers; I am oh so excited about this month’s Culinary Q & A because I received a question that brought back a delicious little nugget of goodness back into the forefront of my mind. I've abandoned my usual three question format in order to focus solely on what I believe has been a forgotten ingredient in many a kitchen. With the winter months just around the corner, I have been turning my attention to warm rich comfort foods more and more. Apparently, so has reader Hans, who wrote:

Q: Geir, I love a good pot roast, but no matter how hard I try, the meat always turns out dry and bland. What can I do to keep the roast moist, juicy and succulent?

A: Thanks for the question Hans. Now, the first thing to remember about pot roast; the meat must not be prepared in a speustic fashion. It takes time and great care to cook a moist succulent pot roast. So, if your thinking you can throw a roast in the oven at high heat and it will be perfectly cooked in thirty minutes; well, you should probably think about having something else for dinner. But any culinary advice columnist could tell you to cook the pot roast low and slow and move on to the next question; but this HomeLife magazine, and I'm Geir Ragnar, and I know you've come to expect more from us.

The answer in preparing pot roast perfection lies in a luscious little morsel of pork fat goodness called a lardlet. Now, those of us who have ever popped open a can of baked beans or pork and beans have seen lardlets floating around in the sauce; but few have actually seen or used them in other applications. The pot roast, my friend, is another is another dish that benefits greatly by the use of the lardlet.

For those who may not know, a lardlet is a small piece of bacon that is put into a dish to enrich it with fat. As we all know, fat equals flavor, but the lardlet also enhances the pot roast by keeping it moist and providing it with just a hint of smokiness. The end result will provide your meat with a depth of flavor and richness few have had the pleasure of experiencing in a pot roast.