All That Glitters - Chapter Two

 I've tackled a couple of short stories recently, and now I'm trying my hand at something a bit longer.  Every day this week I will drop one chapter of a five-chapter story I have written.  It is a globetrotting crime caper in which a young dreamer finds it difficult to distinguish fantasy from reality.  Here is the second part of "All That Glitters."

CHAPTER TWO

A harsh clanging sound, followed by the angered cursing of his coworkers, startled Jan out of his reverie.  

“Jesus Christ, Jan!  You fucking blind or something?  Goddamn it, now I gotta finesse this fucker, try not to get my ass sued again … no thanks to you, you sleepy fuck.  I dunno what was louder, your snoring or the hole you just made in the FUCKING WALL!!!  Try not dozing when you’re operating heavy machinery, you fuckwad!”  Max spit out a chaw of tobacco, adjusted his genitals through his dirt-caked denim jeans, and continued his profanity-fuelled rant.  “Just … just … get out the VE-hicle, you summabitch!  You’re lucky your mother knows her way around this here footlong or you’d have been gone a long time ago!”  

Jan rolled his eyes, jumped out of the faded yellow, rusted-out backhoe, and slapped his stepfather on his sunburned arm, making Max wince.  “Whatever, Maxie Max … from what I hear tell, you’ve got more of a Hedwig than a Jared,” he sneered as he sauntered off into the shade.

“Hedwig?  Jared?  The fuck you on about?  Hey … hey, come back here boy!  I didn’t dismiss you.  Hey – mother FUCKER!” Max kicked the backhoe’s stagnant shovel as Jan walked away, flipping him the bird.  Max looked to his left to see Karolina, the project supervisor, laughing uncontrollably.  “The fuck you laughing at?”

“He just made fun of your dick, Max,” she snickered.  “Said you’ve got an angry inch rather than a footlong.  Humor’s his way of dealing with discomfort and embarrassment.  You’d know this if you spent any time with your stepson.”  Max’s crimson face blanched at the aspersion, and he quickly turned and walked away, looking for another minimum wage labourer upon whom to unleash his still smoldering wrath.

Heading towards Jan, Karolina quietly chided, “Maxie’s got a right to be angry, you know.  This isn’t the first time you’ve fallen asleep on the job.  What’s going on?”

“I dunno, K.  Just … seems to me there should be more to life than this.  Like, what am I doing here?  Operating a backhoe, sweating my ass off twelve hours a day for my piece of shit stepfather, and for what?  I could do what he does!  Stand around in the sun all day, scratching my balls and yelling at people.”

Turning him around to face her, Karolina grabbed Jan’s face between both her hands, looked into his eyes and said, “That’s not fair, Jan.  He built this company from the ground up.  It’s his whole life he’s got invested here.  To you, he stands around doing nothing.  I can tell he’s hanging around to make sure his plans are followed to the tee.  He’s a perfectionist.  A crude, uncouth one, to be sure, but still.  And he has every right to be livid when his stepson loses focus and destroys someone else’s property on the job.  Maybe you think this job isn’t good enough for you.  In that case, move on.  You’re twenty-four, extremely intelligent, and you went to university in Paris, for goodness sakes!  You can do anything you put your mind to.”

Jan kicked the gravel beneath him absentmindedly.  He had been crushing on Karolina ever since she joined the company four months ago.  Should he tell her the truth?  That he’d never left Texas?  Never seen the Eiffel Tower or studied by the Seine?  That he’d actually matriculated at a junior college in Paris, Texas, an hour and a half northeast of Dallas?  Or that he had taken a course in gemology only because he walked into the wrong classroom and was blinded by the bling?  That he was summarily dismissed by an eagle-eyed teacher who apprehended him attempting to purloin some “samples” from class?  

Should he open up to the nice young woman he was infatuated with, who just wanted to help him make sense of his life?  She seemed to be the only person other than himself who was looking out for his own interests.  He looked at her, considering.

“Thanks,” he said.  And walked away, leaving a bemused Karolina in the windswept Texas dust.

To be continued ...

All That Glitters - Chapter One

I've tackled a couple of short stories recently, and now I'm trying my hand at something a bit longer.  Every day this week I will drop one chapter of a five-chapter short story I have written.  It is a globetrotting crime caper in which a young dreamer finds it difficult to distinguish fantasy from reality.  Here is the first part of "All That Glitters."

CHAPTER ONE

Th-thump.  Th-thump.  Th-thump.  

Jan’s heartbeat surged through his body, filling his neck and head with thick, pounding pulses as his taut muscles propelled him through the city streets.  The neon lights of the Geneva waterfront were a psychedelic blur.  The pedestrians scrambling to get out of his way barely registered on his consciousness.  He could focus on one thing, and one thing only:  the white Renault van that was waiting on the other side of the river, lights dimmed and engine purring in readiness.  

He was at the pinnacle of his profession as a pennyweighter, and he had promised himself this payout would be the last.  Not just himself.  He had sworn an oath to Karolina.  Captivating Karolina, his partner in pilferage who, while helping him amass a small fortune in purloined playthings of privilege, had stolen his heart.  She and the crew – Max, Harald and Samantha – were in the idling vehicle awaiting his imminent arrival.

The muffled alarm emanating from the saferoom of the Hotel des Bergues was suddenly overwhelmed by the sound of sirens coming from both sides of the bridge.  The waters of the Rhône flowed into Lac Leman as Jan crossed the midway point, reaching the Île Rousseau.  With every stride he got closer to the van, to safety, to unlimited wealth … to Karolina.  

Jan was about fifty feet from the van when he realized something wasn’t right.  There was blood on the windshield.  As he approached at a steady clip he saw Karolina exit the vehicle and slowly raise her hands in front of her.  They were cradling a SIG Sauer P226 and it was pointed right at him.  Attempting to stop on a dime, Jan’s left knee buckled, and he fell awkwardly onto the cement sidewalk.  Bracing himself for the fall, his hands released their vicelike grip on the velvet sachet embracing the Pink Star diamond he had been clenching.  He looked on helplessly as the $70 million rock tumbled over the banks of the small island, got caught in the currents of the Rhône and were swept away into Lac Leman.  

The dissonant scratching of footwear upon gravel stole his attention.  He gazed up to see the moon’s silhouette, which was quickly blocked by the blue eyes and blond hair of his erstwhile lover – who was in turn partially obscured by the gleaming piece of metal that was suddenly pointed in his face.  He heard a deafening noise, and all was silent.

To be continued ...

Book review - The Last Lumenian by S.G. Blaise

The Last Lumenian by S.G. Blaise
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I received a copy of this book from Voracious Readers Only in exchange for an honest review.

SYNOPSIS from Goodreads:

MOST PRINCESSES NEED SAVING.  THIS ONE WILL SAVE YOU.

She is a rebel.  Lilla is fighting for the refugees' freedom from oppression.  The king, her father, lost touch with reality ever since Lilla's mother died.  Now everyone else is paying the price.

The arrival of Callum, a powerful Teryn general, complicates Lilla's life.  His presence leads to conflicted feelings and friction with Arrov, a handsome pilot and fellow rebel.  

Her life is not what she imagined it to be.  Not by far.  Meddling gods, love interests and sudden magical abilities have no room in Lilla's world, but that has become her new reality.  No matter how hard she pushes them away, it's too late.  They all seek to control her anyway.

Now the Era War between two ruling archgods forces Lilla to act: accept who she really is, magic and all; find true love; fulfill her destiny by defeating the Archgod of Chaos and Destruction before he finds her. 

I've never been huge into reading fantasy novels. Nothing against the genre, as it occupies some great spaces cinematically speaking; my tastes in literature simply veer towards the real life, be it biography, historical assessments or sociology (or historical fiction).

That being said, I thoroughly enjoyed "The Last Lumenian" by S.G. Blaise. The heroine of the book, Lilla, is very engaging, and the tale is told with enough humour to make the fairly dark proceedings palatable. The characters are easily definable (especially so in a genre in which I find names and personalities so easily interchangeable), and the descriptions of the world, architecture, clothing, and scenery are very strong. A witty and amusing glossary at the end is there in case you need it, but I didn't actually realize it was there until I was finished reading the book! My one criticism would be that it seemed to be wrapped up rather quickly, seemingly glossing over the death of a beloved character. Perhaps Blaise will go into more detail in the sequel, "True Teryn. I would definitely read it, that's for sure!

Eight Ma'haras out of ten.

View all my reviews

A Taste of Action

Shawn peeked around the corner.  Sweat covered his forehead and trickled off his hair and down his neck, plastering his white cotton T-shirt to his back and adding to the discomfort of the already humid April morning.

There didn't seem to be anybody in sight.  Rather than being relieved, however, Shawn felt a slight sense of dismay.  Although what he was attempting to do was illegal, and though he know that if he was caught the consequences could end up being fatal, he rather hoped someone would be around to catch him in the act, and hopefully shine a light on the town's plight for the Reverend.

Shaun's shadow was barely visible as he stealthily crept across the deserted lane, the sun shining directly above at a high noon angle.  A receipt for the bottle of Coca-Cola he had purchased earlier in the morning crinkled in his pocket, the only sound, other than his second-hand Buster Brown loafers, to be heard, piercing the silent, stifling air.

As Shawn inched ever closer to his destination, a sense of dread and perturbation washed over him.  Should he really be doing this?  After all, his life could potentially be at stake if he was noticed.  He was only twelve years old, had his whole life ahead of him.  But then, the cause he was fighting for was justice, it was righteousness, it was an issue of simple humanity.  

Shawn drew in a deep breath, almost choking on the oppression, both in the air and of his life.  If he didn't do this, he would regret it.  Not just today, but each and every day for the rest of his existence on this wonderful, horrible place called Earth.  

Taking one last look around, and seeing nobody around but a car passing in the distance, he casually strolled up to the water fountain, bent down, and took a sip.  The refreshing, hydrating taste of clean, crisp water shot up and hit him in the face like a shot, one he desperately needed on a day like today, and one that was a far cry from the lukewarm drink that dribbled from the fountain beside it, the one marked "colored."

The sound of ever-quickening steps shattered the placid calm of the morning, and of his thoughts.  Shawn's heart began to beat faster and faster, almost in time with the clicking of the approaching shoes on the pavement.  He forced himself to keep drinking, dreading yet anticipating the confrontation to come.

The sound of hurried footsteps abruptly came to a stop directly beside him.  Shawn lifted his head from the cascading jet of water, and turned his focus towards the source of the sound.  His gaze took in a pair of red high heel shoes, slowly rising to bring into view shapely legs the colour of mahogany, and a navy blue skirt held up by a red belt.  

A sharp, painful sensation in his earlobe distracted him, interrupting his visual intake, and in no time at all, he was being cussed out by the beautiful woman in high heels.

"SHAWN!!!" his mother whispered loudly.  "Are you in your right mind?  Do you want to be killed?  That's one sure way to go about it.  You get home right this instant, son, and don't you ever let me catch you doing something like this ever again."

Feeling he was being overly chastised, Shawn belligerently replied, "I just wanted someone, anyone, to see this.  To bring it to Dr. King's attention.  I don't care who sees me.  I'm sick and tired of being treated like I'm nobody."

"Well, you'll be no use to anybody dead, so pack yourself up as quick as you can.  I will write to your uncle Martin.  He can see you when he gets back from Birmingham, and we can discuss this then."

Postscript:  In his "Letter From Birmingham Jail," Shawn's uncle Martin espoused in no uncertain terms his philosophy of direct action.  Shawn was bolstered in his sense of righteousness, and continued to protest the injustices of the world long after President Johnson passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, up until he was killed by bombs dropped by his own country in Haiphong in 1972.

This story was created using three keywords given to me by my best friend Keith:  beautiful woman in high heels, water fountain, and receipt.

Of cats and Caesars

Sitting amongst the ruins of the former Curia Pompeia in the middle of historic Rome, just a five minute walk from the Pantheon, is a cat sanctuary.  Named Largo di Torre Argentina, it is the spot where, over two thousand years ago, Julius Caesar was assassinated.  

Cat lovers from all over the world who travel to Rome ensure they make time in their schedules to visit the sanctuary.  

Though they are surrounded by history in the form of the fallen architecture scattered throughout the ruins, few vistors to the site are aware that, in Largo di Torre Argentina, the past is very much alive.

When Julius Caesar was killed by over five dozen senators and their co-conspirators in 44 B.C., the blood of the Roman leader flowed down the steps of the Senate onto the cobblestones of the Curia Pompeia.  The goddess Venus, from whom Caesar had claimed a direct divine descendancy through her son Aeneas (who had survived the fall of Troy and escaped to Italy in the aftermath), was so shocked and furious at her representative on Earth being felled in his prime that she decreed tearfully he would live forevermore. 

Immediately appearing in the middle of the mob and presenting herself on Earth as a grizzled, blind soothsayer, she proclaimed that the first person (assassins not included) to get her descendant's blood on their hands would be granted eternal life.  With that, a melee ensued amongst the populace in a rush to get up the steps of the senate, which had been cordoned off almost immediately by the legionnaires as Marcus Antonius seized control of the sudden vacuum of power.

Unseen in all the commotion, a stray kitten (one of many running loose in the city at the time) happened upon the scene.  Being thirsty as well as hungry, he began lapping up the blood of the recently deceased dictator, which had pooled into a puddle adjacent to a drainage trough.  In that instant, the soul of Julius Caesar, his eternal spirit, passed into the body of the tiny cat.

From that day forward, Rome has been watched over by the former ruler of the Empire.  From Caesar to cat, from fascist to feline, and from autocrat to animal.  When it is time for the tiny four-legged frame he inhabits to shuffle off its mortal coil and cross that rainbow bridge over the Rubicon, he finds himself waking up in the body of the youngest feline on the premises.  He travels all throughout town, keeping a watchful eye on the citizens of his city, but always returns to the place of his demise and rebirth.

So, fellow travellers, the next time you're in Rome, look past the models in their fancy clothes, the priests and their religious icons, and the children and their colourful balloons.  Look close, and you may even see a former Roman emperor grooming himself in the shade, intermittently plunging his face into a bowl of freshly opened canned tuna!

Et tu Brute?:  Could this little guy be Julius Caesar?

Note:  I wanted to do a work of fiction today, using three keywords given to me by my wife:  kitten, balloons, and rainbow bridge.  This is what I came up with, in roughly an hour and a half.  It's rough, but it's writing, and right now for me, that's what counts.  Quality can come later.

Cover songs

 Can't really bring myself to write much of anything today.  It's Wednesday, and I've got the midweek blues.  Still, I know I won't be able to write anything tomorrow, as my day is pretty jam packed, and it would kind of defeat the purpose of this whole exercise if I let four days go by between posts.  It's supposed to be a daily thing, or as close to it as I can manage, and I do have a little bit of time, just not a whole lot of get up and go!

So, what to talk about?  

As I'm writing this, I'm listening to an Eric Clapton album called Behind The Sun.  Literally just finished a song called "Knock On Wood."  Not the Dooley Wilson version from the movie Casablanca, but the version that became a disco hit in the 1970s.  

I've always found it interesting to listen to different artists' interpretations of songs.  They can often be quite disparate, sometimes stretching and twisting songs until they're almost unrecognizable, other times just adapting the song to their respective genres.

For instance, here's Led Zeppelin's original 1971 version of "Stairway To Heaven":

And here's one of my guilty pleasures, a bluegrass version done by Dolly Parton in 2002:

There are also ironic takes on songs.  For instance, here's the famous 1798 version of "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor ... :

... followed by a slowed-down, laid-back version by Cake, from 1996:

Then there are artists who transcend songs and make them their own.  Johnny Cash spent the majority of his final decade making cover songs (in collaboration with Rick Rubin) that put his own distinctive spin on them.  All of them are worth listening, but one of the most moving is his version of "Hurt".  

Originally recorded by Nine Inch Nails in 1994, it's an industrial rock song about being depressed and into self-harm and addiction:

Cash took that song in 2002, at the age of 70, and turned it into a lament from a dying man, filled with pain, suffering and regret, yet totally different from the original:

There are so many more different cover songs done by different artists, and they're all fascinating to listen to.  I'm done for today, though.  This "article" was just to pass the time, try to write something (if anything), perhaps share some good music, and also to play around with the settings for this blog (I've been exploring how to link things, hopefully it all turns out well).

I'll be back again on Friday with another blog.  Hopefully I'll have more energy to devote to actually writing something useful next time!  I'm thinking of trying my hand at automatic fiction, so if anybody reading this wants to suggest anything (subject, word to use, genre, etc), please let me know, and I will take that hour (or more) to crank something out, just for you!

Bye for now!

In Praise of Cris & Al

 Sportscasters are a dime a dozen.  Don't get me wrong, the professionals are always good at their job, but for the most part they blend into one another, and only a certain few are able to transcend their sport.  For me, these are usually the ones who bring you into the game; rather than just describe what's currently happening or (as happens more and more often, especially in baseball) subjecting us to their inane ramblings.

In football, there are none better than Al Michaels & Cris Collinsworth, NBC's announcing duo (along with sideline reporter Michele Tafoya) on Sunday Night Football.  They are far and away at the top of their profession.  There are some who come close; Joe Buck and Troy Aikman have a good connection and work well off each other, but while I've never had a problem with Aikman as an announcer, Buck always projects this vibe that he's above it all.  

Another announcer I appreciate is Tony Romo, who broadcasts on CBS with Jim Nantz as his straightman, so to speak.  Romo is incredibly knowledgeable, and brings his gametime experience to really open the game up to viewers.  His Fozzy Bear rasp is also quite unique.

But for my money, you can't beat Cris & Al.  Speaking on pure football terms, the highlight of my week (notwithstanding watching my Bills play) is watching their broadcasts on Sunday evenings.  Simply put, it's a nice, relaxing way to end a weekend.

Let me first get into the superficial reasons of why I think they're so great.  First of all, they play well off each other.  Al has been a broadcaster for almost 45 years; I remember him being a baseball announcer with ABC, broadcasting World Series games in the 1980s with Tim McCarver (I could also reminisce about NBC's baseball announcing duo of Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola, but that's another story for another day).  He's never completely outgrown his Brooklyn accent, which adds a sort of a common-man touch to his delivery.  He may, like Joe Buck, know everything there is to know about sports, but unlike Fox's star announcer, he doesn't broadcast it to everyone.  Cris was a wide receiver for the Cincinnati Bengals from 1981-88, and of course is also extremely knowledgeable.

The main selling point, at least for me, is Collinsworth's folksy style.  While Cincinnati (where he still lives) is just on the Eastern edge of the American Midwest, his style is quintessentially such, laid back yet garrulous.  He gets excited about many things, but not overly so, and he's always willing to chip in with a comment.  I've said this to a few people over the years, but for me, it's like sitting down and listening to one of your uncles (one who has extraordinary, insider knowledge of the game and the players and teams) just riff on what's going on.  Although I'm sure he does a ton of research, none of it seems rehearsed or practiced; it all seems natural and off the cuff.  

There are other variables that play into it.  Sunday Night Football often has divisional rivalries for its games; think Eagles-Giants, Steelers-Ravens, Packers-Bears, or 49ers-Seahawks.  Those that aren't divisional rivalries tend to be matchups of higher caliber anyways.  And while Thursday Night Football and Monday Night Football have their fair share of decent matchups, they just don't measure up.  Part of that could be due to the fact that they are both in the middle of the workweek so my focus can sometimes be distracted, while SNF is one last deep breath of relaxation before the workweek begins in earnest.  Either way, it's just not the same.

I've always been a bit of a romantic, and for me, when I think of autumn, not only do I think of the falling of the leaves and the chilly air, I think of -- no, I absolutely look forward to -- sitting down on Sunday evenings after a long week, pouring myself a cup of cocoa, and letting Cris Collinsworth and Al Michaels into my home for three hours as they talk about the game on hand.  It's in those moments that I truly feel a sense of calm drift over me.  Burly men may be aggressively beating the shit out of each other onscreen, but thanks in good part to the dulcet discourse of Cris and Al, I am at peace.

The Quandaries of choice

 Choice.  Is it possible to have too much of it?  I believe there is.

I'm the type of person who likes to go at my own pace.  I know what I want, and I am confident and comfortable enough to go out and get it.  But sometimes the sheer amount of choice can be overwhelming.

Take, for example, entertainment.  When I was growing up, I watched whatever was available on TV.  We didn't have cable, so we were stuck with three local channels of varying quality, depending on how well the rabbit ears were catching signals at the time.  For music, there were a few radio stations, but each station had its own genre, and while you could switch back and forth between stations depending on what you felt in the mood for, you were pretty much at the beck and call of whatever the DJ chose to play.  If you really liked something, you could buy the album in a real brick and mortar store.  And for movies, we had plenty of choice at the local cinemas, both independent and multiplex, but at any given time there were probably no more than 25 or 30 movies playing in town.

Compare that to now.  Radio still exists, but it has spread to the internet, so you can listen to anything and everything you choose, be it a Hungarian station focusing on Magyar folk music, a station emanating from a college in Abilene Texas which broadcasts poetry readings 24/7, or you could listen to current pop hits coming out of Singapore.  For the most part, physical media (both audio and video) caters to increasingly niche audiences, as the majority of the populace chooses to either stream or download songs onto their devices or the Cloud.  Television and film is quite mixed together, with so many streaming services nowadays that it's hard to keep up!

If you had told me twenty years ago that I could have all the entertainment I wanted, at the click of a button, firstly I would have asked to check your temperature, and then I would have said "sign me up!"  Upon first musings, it seems to be an ideal situation.  And if you know what you want, then it absolutely can be.  But I will be the first to admit that there are times, especially when I'm finished bingeing a show and wondering what to queue up next, that I start getting a little anxious.  Do I go with Ozark?  Narcos?  Maybe I'll finally start watching Breaking Bad.  Or perhaps take the plunge and do the deep dive into The Walking Dead.  But everybody's talking about Squid Game, so maybe I should see what that's all about.  

If you're following along, those are choices that can be found on Netflix.  And those are just the TV series.  What about all the newly released feature-length films created especially for the content provider in question, in addition to the ever-rotating backlog of archived films?  For myself, I choose to limit myself to the one streaming service I just mentioned.  God knows what I'd do if I had to choose between Netflix, Amazon Prime, Disney+, Apple TV, Crave, HBO Max, Curiosity Stream, MUBI, the Criterion Channel, and God knows how many other services there are out there!  

This is, of course, in addition to the sports streaming services I watch, and the Youtube channels that I follow, and the video games that I play.  And of course I'm a voracious reader so I try to get at least an hour of reading in a day, as well as trying to engage my skills on the other side of the page.

That doesn't even take into account spending time with my wife, my family, and my friends.  Oh, and I have to work a full time job on top of that!

Sigh.  I think I'm breaking out in hives ...

I find myself thinking back nostalgically to the days when we had a lot less choice.  If I wanted to see a movie, I had three or four weeks before it left theatres, disappearing for 6-12 months before resurfacing at the local video store.  Nowadays, I find myself putting off watching something because I know it will always be there ... along with everything else that keeps getting added to it.  I think my Netflix queue encompasses about 75 different TV series and movies, from Swedish crime dramas to French spy comedies.  And more keeps getting added to the list. 

It makes me wonder:  was it really so simple back in the day, or am I looking back with rose-coloured glasses?  I guess to a certain extent things were curated; only so much content can be put on three channels, or circulate through 16 movie theatres, or two dozen radio stations.  Nowadays we are free to choose what we want to entertain ourselves with, and how, and when.  Nobody tells us what to do!

And yet ... and yet ...

I do enjoy picking and choosing my entertainment, either by preplanning or on the spur of the moment.  I am not wholly against it by any stretch of the imagination.  There is so much wonderful content being created nowadays that a) might never have seen the light of day were it not for all the product needed to draw viewers in to subscribe to different streaming services, or b) I would never have had the opportunity of viewing (Babylon Berlin, I'm looking at you!).  

That being said, I recall with a certain wistfulness the days in which there were only 57 channels and nothing on ...

The Zen of Archery

Robin Hood.  Legolas.  Katniss Everdeen.  Powell & Pressburger.  

What do they have in common?  They're all archers!

There have always been certain things that I've always wanted to do but either never found time, or didn't push myself, to do.  Archery has always been one of them.  Over the past month I've taken it up, and I have to admit, it fits like a glove -- or better yet, fits like a nocked arrow!

I'm still very new to the art, but I think what I appreciate about it is that it's based in routine and precision, but is also incredibly meditative.  I've always been a creature of routine and habit -- sometimes to my detriment, as it has led to complacency and stagnation in the past -- but archery is a sport that channels those qualities in a good way.  

Judging by what one might see on a surface level, either from watching the Olympics or on movies or TV, it would be a piece of cake.  This is far from the case, however.  There's much more that goes into the art form than just point and shoot.  There's a complete mental and physical checklist one has to go through before even releasing the first arrow.

That's where the meditation comes in.  One must be aware of what one is doing at all times.  It takes skill and lots of practice to not just draw back and let it fly.  Each step needs to be carefully considered, thought out and put in motion.  In this way, one is engaging both their mental faculties (remembering all the steps, focusing on the destination), their physical bodies (muscle memory and repetition play into this), and also their spiritual selves.

What do I mean by this?  Well, it's hard to put into words.  Suffice it to say, this was the one thing I wasn't expecting when I signed up for the course.  There's just something that feels so natural when you're engaging all your faculties in this way.  It demands absolute focus.  You can't be distracted, or half-ass it.  And while hitting your target is a wonderful feeling, that is not the point of the exercise (at least in a non-competitve view); you have to be prepared for failure, and be willing to accept that.  You can hit the target and still fail in your routine, or you could be a bit off and have the perfect technique.  It's really a metaphor for life.

So how does it make me feel, as I take my turn in line?  The first few times, there was nervousness.  How would I compare to my fellow students?  After the first couple of attempts, however, that all fell away.  My mind, my body, and my bow and arrow are the only things on my mind.  The rest is silence.  

There's a real peaceful feeling, a certain calmness, that descends on me, when I direct my focus inwards and silently proceed through the my own personal rosary of archery.  Breathing and posture are key, and focus is always topmost.  The drawing back of the arrow is when the mental switches -- nay, not switches, perhaps flows, as the mental is always engaged -- into the physical.  I find it to be a sharpening of focus, as it's from that time forward that there's no going back.  In a sort of way, I am in control of my destiny from thereon in, and there's a freedom and satisfaction to it that knows no bounds.  Once the arrow is released, everything needs to be retained yet forgotten at the same time, and proceed on to the next one.  The shot has been completed, there is nothing more to do about it, move on.  

A great metaphor for life.

When I'm Sixty-Four ... and then some!

Long day today, and I don't quite feel like writing much of anything. Still and all, here goes!

I find myself these days thinking quite often of time, and how transitory it is.  Perhaps that is because I am becoming more aware and engaged with the world around me; it could also be due to the fact that age seems to be creeping up on me with each turn of the calendar year.  

I was thinking about one of my longtime favourite bands earlier today, The Beatles.  I remember when I was a pre-teen, I had a cassette tape (remember those?) of the Beatles' compilation album "20 Greatest Hits".  Got that one at a garage sale, along with "Wings Greatest" by Paul McCartney.  Anyways, I played that album so often on my Walkman (remember those?) that the tape was literally so worn you could faintly hear the other side of the cassette coming through backwards during the pauses between songs.

All this is to say that come 1995 when The Beatles Anthology and its "new" songs "Free As A Bird" and "Real Love" came out, I was beyond ecstatic.  I was by then a HUGE Beatles junkie, having attended conventions and had acquired, as I went through my teenage years, CD versions of all their albums.  There may have been a few bootlegs in amongst them too, just saying!

Anyways, I was thinking about Paul and Ringo (ages 79 and 81 at the time of writing) and thinking, wow ... they can't be that old, can they?  Then thinking that it's been 41 years -- damn near half a century -- since John was assassinated.  And that it's 20 years this month since George's passing.  And I though, well, after all my parents and their generation grew up with them so yeah, it kind of makes sense I guess ...

And then I foolishly brought math into the equation.  "Free As A Bird" was released in 1995, 25 years after the Beatles broke up.  We are now living in the year 2021, twenty-six years after Anthology came out.  That tells me that the Fab Four's mid-1990s audio collage reunion is now, and will forever be, closer to their existence as a working band than today.

The depressing mathematics work in other areas, too.  1995's Apollo 13 is nearer the time it portrays than the current year.  1991's JFK is closer by two years to the actual Kennedy assassination -- let alone the trial it spends a good majority of its time covering -- than it is to our time.  Heck, think of other forms of music.  The Spice Girls, whose first hit "Wannabe" was in 1996, are chronologically more proximal to ABBA at the beginning of their career in 1996 than they are to today, and to the ABBAtars that will soon be touring stadiums around the world.

All this is to say that, man ... I feel OLD!!!

He's baaaaaack!!!

 Hello, everyone!

Wow, has it really been six and a half years since I last posted?  Time flies when you're ... well, not doing too much of anything at all.  I wish I could say that the giant gap in the timeline of this blog is due to huge life changes.  I have to admit, however, that I just kind of lost interest for a little while, and that little while turned into over a half decade.  

That's not to say that I haven't been writing at all.  I have entered a few short story contests to prevent my skills from sinking into the artistic abyss; I may post them here, I may not.  That's neither here nor there.  I'm here, and I hope to post a little bit more consistently!

I read a book recently called "Dead By Tomorrow" by Daniel Winter and Andrew Monroe.  It's basically a self-help book but something they wrote really struck a chord with me.  Too many people, they said, don't stretch themselves.  They wake up, go to work, come home, eat, watch television, and go to sleep.  That was me.  For a looooooooong time.  They also mentioned that setting aside some time to do something you love gets you into a new routine.  

So that's what I'm trying to do.

I've had some ideas for a novel for a while, but because I'm a perfectionist I think I've been psyching myself out trying to write A MASTERPIECE!!! on the first try.  And then getting frustrated and giving up when it didn't come as easily as I thought.  

So, my goal with this "project," if you will, is to set aside one hour each day to write.  Baby steps at first.  I realize some days I just won't have time, but when I do, rather than just plopping myself in front of the boob tube, I intend to plunk myself down at the old compytooter and let the fingers fly.  Eventually I want to start putting the wheels in motion for what's in my head, but I need to get comfortable just writing something -- anything.  Some of these posts will probably be just random babbling.  I may have a point I want to get across, or I could just freestyle whatever comes into my mind.  But I need to reforge my neural pathways.  And I'm posting this, not necessarily for other people to see, but to keep track of my own progress, rather than (as I have done in the past) fiddling around in Microsoft Word for a couple of weeks and deleting it all in frustration.  I am to hold myself accountable through this blog.

Okay, half an hour gone!  What do I want to talk about next?

How about Bond, James Bond?  I saw No Time To Die last week, and I appear to be in the minority, but I really enjoyed it.  Was it long?  Yes.  Could it have done with a bit of judicial trimming?  Absolutely.  But I loved how it closed out Daniel Craig's story arc as Bond.  Let me explain.

Firstly, I will say that I'm a huge, HUGE James Bond fan.  Why is that?  Well, I came of age (cinema-wise) in the early to mid 1990s.  The bug hit me in grade 11 and I've been a huge movie fan ever since.  In 1995, Eon Productions released GoldenEye, the first Bond film in six years.  I had never seen a Bond film, but my local TV channel, CJOH, showed all the Bond films (I want to say they were in order, but it was so long ago I don't remember) at one o'clock in the morning for a month, in a lead-up to GoldenEye's theatrical release.  Naturally I didn't watch them live, as I was in high school at the time and in the midst of exams, but I taped them all on VHS (remember those?) and watched them religiously.  I was hooked.  The exotic places, the crazy gadgets, the breathtaking action scenes, the quippy one-liners, the fantastic musical scores (and theme songs) and, last but not least for a teenage boy with raging hormones, the beautiful women.  My tastes usually run to the highbrow, but I couldn't get enough of Bond.

The one thing that always niggled at me was the fact that Bond went from being played by Sean Connery, to George Lazenby, to Connery again, to Roger Moore, to Timothy Dalton, and thence Pierce Brosnan.  This in and of itself wasn't a bad thing, as they each brought something different to the role, but every few years Bond changed looks and personality, and nobody onscreen ever commented on it.  It's like his adventures took place within a space-time continuum in which the world changed but Bond remained the same.

And then 2006 came along, and Daniel Craig took the role.  His first film as Bond, Casino Royale, functioned almost as a reboot, introducing Bond before he became 007 as we all know him.  Quantam of Solace followed two years later, and while not one of my favourites, it begins where its predecessor left off; they could easily be two parts of the same movie if one chooses to look at it that way.

Skyfall is where my jaw really hit the floor.  The death of M (who had been played by Judi Dench for the previous two decades) brought some real stakes to a franchise in which nothing, really, was every taken too seriously.  Her replacement by Ralph Fiennes in the middle of Craig's tenure as Bond created a precedent for an actor to change but the character name stayed the same.  I think this was the first time that it popped into my head that perhaps 007 -- and the name "James Bond" -- were, like "M", generic names and titles given to anybody who filled the title.  It was also the second time that I cried during a Bond movie -- and it wouldn't be the last.

Skyfall was followed three years later by Spectre, which again led into this year's much-delayed No Time To Die.  Bond is retired, but pulled back into service when one of his closest acquaintances (does Bond really have friends?  I think not) is killed.  His title, 007, has been taken up by Nomi, played by Lashana Lynch.  Because it's recent, I won't go into too much detail, but lots of action and emotion is played out, and I started bawling like a little baby when a certain line references a song from On Her Majesty's Secret Service -- it was then that I realized with a shock what was going to occur.

An hour is almost up, so for the rest, let me be brief.  The reason I thought it was a wonderful way to end Bond's story arc as portrayed by Daniel Craig is thus.  We meet him as a rough, unforged piece of work who is clearly emotionally repressed, and soothes himself through chronic alcoholism (one thing that I absolutely LOVE about Craig's Bond is that he gets into the psychology of the character; 007 is no longer a superficial wisecracker but a real human with real problems).  He falls in love with Vesper, opens himself up, is betrayed by her and is then forced to watch her die.  He goes through the next two films fired up by fury and anger; vengeance, thy name is Bond.  M, played by Dench, helps him get back to his roots, and is then tragically mowed down by Silva, replaced by Gareth Mallory (Fiennes), with whom Bond has a bit of a touchy relationship.  Mallory becomes the new M, and is simultaneously a protagonist and antagonist through the rest of the series.  Bond then finds out that Ernst Stavro Blofeld, his dread enemy, is his half-brother, but eventually ends up defeating him and seeing him incarcerated.  With that done, and with psychiatrist Madeleine Swann at his side, he retires, only to find himself seemingly betrayed by her.  The final film focuses on Bond's relationship with Swann, and his growth as a human being and a man, and ends on a satisfying, if tragic note.

That's all I have time for today.  Bloggy, I shall see you tomorrow!