Tagged: creative writing
Just Have To Smile
When you work at an airport and shortly after arriving see and hear a brightly colored colored biplane suddenly appear from behind your hangar on what, by altitude and position, must be its base turn, looking like it is the one that needs saving from the opening scene of Disney’s The Rocketeer, you just have to smile.
One Thought While At The Greatest Book Store In America
The checkout clerk soiled the entire experience when he directed me and a pair of crackheads to line up behind the “line starts here” sign that was to my left.
What I thought, but did not say, was, “If you, sir, can paint your fingernails black, then I don’t have to follow any rules, thank you very much.”
The crackheads were more prompt in their obeisance, and also dirty, so I spaced myself appropriately, which landed me in the right direction, but in front of the aforementioned sign.
I told them, “I’ll stand in front of the sign.”
They didn’t seem to appreciate my defiance.
I Have A BIPOC Teenage Step-Son, Therefore You Should Listen To MY Take
For starters, “The Captain had turned on the Fasten Your Seatbelt Sign.” So buckle up.
I need to draw your attention right away to certain facts that I believe should be obvious, but due to everyone’s performative heightened sensitivities these days, aren’t.
1. This is a WordPress blog called Captain’s Log. I am a pilot. I was a pilot in the Air Force. You don’t need to know anything beyond this combination of demographics (male, writes blogs, flys aircraft professionally, did so in the USAF) to be certain that I am white.
2. This teenage step-son I have referred to is a step-son. Step. That means I am not some happy-go-lucky Academy Grad who adopts African orphans to keep up with the Joneses. In order to have a BIPOC (African—not African-American/Black) step-son, I must be married to a BIPOC wife.
3. This is one level deeper, but given that he is my step-son, I think it is fair for anyone to assume that in his mom’s eyes, he is an angel and can do no wrong. In other words, there is absolute and comprehensive discord when it comes to raising him.
Let’s move on to certain facts that are not available to even faithful followers.
A. He currently is testing the waters of HS Track and Field.
B. His haircut is near identical to the alleged murderer’s.
C. I have seen him taunt his opponents (in basketball) in similar language to “Touch me and see what happens.”
D. He and I haven’t spoken many words for over a year now. This silence went into effect basically since a time when circumstances led to me checking his phone and finding atrocious garbage, to include a selfie of him flipping off the camera (which also exists for the alleged murderer). In ol’ fashioned American Dad style, I subsequently took a hacksaw to his phone. He hasn’t had one since. And he lies so much that I have decided to back off rather than “fight, fight, fight.” (Which would be with BOTH him and his mom/my wife.) Additionally, I agree with the general philosophy, “There is no point in communication if there is no truth.”
Got the picture?
Backing up, regarding the dead twin, I find great consolation in Mark Twain’s humor. Perhaps you will too. He wrote
In other words, in the fullest sense, between the black kid and the white kid, the black kid got the shaft—what a stupid thing to do.
When I tell whites about the demographic decisions of my life, they reward me with such reactions as, “That is sooooo interesting,” and, “That’s what I love about you, Pete!” It feels good. It feels amazing. They are right. And “interest” is at least half the reason I live how I live. Who wants a boring life?
But the truth is that I also love America and believe in my heart of hearts that I have an excellently formed and accurate appreciation for what exactly America is. And I want America to do what stands before it as possible—even if it still feels unlikely. I mean, I want America to be a post-racial country. Let’s mix it up like no one has and enjoy the unpredictable result. What is the saying? “Variety is the spice of life.”
But no. No one else wants that. Nope. Instead, my dreams have resulted in having a step-son who models himself after thugs and a wife who indulges him at every step.
As I have read the interweb’s reactions and trolls, I have come across this tit-for-tat notion where the Black responds, “Sure, when you first hear there is a murder and one person is White and one Black, you are right to guess that the murderer is Black.” Then they add the kicker, “But when we hear that a school shooting has occurred, everyone knows it is a White kid.”
I also grant this assessment.
The enormous difference, and one which affects me directly, is every White purposely dresses different than school shooters! And in the cases where there is some similarity, it is honest-to-goodness poverty or ignorance that has led to it. No White kids (except the seemingly unending supply of actual copycat killers) are imitating the school shooters’ appearance.
School Shooters are LOSERS! It is why they do it. They are losers with no imagination, no creativity, no hope, and access to guns. Losers. They are people who I purposely avoid and counsel everyone to avoid. They are losers who I want nothing to do with. They are terribly easy to spot. And they are pitiful. Leave them alone and report them anytime they do something that can keep them from shooting up schools!
With this Black kid, the same cannot be said. How he looks and how he acts is exactly the way my immigrant step-son has determined is how “cool” looks and acts. Take any run-of-the-mill Black celebrity-filled room, and this kid would have fit right in—same for my step-son. But the school shooter losers? They got beat up for showing up. That’s why they are convinced they are losers and see no way out but violence.
My first instinct when I saw the Black kid’s picture(s)? I wanted to tell my wife to take my step-son to get a proper haircut. Do I seriously believe that something as seemingly trivial as a hairstyle can change a life? Absolutely. How do I know? Because it ain’t about the hairstyle. It is about the fact that some parenting is happening. Some adjustments. Some common sense. Some reality.
What have I actually done after this tragedy? Nothing. Why not? Let me reference a not-so-famous quote from a beloved crime saga.
Neil McCauley (appearance completely like the cop sitting across from him) says to Vincent Hannah (I have a movie poster over my beloved piano of the very coffee table scene):
“You see me doin’ thrill-seeker liquor store holdups with a ‘Born to Lose’ tattoo on my chest?”
In other words, my time with my wife and my step-son has persuaded me of that which even believably portrayed criminals know to be the truth: Some folks are born to lose.
There are days when I avoid considering how much damage this “interesting” kid can do to my life and family (future legal troubles that my wife insist I pay to help as one example). But they are not the majority.
Two Similar Dreams Last Night
The first dream was solely and plainly focused on mountain lions (and black panthers). In essence, everyone was comfortable with young and old wild mountain lions and black panthers walking around their kids. Everyone, that is, except yours truly. I can’t remember if I successfully killed any or not, but I was in the “they need to be killed” camp for certain.
The second dream was similar, except the animal was snakes. And the setting was work. And this time I did kill two of them. There were four in the dream total, but even in the dream I could not account for where the other two went. And the last one I killed was essentially encased in a pickle jar the size of the large orange puff snack jars. But when I cut through the jar (and also the snake), the pickle juice type liquid got everywhere and this was the sticking point between my co-workers and I. They didn’t want me making such a mess.
As far as the first dream, a couple days ago I had been talking mountain lions and watching videos on them. So that is easy and plain. I also listened to a podcast on prison gangs yesterday. This naturally and necessarily includes the phrase “black panthers”. So their addition to the scene is easy to account for.
The second dream makes sense given I have, also recently, told of my exploit to kill a snake that was on the seminary campus years ago—a snake that no one else thought needed termination. Add the biology room scenes from any of the Alien films or comics that I have been immersed in and you can easily see both the pickle jar/suspension fluid and “missing snakes” aspect.
Whew! Almost done.
The striking thing, however, is not easily addressed. And it is the most interesting part of trying to see if there is any meaning in these dreams. Both dreams, and many, many other dreams of mine, include a threat that only I recognize as such. Also, I usually am not successful at “ending the threat”, to speak generally.
Years ago I assessed this powerlessness as the Biblical God showing me that “it’s not my fight”. Essentially, “Relax!”
Whether or not that is true, this morning it was the “only one who recognizes the threat” part that stands out. This is probably because, firstly, I don’t feel unnecessarily ate up, like I felt when I was in seminary learning how ridiculously lay-Christians interpret the Bible—God bless ‘em. Secondly, I have relaxed since then; in other words, I took the advice and have relaxed. So why have the same message?
No. There’s something else to be learned.
I can’t help but mention that in the movie Heat the thief has a recurring dream. And the meaning. But this recurrence doesn’t stop the dream nor meaningfully take effect.
My 4-Yr Old Recognized Beauty
She FT’d me as they were walking into the garage to leave for mega-church. The door opened, and the way she holds the camera it was difficult to not notice the barely cloud-speckled blue sky. Then I saw she did too. And without prompting she said, “It’s a beautiful day,” and faded almost into a hum, “in the neighborhood,” which is of course from Daniel the Tiger or whatever the name of the Mr. Roger’s-based show is called. (Not that she has seen it in several months since I tossed the TV, but I feel like being clear that she isn’t an abstract idea floating around in the aether, but a little girl.)
Anyhow, it’s true.
And that’s the point I want to make to all you anxiety-driven, suicide-prone, depression-claimants. Take a look at the lilies of the field. If my four year old can see them, then surely they are there.
The Pathetic Way To Go
They were all in his bedroom.
His brother was the family’s steady anchor, permanently tarred to the deep floor of the ocean of unknown outcomes. He had flown in four years ago, without stopping—without even thinking—to even pack a carry-on. He had stayed bedside throughout the recent wars, throughout the fires, throughout the droughts, throughout the pestilence, throughout the famine. Nothing had moved him; nothing could move him. Nothing would move him. In the four years that had passed, he aged ten. He was worn threadbare. He was balding. He was broke. His wife had left him after the first year. His children hardly knew him. But he was there. And there he seemed destined to remain.
But it was his sister, whose lightest smile always seemed to be returned as though seen through the closed eyes, that wove the siblings together. It was his sister who fed both brothers, his sister who changed the sheets, his sister who replenished the water and flowers of well-wishers, his sister who put on a happy face—indeed never once betrayed an awareness that today wasn’t the best day.
And today, this day of days, was about to be the best day.
His mother and father had arrived last night, cutting short their long-delayed vacation to some distant paradise without hesitation. He was their son. They had only ever left his side, for the first time in years, after finding in his Bible a single page of scripture with a note indicating that “their happiness” was his “heaven”.
All his cousins and aunts and uncles had rushed to be there as soon as word had spread. It had not mattered to any how many planes, trains, boats, or cars it took. No matter the skyways and byways, no matter the cost, they were there.
His wife sobbed and sobbed. Her life was miserable before him and had been perfect with him. She did not know, she could not imagine how she would ever carry on after. So she wept, she cried, she sobbed, she cried, and finally she wept some more. Everyone who knew him and knew of him understood her pain.
The room went silent as his eldest daughter appeared in the doorway. No one could remember the last time he had heard, let alone seen, her. But somehow she knew. Somehow she came. The dim, flickering candlelight revealed the jewelry that had first confused her identity. But when she turned and tossed her backpack aside, the sweet jingle of countless keychains she had affixed, along with the rustle of laminated letters that hung from every zipper confirmed what all were hoping—after so many years away, she came.
His other children were still on their way. The current project that engaged the pair, the world’s two greatest, most creative, most motivated, and most delightful members, had necessitated their delay. In fact, it wasn’t until the world heard and fed the wildfire rumor of the gathering in that room—and for whom and wherefore—that the people pleaded, risking their own detriment by forestalling the work, for the siblings to now travel to where all knew their hearts already lay.
“He’s awake.”
The barely audible whisper was first heard by his sister, as she was handing a fresh coffee to its speaker, her weary, ever so weary, brother—one that never did arrive.
The porcelain mug’s landing on the plush carpet pronounced a soft sound at which his wife, the ever inconsolable and fairest of all to assume that noble title watchman, raised her tear-streaked face. When her fingers rose to wipe all evidence of unhappiness away, the visitors communicated the only news that such action could betray throughout the room as quick as light, yet as soft as feathers.
Right when his brother turned to repeat the announcement, his eyes landed on them. They had just arrived.
“Come! He’s awake!” He repeated as he motioned the children to come and directed the crowd to open a path.
“My dad!” his daughter said, her cheeks uncontrollably wetted with tears of joy.
“Father!” his son declared. Revealing a relationship that transcended time and space—indeed one that could not be rocked by consciousness itself—he added, “We did it! The world is saved.”
Seeing him seeming to make an attempt to raise his head, his brother said, “Rest. It’s no time to exert yourself, good brother.”
“As always, good brother,” our hero began, acknowledging their secret greeting, courageously and with a knowing smirk, one long-since absent and missed, “You’re wrong. It is time; for time is short.” His breathing was burdened with immeasurable truth.
In the history of time, the tides of all oceans had not swelled so much as to fill what all present saw pour forth from this dearest, this loyalist of companion’s eyes. Turning to the room, he cried with exuberance so far only matched by the warming Sun, “He’s right!” he declared. “He’s always right. It’s why I love him.” The very walls joyfully echoed the contagious rapture spread unto all. And then feeling along the bed until his hand touched the familiar, strong, able, and trustworthy hand of childhood, he squeezed with a tenderness not unnoticed by our hero and turned back and said, “You’re right. What would you have us do?”
“Bring her to me.”
At once his oldest now became the focus of the room.
“Help me up, brother. One final time.”
The room gasped as they watched. His mother fainted.
At last he was sitting at the head of the bed. And she was there.
“Da-”
“Shh—” he interrupted, eyes earnestly declaring the sad truth that all were too kind to admit. “Don’t speak. Know that in all these years, wherever your travels took you, I was there too.”
“Oh, daddy,” she cried. “I knew you never abandoned me. I always knew. I just didn’t know how to come home.”
“There, there, my beautiful girl,” he said, bravely keeping his tears at bay.
“I kept everything,” she added suddenly. “It’s all there. Every gift. Every letter. Every book. All the socks. It’s all in the bag. I wanted you to see it.”
As his eyes followed her gesture to the bag she had worn in, the answer to Earth’s oldest question, “Is there anything this man can’t do?” was finally answered. The levy broke. The man couldn’t hide his joy.
(To be continued…)
Goldilocks and the Three Americans
Once upon a time, there was a family of the smallest of sizes, but perfectly intentioned, who lived in a neighborhood-
“That’s not how it goes, Dad!”
“I’m not telling the story we read, A-; I am answering your question about the noises the cameras make.”
“Oh.”
-Whenever these smallest of sizes, but perfectly intentioned, families went out from their house—whether to school or stores or restaurants—they worried about yellow-haired girls who they had heard about when they were children-
“Goldilocks has yellow hair!”
“That’s right, A-. That’s who the noises are supposed to scare aware. You see, Goldilocks is supposed to think, ‘I don’t want to deal with whatever those bears are up to. So I’ll find a house without cameras.’”
“This house doesn’t have cameras!”
“Good eyes, A-. That’s right. If I were Goldilocks, I’d try that house first.”
“You’re not Goldilocks!”
“I know. I’m just answering your question.”
“Oh.”
“You know, A-. I don’t mind sharing with you that besides adding talking cameras to the cornucopian display of my opulent wealth, that story is why I don’t trust any Yellow-Haired women.”
“Look, Daddy!”
“Okay! What? I see a truck.”
“Goldilocks is in that truck!”
“That’s right. I didn’t finish the story.”
-And no one ever saw Goldilocks ever again. But sometimes, when the light is just right, you can see Yellow-Haired women driving white trucks. So if ever on your camera screen you see a white truck in your driveway…hide your porridge!
The Right Kind of Start to the Day
Santa brought my daughter a prism for Christmas this year. Where’d he get the idea, I wonder?
If you guessed, “Who is Isaac Newton?”, then you guessed right! Of course, it wasn’t the legendary Isaac Newton who noticed apples, but the historical person Isaac Newton who recorded his thoughts and experiments for posterity, who painstakingly measured the wavelengths of colors with a prism and analogized gravity to a slingshot.
This morning my four year old daughter, A-, ran from the sunny window of my bedroom and promptly returned with the prism to try to make rainbows.
Naturally, no one needs to make rainbows with a prism anymore. This is because (despite morons abounding) to all important parties, color measurements—and even light measurements—are as solved as shoe sizes.
But the ability to see? That is truly rare. But my daughter has it. And who gave it to her? That’s right. Her very own Santa Claus, otherwise known as Dad.
It was the right kind of start to the day.
****
Oh, and I finished that other EPIC COLLECTION(!!!) of X-Men I mentioned.
For posterity, one effect that occurred while reading these 450+ pages of comics was the ability to see the rather finite amount of “types” these stories can have. IE, after you exhaust good vs evil in the plain sense, you have to move on to plot devices like making a good guy character seem evil, but lo and behold it wasn’t really the good guy, but the bad guy all along through some obvious and ingenious use of their powers! And then they also introduced the concept of using an entire comic(!) for a character in the story to tell a (in this case bedtime) tale involving slightly altered characters etc. Is that called meta, but inward; instead of breaking the fourth wall? In any case, time for a break from the Uncanny X-Men! (Don’t worry, Strangest Super Heroes of All, I still love you guys.)
Just Finished a Book By Einstein; Christopher Nolan is Wrong
The title of the book is The Evolution of Physics.
Given there is still plenty of daylight, but my brain could use a break, I decided to revisit Nolan’s Oppenheimer. Why not, right?
In it, the woman asks, “Can you explain quantum mechanics to me? It seems baffling.”
Nolan has Oppie answer, “It is.”
He continues, “This glass— This drink— Our bodies— are mostly empty space, groupings of tiny energy waves bound together-”
She interrupts, attention laser focused, “By what?”
“Forces of attraction strong enough to convince us ‘matter is solid’.”
I do not know where Nolan got his material. I can imagine that he read Oppenheimer’s own writing and deduced this or—cringe—Oppenheimer even said this. I can imagine it, but I don’t believe it.
The problem with that definition is it neglectfully forgets a key point—or two, to be precise.
First, and this is directly from Einstein, it isn’t merely “tiny energy waves” but should say, “empty space, groupings of invisible energy waves.” And second, add “and energy particles”.
In full, and I hope to bring out for us lay folks the full sense of what I read in the clearest possible manner, if defined by Einstein, according the format Nolan introduced, the answer to “What is quantum mechanics?” when asked by a thin woman as a come-on (sapiosexual) at a bar is, “This glass, this drink, our bodies are mostly empty space—groupings of invisible energy waves and energy particles bound together by forces of attraction strong enough to convince us ‘matter is solid’.”
Put shorter—for illustrative purposes because I know this is uncommon—“Our bodies are invisible.”
Paraphrasing Einstein, for this claim to be true and/or accurate (the claim that “‘our bodies are invisible’ is quantum mechanics”) this claim must be tempered with, “when moving near the speed of light and observed indirectly.”
Now. You. Know.
Two Ideas For Books
Whether all experience it, or just certain personalities out of those who get the idea to write, I have learned that in the beginning of the career of unsuccessful writers there is a strong desire to not “let the cat out of the bag” too early. There is a belief that “I have a good idea and it is so good that someone else might profit if I share it before it’s for sale by me.”
But I have been blogging for over a decade now, and helped a few others with their books, and I am convinced that all that is hogwash. Life is just too complicated for a single idea, unaccompanied by the innumerable trappings of fate, to succeed.
To prove this, I share that recently I have had two ideas for books. These are prompted by a desire to somehow manifest that reading the classics has tangible results at a level somewhere below “advance of our civilization”. (Implied- civilization definitionally cannot advance if it is built on lies or ignorance of itself—so read the classics! It’s all at stake!)
Firstly, I want to write a book called “Union” that has a chapter for each, of what I have to believe would be at least twenty, type of artificial union between materials that man has developed. Knots, screws, nails, velcro, glue, epoxy etc. When I write it, the descriptions would be quick reads and informative. But the result would be the perfect contemplative admixture of “so what?” with “if we can figure out mating materials, why can’t we figure out relationships?” I have to believe—contrary to all evidence in my life—that we can figure out human relationship/union.
Secondly, I want to write a book—which may be uber short—which highlights a theme which I have seen in the bios of all the authors in my Great Books of the Western World and companion set Gateway to the Great Books. The theme being, the fact that the authors spent the entirety of their lives learning (as opposed to our deeply unreflective “go to college” mindset) coupled with often epic intellectually-based struggles well into old age. Each chapter may just be one page, often only one sentence. IE Hobbes – Forbid from publishing in his mother country from 70 yrs old to 91 yrs old when he died (don’t quote me, this is from memory and may be wrong on all points). The trick to this book is creating knockout punch sentences without getting repetitive.
****
“Go to college.” Ha. What a joke.
If you want to run with this, do it. I dare ya.
Captain’s Log 