Jump to content

CarlHoliday

Classic Author
 View Profile  See their activity

  • Posts

    1,821

  • Joined

  • Last visited

 Content Type 

Blog Entries posted by CarlHoliday

  1. CarlHoliday

    Skin Cancer

    By CarlHoliday,

    This morning I had a squamous cell carcinoma removed from my left ear by Mohs surgery. Since I'm allergic to all analgesics other than aspirin and the clinic I went to didn't prescribe a pain killer, I'm taking my aspirin and living with the pain. But, as the discharge paper said, it will get better day by day.
     
    The next chapter of WWW is progressing. We may actually be coming to a finalization of the story.
     
    319 is approaching an on hold status unless I can figure a way to get chapter 6 to go from 2300 words to something more.
     
    I think I'll go have a lie down and hope tomorrow is a better day.
     
    Oh, if anyone asks, Windows 10 is a piece of shit and Outlook isn't much better. (Is it just me or has anyone else noticed they no longer receive emails from certain contacts, even when those contacts are on your safe list?)
  2. CarlHoliday
    I really don’t know where this is going. I’m out of words to put into my current stories and so I resort to listening to music. My choice tonight is Bob Dylan. I could have chosen The Beatles, Eric Clapton, or The Travelling Wilburys, but I didn’t. I’m not really into modern music because there seems to be no logic to the available choices. Music can go only so far until it starts to repeat itself.
     
    If anything, I’m at a loss to what might happen in the future. My only point of reference at this moment in time is the removal of the bit of cancer on my left ear on January 29 and my next appointment with my psychiatrist on October 4. My legs and feet are swollen so much that I can barely bend my knees to put on my socks. My feet are so swollen that walking is somewhat difficult. Looking on Google, I might be in the early stages of heart failure. My father died of stage 4 prostate cancer compounded by congestive heart failure. He was 52 when he died, I’m 67. That he was an alcoholic probably went a long way to contributing to his death. Technically, I’m still an alcoholic.
     
    At this point in time I am suffering from a significant level of depression. I’ve been here before and know what it feels like. It’s debilitating in its overall effect upon my psyche and day to day life. There are many things I’d like to do, but I can’t. The only positive thing in my life at this moment in time is my first Social Security check being deposited in my bank account in December. With any luck, I’ll be able to begin traveling in 2018 or 2019. I look forward to taking a train trip, even if it is only as far as Chicago.
     
    I will continue to attempt to keep adding to the stories that I am posting to GA, but for all intents and purposes I cannot promise future if additions will be posted in any convenient timeframe. That is as much as I can promise at this time.
  3. CarlHoliday

    On Being 67

    By CarlHoliday,

    Yesterday was my sixty-seventh birthday. I got a free B-52 at the Ixtapa in Sultan; plus, I had two shots of Oban single malt Scotch. As birthdays go, it was tolerable.
     
    For all that happened yesterday, I’m bored with life; due to changes in my meds I’ve gained over 30 lbs. in the past year; my cataracts are worsening to the point where I get a new prescription every six months; I've got skin cancer on my ear; I can’t drive more than a couple miles to the grocery store and definitely not out on the highway at highway speeds because being bipolar makes me too inattentive to keep track of what I’m doing; and, more importantly, it’s harder to write.
     
    I think I just don’t give a shit anymore. Somethings just aren't all that important.
  4. CarlHoliday

    Use Sunscreen!

    By CarlHoliday,

    Just got a call from the dermatology clinic where I had the latest biopsy on my left ear. The pathology report came back today and it's a squamous cell carcinoma. They'll be scheduling with the VA as to whether they or the VA will do the surgery. They will be recommending one of their Mohs qualified surgeons handle the procedure. They VA will probably say that I should have my ear whacked off just to save a few bucks.
     
    Life moves on, as I've got a lot of writing to do, a dog to house train, and a hot summer coming on.
  5. CarlHoliday
    For the past week I’ve been wavering over putting GA on the backburner for the foreseeable future. My mental state is in a total disarray since Rambo bit me and my son had to put him down. Plus, my son has his own mental issues to consider. In effect, we’re both a couple of crazies trying to make do with life.
     
    But, I have a series of stories that may save me. One deals with a boy who was sold by his parents into sexual slavery when he was six. Dabeagle helped me a lot with New York State’s policies and procedures on foster care, but I don’t know if I want to publish due to its sensitive subject matter. That story has two subsequent stories, but neither of them have been written further than generalized plotting. Of course, there is 319 to work on. I have five and a half chapters, but they are not in any condition close to publishing mostly due to formatting issues.
     
    We took Nana in for her 3 month checkup and she’s now 25 lbs. of bouncing German Shepherd puppy. What’s nice is that she likes to snuggle. The other night she actually climbed up and lay in my lap for about 10 minutes. Very calming for a troubled mind.
  6. CarlHoliday

    Goodbye Rambo

    By CarlHoliday,

    Was it inevitable? We’ll never know.
     
    What is known is that my son’s 90 lb. German Shepherd bit me yesterday morning with no provocation. I was sitting at the desk working on the laptop and Nana was rummaging around my chair. I reached down to pet her and Rambo chomped down onto my forearm and wrist with enough force to draw blood. Luckily for me, this time the entire episode was viewed by my son who has been of the opinion that every time Rambo has attacked me in the past has, somehow, been my fault. In all previous attacks I was wearing my blue flannel house jacket, but this time it was a bare arm bite. I’ve had inflicted pain before, but this is my first animal bite and I do not wish to have another.
     
    When I finally regained some sense of composure I told my son Rambo was a vicious dog and either he had to go or I was moving out. My son finally admitted Rambo needed to go. This morning he went down to city hall and arranged to relinquish ownership of Rambo and have him euthanized. When he got back he put the muzzle on Rambo and left in the car. I know this was very difficult for my son and told him I was sorry it had to come to this, but I couldn't live with Rambo knowing he could attack me again.
     
    Now, I have some fairly serious puncture wounds that I will have to watch for infection and wait for the pain to go away. I’d like to take something for it, but I’m allergic to all the over-the-counter analgesics except aspirin, which I can’t take because it messes with the blood levels of my mood stabilizer. So I suffer, know that in time the pain will go away. It’s good that I can still write even though I haven’t written anything for over a week. I’m still getting use to my new anti-psychotic and hope, in time, I will be able to get back to working on the stories I have in production.
  7. CarlHoliday
    Half my ancestry comes from Sweden and the other half is split between Wales (one-quarter) and Native American (only by conjecture because no one in the family claims to know what happened to the picture of the woman who is my great-great-grandmother; I saw it once and if she wasn’t Native American, then she was certainly doing everything she could to look like one), England, and Germany; in other words, a lot of Northern European fair skinned immigrants and that other person no one is willing to claim.
     
    My mother, from the non-Swedish side, was raised in north-central Washington where there is lots of sun most of the year due to the rain shadow effect of the Cascade Mountains. She was a sun worshipper and I, by default, was, too. Every year, as soon as it stopped raining in Seattle, I would be out in a t-shirt and shorts turning my lily-white skin to the obligatory tan favored by Hollywood stars of old. Unfortunately, being fair skinned meant that I always had to endure the mandatory blistering sunburn to get the skin ready to turn brown.
     
    Today, I went to a dermatologist to get a full body scan. I had one some twenty-odd years ago and they found a precancerous growth that had to be excised. So I thought it was time for another one. The result of today’s scan was the freezing of a precancerous growth on my forehead and the biopsy of a black mole on my arm.
     
    So, if you’re thinking of getting a bit of sun this coming summer, please use some sunscreen. That stuff wasn’t available back when I was getting burnt to a burnished red and now I have another thing to worry about. Is that just a mole or should I have it checked? Is that flaky thing on my ear the same as the flaky thing on my forehead? In that case, the one on my ear is just a by-product of aging, but the one on my forehead could’ve turned into something deadly.
     
    Nana is doing great. Took her into the vet on Saturday for her 9-week checkup and vaccine. She now weighs just over 14 pounds. She gained 6 pounds in two weeks! We’ve got to get the potty training in high gear because pretty soon she’s going to be too heavy to carry outside. As it is now, if we try to walk her out, she’ll potty on the floor. Just have to trick her little mind into picking up on the idea that we GO OUTSIDE to potty. After all, German shepherds rank number 3 on the dog intelligence scale. I’ve almost got her to stop biting my ankles when I take her outside, so I have to keep up the positive attitude.
     
    I’m almost weaned off the Risperidone and will start the preliminary dosage course of Quetiapine (Seroquel) tomorrow night. I take 50 mg for 3 nights to start, then 100 mg for 3 nights, then 200 mg for 3 nights, and then go to 300 mg for the remainder of the test period. As with any medication, I’ll be looking for desired benefit vs. undesired side effects. Unfortunately for Quetiapine, death is one of the side effects and since you take it at night, I might not notice I’m having a life threatening stroke or heart attack while asleep. Peachy!
     
    Also, I’ve read Quetiapine can induce something called Zombie-ism, which causes you to function at the mental capability of a piece of soft fruit.
     
    But, it’s all maybe and might. You never know until you try it. You go in with your eyes open and you see how things go. Plus, I have to deal with the VA. Risperidone is the first medication of choice to treat the psychotic side of Type I Bipolar Disorder. If that doesn’t work, then you move to Quetiapine. Each has its own set of pluses and minuses. From what I’ve read, Quetiapine just might be what I’m looking for. All I have to do is hope the side effects don’t affect me too much.
  8. CarlHoliday
    Nana is 8 weeks old today and she’s just the little bitch you would expect from a German Shepherd of direct German heritage (her mother was imported from Germany). We’ve been trying to potty train her and she was doing real good for the first few days until she figured out she could pick up her water bowl and carry it across her enclosure spreading water everywhere. We put down Wee Wee Pads, but she turned those into chew toys and there’s no telling how much she swallowed before we just took them away from her. Finally, we resorted to taking her outside to potty between an hour to three hours, which usually works, unless she potties in her enclosure after only 45 minutes. There is one thing about her though, she is at least a week ahead of Rambo in intelligence and comprehension. She's already learned to run away if does something naughty, to put one or both feet in her water bowl while drinking, and trying to open her enclosure, which was inexpertly installed by the son of someone from Arkansas. Everything would be just a lot better if Nana wasn’t such a little bitch.
     
    The writing is still going. I knew I couldn’t stop, even if I receive discouragement from unexpected sources. But, I have seen some new people reading my work and have received a few reviews. My Reputation has actually moved up a couple notches, too.
     
    I am working on three stories that all relate to one protagonist. The themes are mental illness, friendship, homophobia, hate, love, and death. They cover a boy from the age of twelve to sixteen. The first story covers his memories of his childhood horrors of sexual abuse and drugs leading to residence in a juvenile mental health facility where he learns how to be a normal child. The second story concerns his introduction to normal life in a small town and a high school where he finds friendship with a Goth girl, a best friend who becomes his boyfriend, a vibrant gay culture, homophobia, prejudice and hate, love, learning how to ride a horse, and a little puppy named Alice. In the third story his life at school continues in the gay community, continuing his horsemanship, his training of his loving dog, his growing love for his boyfriend, and the death of the dearest object of his heart. I don’t know if there will be a fourth installment, but I’ll have to see what kind of reception I get. If no one likes it, what’s the point of continuing.
     
    My mental state continues at a diminished level. I’m barely above being suicidal. I have been extremely depressed for three weeks. Tonight I told my son that and he said, “Duh, like I didn’t notice?”
     
    To which I said, “It’s your job to notice; but, I understand why you didn’t. You have your own mental problems.” For the first time, tonight he admitted he was cycling between extreme highs and lows. If that isn’t bipolar, I don’t know what is. He goes to see his shrink Wednesday and I told him to talk to her and get her to help him. I’m beginning to think she’s reluctant to tag him with a bipolar diagnosis. The boy (he’s 40) needs help.
     
    I’m calling my shrink on Monday and see if I can get on an antidepressant.
  9. CarlHoliday
    WARNING: Long entry.
     
    We picked up Nana, our new German Shepherd puppy, on Friday morning and have been enjoying many pleasurable experiences with her. We took her to the vet yesterday and she weighed in at just over 8 pounds. Quite a handful.
     
    A week before last my son sideswiped a Mustang on his way to work and in all likelihood totaled his Expedition, if he had collision insurance on it, which he didn’t. Well, it is a ’99, so there’s not much point in carrying that kind of coverage. That’s the thing about him, he always drives older cars and then bitches to high heaven when they breakdown, which they often do. He has a ’72 Cadillac Coupe de Ville in the carport that came as a piece of shit. It had sat in somebody’s leaky garage for over ten years and suffers from serious, structural body cancer. On the driver’s side the door panel falls off when he shuts the door, the seats for the bolts having rusted away.
     
    He has an ’06 Ford Police Interceptor with over 140,000 miles on it and a clattery engine that needs to be changed out with a new one. In his mind he sees going to a junkyard and picking up some low mileage Ford engine out of a Crown Vic or Grand Marquis that had been involved in a wreck and is just sitting there and waiting for him. The Expedition needed a new engine, too, but for once in his life listened to me and bought a reconditioned one, that now has just over 4,000 miles on it. That’s what he hopes to sell today. A new 5.4L Ford Triton engine for $2,500 and he’ll throw in the bent and scratched body side panels and bent front wheel assembly for free. All the buyer has to do his take the thing away. What a deal.
     
    Of course, there is not much I can say for myself, either. I’m still driving the ’03 Cavalier that got t-boned when I pulled out in front of someone back in 2014. The passenger side doors were both bent in and the joints are now sealed with black Gorilla tape. But, since I don’t drive further than the grocery store, which is not quite a four-mile roundtrip, there’s little need for me to have a more complete vehicle; though I still dream of having such a car, maybe next year.
     
    Since I am Type 1 Bipolar, my son has a 60% chance of inheriting the disorder. He’s been going to a psychiatrist for a number of issues over the past year or so centering around intermittent explosive disorder (road rage) and anxiety. He’s been through three SSRIs and now is on an SSNRI, plus something for the anxiety. Now, after his accident major depressive disorder has been added to his mix and he’s been put on an anti-psychotic (the one I take). When he went in to his psychiatrist I told him to her that I’m Type 1 BPD not Type 2. He said she seemed concerned about that information and maybe she’ll see that his anger is an expression of some form of mania. I hope the anti-psychotic helps him, his anger can be traumatic around the house.
     
    I’ve been sliding into a general funk over the past few weeks. The anticipation of getting the new puppy has passed and now she’s here and my son smothers her with attention. Rambo, our three-year-old German Shepherd, hasn’t quite accepted her and has nipped her twice already. But, none of that is my problem.
     
    I think my creative abilities are waning. I’m struggling while working on writing four new stories, poking at each one as I try to bring out characters into some form of reality. Honestly, I think it might just be time for me to go away (no, not that way). Maybe I’m trying too hard. Maybe it goes back to the way I’ve been my whole life, trying to be someone I’m not. It’s not like I’m a popular writer. My readership at GA is totally pathetic, but I’ve never written for the masses. I’ve never wanted to be a mass market author. Maybe I should’ve worked harder on learning how to write poetry, though that genre has alluded me since high school.
     
    “D___, what is the deeper meaning of this poem?”
     
    “The deeper meaning?”
     
    “Yes, what does it say to you?”
     
    “What do you mean? The guy is walking down a lane on a snowy evening. Is there something more to it?”
     
    “Darleen, what do you see when you read this poem?”
     
    On there it was, the inevitable deeper meaning. The hidden nugget of truth. The rack waiting for the lamb. Could I have changed if I had tried a little harder? I'll never know.
     
    That’s kind of the way it was back when I was in the final years of my experience with music. In elementary school, I learned how to play the alto saxophone, but I hated the instrument. I had wanted to play the baritone horn, but my mother had played that instrument and decided I was to play the saxophone. She was that kind of mother.
     
    But, I was given the opportunity to have a private instructor at a music school in Seattle. I played in the little swing band they had for students. We played at different venues on weekends, learning skills that might have lead some of us to careers in the music field. In junior high, I was selected to play in the all city junior high concert band. My mother had to drive me nearly the length of Seattle to get there and this was in the days before the freeway went that way. She was that kind of mother, too. I was good, very good, but I was a technician. I learned a piece and played it as I learned it. I lacked the ability to improvise, but I also lacked the desire to play the alto saxophone. In junior high, I had the opportunity over one summer to try to learn the bassoon. It was a good instrument, but the deal was I would have to continue playing the alto in band, to get to play the bassoon in orchestra. So, I took up the clarinet. I took to it like a kid takes to a licorice stick. It’s a beautiful instrument and definitely has more opportunities than the alto. I also learned how to play the baritone saxophone.
     
    The clarinet, alto and baritone saxophones lead to a day in swing band practice where the instructors decided we were to learn how to play jazz, genuine improvisational jazz. There is a technique to it, a skill, but there is also an art to playing improvisationally. When Count Basie came to Kansas City his band would play a twelve-bar blue progression all night, improvising on that theme with different instruments taking turns with solos. Unfortunately, I hadn’t learned the twelve-bar blues progression like the other members of the band. My instructor simply assumed I could pick up on what was happening because I was such a good player. I was a dismal failure. Improvisation doesn’t turn on like a light switch, it takes practice. I’ve heard that Charlie Parker practiced 15 hours a day for three years when he was starting out. I was expected to play jazz without a smidgen of practice.
     
    I quit playing music at the end of my sophomore year in high school. Technical expertise only goes so far and I think I took it as far as I was able.
     
    So, where do I go from here? Well, I have two chapters to go on “The G.M.Os.” until it is finished. Well, not finished, but finished in the sense I can’t go any further with it right now. I can’t give up writing, but I’ve run out of steam. I’ve been working with another writer to change my style to make it “more” popular, but so far it’s been like pulling teeth. Back when I took some college-level courses on creative writing, I learned to write without using dialogue tags or at the very least using the word “said”. It took me a number of years to add the words “asked” and “exclaimed”. Now, I have to consider throwing in “cried”, “laughed”, “snickered”, and “sneered”. I don’t know if this will come to pass. Maybe it’s all for naught and I should just accept the wave of modernity as gone past and it’s time for me to put the pen in the drawer and go the way of longhand.
  10. CarlHoliday

    Reminder

    By CarlHoliday,

    I received a letter in the mail today from AARP. On the outside in red, all cap, sans serif, heavy block letters was the word REMINDER. My mind wandered back in its creative nether regions and came up with a scenario where a similar letter could be received by a citizen of some future society. Of course, the return address would not indicate which agency had sent the letter, but inside the letter might read something like this:
     
    REMINDER: Your subscription to citizenship in the Kingdom of Calneva is due to expire in 90 days. You immediate attention to this matter is of utmost importance. Failure on your part to submit the required form and proper remittance as a citizen in good standing will result in a court directed order for apprehension and immediate withdrawal of all rights of subscribed citizenship. Please fill out the enclosed form, attach an government authorized account debit form, insert said documents in the enclosed envelope, and return within 60 days to ensure sufficient time for processing. Thank you for your consideration in this matter.
     
    Dolores Smythe
    Secretary General
    Citizenship Council
    Kingdom of Calneva
     
    Long live His Royal Highness Donald Trump VII
     
    Can you imagine the U.S. being divided up into little countries ruled by the super rich? Can you imagine having to purchase your citizenship on an annual basis? Can you imagine a president and a select group of politicians and military officials doing away with the Constitution and murdering citizens who protest such actions?
     
    It's surprising the number of things you can imagine out of receiving in the mail a little, white envelope, with red letters on it.
     
    Still riding the wave.
  11. CarlHoliday
    'Tis the season, Girl Scout cookies are out and it's time for some serious money exchanging and pigging out on Thin Mints, which have to be the most cost effective cookie in the collection. My son likes Samoas, which are good because chocolate goes well with coconut, but not they're not as good as Thin Mints in my opinion. I'm a chocolate and mint kind of guy. Chocolate mint ice cream, creme de menthe over chocolate ice cream, grasshopper cocktail, grasshopper pie, York Peppermint Patties, Andes chocolates, the list could go on forever.
     
    Tonight for dinner my son barbecued cheap grocery store filet mignons. Ours didn't fit the traditional description in that they were not thick slices of beef tenderloin. We could've had the prime New York strips the store sells and had gotten thicker steaks. But, no, he had to pay big bucks to get something special, which they were, but come on, with a few hickory chips any steak will taste good. Next time we buy steaks, I'm opting for the New York strips or T-bones.
     
    I've started a new story in an attempt to keep the creative juices flowing if that is possible. It's a continuation of Remembering Tim and will take place in the early Eighties after Geoff has inherited a gob of money from his Uncle Walter's estate and bought a large Queen Anne style house in Warnton, NY, small college town in apple country of Upstate New York between Syracuse and Rochester. He's a professor of linguistics and hires a needy freshman as a houseboy. In his mind he's doing the boy a favor by giving him monetary and academic assistance, but the boy is incredibly cute and all the wrong synapses in Geoff's brain are going off every time they get close.
     
    I think it will be a good exercise to see if I can keep my mind going while waiting for the new puppy to arrive in May. And, then? I don't know, maybe I can keep it going until I've written the obligatory 20 chapters, or more if I take it until the boy either dies (Geoff does have a problem with people dying around him), flunks out of school, or graduates, whichever makes the most sense. I can't make any promises on this other than I hopes it helps my now stable though drugged mental state maintain some sense of normalcy.
  12. CarlHoliday

    Is This The End?

    By CarlHoliday,

    I knew I was jeopardizing my creative abilities by increasing the amount of Depakote I take to stabilize my mental state and, happily, I am now stabilized and do not fear having a misstep leading to a fatal plunge into nothingness. Not being suicidal is much more important than writing.
     
    But, that does little to assure me that there will ever be anything more coming out of the creative vault.
     
    Remembering Tim has two final chapters to publish. I wrote an epilogue to finish the work because I knew I could never come up with fiction necessary to do more to the story.
     
    The G.M.Os. has eight chapters to go. Plus, I’ve decided to append the five chapters I planned for the sequel since there definitely isn’t anything going on there either.
     
    Hopefully, I will be able to at least come up with a short story now and then sometime in the future, but right now I don’t think that will happen. Last week I did try to write something new, but after a little over 1,700 words found I wrote myself into in a corner and couldn’t figure out how to get out of it. The words just don’t seem to want to go together in any logical manner.
     
    So, once Remembering Tim and The G.M.Os. are finished I’ll be able to fully concentrate on reading the stories on GA, learning how to play the guitar, listening to music, and looking forward to training our new dog. After going through research on a number of other breeds, including speaking with people who have experience with them, we’ve decided to get another GSD, a female this time. The breeder has a number of litters coming up and my son will be putting down a deposit this week on a litter that will be ready in early May. I haven’t decided what I’m going to name her since, technically, she will be my dog. I'd like to be creative, but that is certainly out the window now.
  13. CarlHoliday
    Finally, I threw caution to the wind and ended up speaking with my psychiatrist this morning about how I'm feeling, which, basically, I'm not, feeling that is. It boils down to my choice. Do I want to wait and see if I get used to the new medication levels and hope for an easing of the mental dullness I'm experiencing? Or, do I want to go back to the way it was and be mentally unstable, but be more creative? The only serious problem with mental instability is the risk of suicide goes up significantly, not that I think I would do that, but having lived with this for as many years as I have, the risk of a spur of the moment action is always there.
     
    Right now one mile from me is a major cross-state highway, a major interstate railway, and a major river, all potential sources of demise. Death by semi, bus, locomotive, or drowning/hypothermia can be assured simply by getting in my car and driving down to the highway. The only risk to semi, bus, or locomotive is not actually doing enough damage to cause death, but doing enough damage to cause irreparable harm and ending up in a nursing home with a tube down my nose providing nourishment and diapers collecting bodily wastes. Drowning/hypothermia is fairly certain, except I have a phobia about water, especially water that is deep and scary.
     
    I've decided to go back and tackle Remembering Tim. I have thirteen chapters of revised material and seven chapters of old material that doesn't meld at the junction so I'll have to figure out a way to splice them together. I know it will be easier to do if I go back on my meds, but do I want to do that? I need to have a resolution on Tim. There are a lot of things that can and should be done to bring this story to fruition. Like Schticky and Pastel Cowboy, Tim is a favorite story and comes from a period when I believe I was a my peak of creative abilities. Of course, if I do finish Tim, then I'll probably have to go and look at Pastel Cowboy. Plus, I have the new book of the Hercules III series to work on and that needs to be done, too.
     
    Or, I can just forget the whole mess and wait for my meds to stabilize. I just don't know anymore. I'm just tired of being bipolar, it's a drag on my life and it can be dangerous to my health.
  14. CarlHoliday

    A Farewell To Arms

    By CarlHoliday,

    WARNING: This article contains crud humor. If you have not read The Atlantic online article, “The Coddling of the American Mind”, or if you do not enjoy crud humor, please leave now. You have been warned!
     
    On Monday afternoon I tripped coming up the stairs to the front deck resulting in a full header onto the deck. I have a hard lump on my left eyebrow, a colorful left eyelid and surrounding tissue, and, to make matters worse, both wrists are seriously sprained.
     
    When my son came home from work early and saw my predicament, he went back out to find two wrist braces and some ACE bandages. At Rite Aid he found a stack of ACE (the best) wrist braces, unfortunately all for right hands, no lefts in the store. I’m sure they were very apologetic, but why all rights? I can’t get it through my mind why they wouldn’t stock a few lefts. It just doesn’t make a bit of sense. He ended up going to Walmart where he found an ambidextrous brace. Its okay but a little too small, okay, a whole lot too small. It claims to be Large/X-Large. It feels more like a Medium. (I think of small handed workers in some foreign factory unable to imagine how Americans can have such large/x-large hands, so they make the braces a scosh too small to fit their hands. Warning: My mind comes up with the damnedest shit.) Yesterday on his way to work he went to Bartells and found a leftie, which does the trick.
     
    I suppose the worst of it is that my typing speed has dropped to at least under 5 wpm; single fingers (mostly the FUs on each hand) though sometimes I catch myself using the others, but I can’t do that consciously, they just have to do it on their own, making a plethora (didn't think I'd use it, did you?) of typos as they go along. Sheesh!
     
    In this/last month’s Smithsonian magazine there is an article by A. E. Hoetchner about his close friend Ernest Hemingway (I recommend it if you’re a fan of Hemingway. Even if you’re not, I recommend it anyway. Well written stuff is good to read, even if you don’t particularly like the subject.)
     
    Anyways, the article eventually gets down to Hemingway’s WW I novel A Farewell to Arms. A dark corner of my mind kicks in, interrupting the program. It brings up a picture of a hospital ward in some armed conflict (not unlike the hospital where Rock Hudson found himself in the movie of the same name). The ward is filled with soldiers who have lost their arms.
     
    Okay! Okay! I told my mind is dangerous. Its not funny, honest its not meant to be funny, but your (and mine) mind can’t stop your lips from going into, at the minimum, an uproaring giggle. If someone asks, just say they wouldn’t understand. Full guffaws are excused in advance.
  15. CarlHoliday
    Earlier today I went to check out any recent reviews of my current long story (Hercules III), but there weren’t any and then I started looking at the slow ebbing of the number of readers. Oh well, if there isn’t anyone reading, how can I wonder why there are no reviews. And, then I remembered a writer saying something about writing for yourself. Wiki to the rescue. I thought it was Elmore Leonard saying that, but Wiki came up with someone else. It seems Cyril Connolly (a critic) said: Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self. The New Statesman (1933-02-25). (If you’re interested, go to his Wiki page and find out who and what.)
    (As an aside Elmore Leonard (he has a Wiki page, too) came up with:
    Never open a book with weather.
    Avoid prologues.
    Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue.
    Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said”…he admonished gravely.
    Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose.
    Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose."
    Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
    Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
    Don't go into great detail describing places and things.
    Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

    My most important rule is one that sums up the 10.
     
    If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
     
    * Excerpted from the New York Times article, “Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle” )
     
    And, so, I shall no longer be concerned there are fewer and fewer readers and hardly any reviews, even if they’re constructive criticism, which I rarely receive (I can’t be that good.) (see, Renee Stevens blog entry November 18, 2014, Constructive Criticism: Part 1)
  16. CarlHoliday

    Dark times ahead

    By CarlHoliday,

    I was listening to Aker Bilk while watching America’s Test Kitchen, but Bilk had to wait. I can usually multitask, but not with watching television without my glasses on. I’m fairly good without the glasses as long as I’m doing something no more than an arm’s length away; then I’m in the range for the glasses.
     
    I just filled an 8 oz. drink glass with probably a little over one-third of Aberlour (a very good Speyside Scotch); and, now I’m wondering if I should continue drinking Scotch or go back to the IPA (Inversion from Deschutes Brewery in Bend, Oregon). . . . and, yes, I’m close to the stupid suicide thoughts, again. I wish they would just go away. I know how writers and some of their fiction characters commit suicide, but I’m deathly (what a coincidence) afraid of drowning. Robin Williams took the easy way out. (I’ve thought about that means to the desired end.) I suppose I should call the suicide number, after all the number is on my contact list, or I could call the new psychiatrist at the clinic. (I guess she’s a she, which shouldn’t matter since my PC is a woman too.)
     
    The dog just crawled out of his box and probably wants me to take him outside to do whatever he needs, but I’m not in the mood. Besides, there are wild animals out there who might have a taste of dog or maybe human. Some cougars do not have any qualms about attacking either dogs or humans, (They usually don’t think things out because attacking a human will result in people with guns and dogs tracking it to a place to give it a needle in the ass or a bullet if they are truly bad). plus they’re hard to see in the dark; then, there are black bears who might be interested in one more kill before they den up for hibernation. Quite possibly (the dog thinks) it can wait for my son to come home from work. He craps at the most inopportune times (Especially, when it’s dark and I can’t see the turds to pick up; and, no I can’t use a flashlight because he thinks it’s a toy, just like a cat.) and does everything when my son comes home about 11:15, anyway.
     
    I know, I’m a jerk, but I’ve always had the strangest experiences out in the dark (also, I avoid swimming in rivers or lakes because there things, beasty things, who enjoy the taste of humans who are swimming in those places (I’ve read that Native Americans don’t swim in lakes either for the same reason.)
     
    Son’s home and he took Rambo out for a pee and poop. Time to go.
  17. CarlHoliday

    Over One Year

    By CarlHoliday,

    Can you believe it?
     
    It’s been over a year since I posted Chapter 6 to Hercules III.
     
    Well, Chapter 7 is coming out soon. It’s out of the laptop and ready to stand on its own. Other than extreme bipolar type 1 issues, the drugs for that have pretty well shot the shit out of my creative being. So, it takes time, a lot of time, but one year is too much.
     
    I can’t make any promises for Chapter 8, except to say it will have a thorough going over before it’s sent out, much the same as Chapter 7.
     
    (Can you imagine the sound of something metallic falling onto red linoleum?)
  18. CarlHoliday

    Bits and Pieces

    By CarlHoliday,

    Latest addition to the liquor cabinet: a Single Malt Welsh Whisky: Penderyn - Aur Cymru (Welsh Gold).
     
    Penderyn, the first single malt distillery in Wales since the 19th century, produces one cask a day (reputedly the smallest distillery in the world); then the balance of available alcohol is diverted to other products: Five Vodka, Brecon Gin, and Merlyn Welsh Cream Liqueur.
     
    Tuesday, next week, I will be 64 years old; I become Medicare eligible, unless the Republicans in Congress extend the date as part of some one-sided “bipartisan” deal Barack accedes to. Fortunately, I have a 100% Veterans disability rating that will take care of all my medical needs right up to where my son pulls the plug sometime in the future. He knows I prefer being toasted rather than taking up space on the ground, while being taking cubic space under the lawn.
     
    Currently reading Early Autumn by Louis Bromfield; next up, The Bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder. (There is a sequential order I’m following. It starts at His Family by Ernest Poole. (A great book if you’re looking for some place to start a series of reading opportunities.))
  19. CarlHoliday

    Oh, damn, now what?

    By CarlHoliday,

    Well, I guess the time has arrived.
     
    This morning, I worked with an enrollment advisor at a university that thinks I have what it takes to pursue a Bachelor's in English. At least I got the language right. So, at 62 years of age, I'm going back to 1968 when I dropped out of college the first time around.
  20. CarlHoliday

    You want what?!

    By CarlHoliday,

    When I moved in with my son, I broached the subject of getting a dog or atleast a big cat. Each and everytime I brought up the subject, N was adamant we weren't having a pet in his house. Well, last week he said "we need a dog."
     
    I've been hallucinating so much for the past couple weeks, I couldn't be certain if he said that or not. Afterall I'm the resident cracker box around here; and, having a dog just might get me moving, "Have you walked the dog?"
     
    Not only does he want a dog, he wants one in my height range, knee level. This cannot be happening. Trust me, I know crazy and N was definitely pushing all the nut basket buttons.
     
    And, yet, he's got the whole fence thing all figured out in his head. We'll put up a temporary fence first; then sometime in the future, we'll put up something a little more permanent.
     
    As far as the new long story goes, I'm finishing up Chapter 4. I can't be certain if I'll keep the end of 4 in Chapter 4 or move it to the beginning of Chapter 5; and the way my mind has been working (or not) it may take a few weeks to get it all sorted out.
  21. CarlHoliday

    Quality Time?

    By CarlHoliday,

    Last night my son and I spent a few hours getting some good ol' quality time.
     
    I was drinking straight up doubles of Bowmare, which kept me behind the eight ball for most of the night.
     
    We started at our favorite Mexican-American restaurant having a nice meal of red meat. Mine was Tacos al Carbon, my son chose his favorite, Carne Asada. My stomach is getting used to that good ol' feeling fulness and I ate half of what was given to me. Also, it was there when the conversation began.
     
    My son has a lot of albums from the Sixties and early Seventies. This weekend I picked up a box set of eighty songs from ZZ Top. For the last couple years I've had "La Grange" and "Arrested for Driving While Blind." Luckily the 80 song box set had both of these. My son suggested a number of albums, but they were covered by the box set.
     
    And, then we came to Heavy Metal and Grateful Dead. I've been looking for some for some advise on what to get in these areas and he offered alot of good suggestions.
     
    In soberer times, I look forward to his advise in these and other areas outside of my previous studies of rock music.
  22. CarlHoliday

    Gore Vidal

    By CarlHoliday,

    The fantastic gay writer Gore Vidal died yesterday at the age of 86. Today the national media is full of obits, in fact, too many to compete with. Wikipedia has a terrific article that I recommend reading. My introduction to Gore Vidal was his memoir Palimpsest. I honestly tried to read his historical novels, but we didn't click.
  23. CarlHoliday
    Back in February I weighed 285, which quite frankly is too much, even though my doctor said “You carry it so well, no one notices.” I weighed 14.25 percent of a ton, way too much as far as I wanted even if no one noticed.
     
    This morning I weighed 250. I figured I was due some sort of celebration.
     
    Which brings us to Laphroaig, a damn nice Islay Single Malt Whisky. Please notice I didn’t use whiskey (the American spelling). Our liquor cabinet is rather small and can only hold six or seven bottles. Unfortunately, I like every bottle in there; I’m an occasional alcoholic. Currently, our choices are:
    Two Tequilas, Cazadores Añejo and Hornitos Añejo
    Five Scotch Whiskies, the previously mentioned Laphroaig; The Glenlivit 18 year-old (Speyside); Oban 14 year-old (Highland); Talisker 10 year-old (the only whisky distilled on the Isle of Skye); and, Glenmorangie 10 year-old (Highland)
    One Canadian Whisky, MacNaughton
    And, one Irish Whisky, Bushmills
     
    The new story is coming along, slowly. I’m currently on Chapter 2. I’ve been on Chapter 2 for the past month or so. The block tires me.
     
    Here’s the start, just to get you salivating for more. As an introduction, the story starts somewhere around 800,000 to 900,000 years in the future. Things are different.
     

    Chapter 1


     

    Farming


     
    “Damn!” twelve-year-old Carlos spat softly as he adjusted the coverlet mechanism for the lower bunk. He looked up at the unmade-up top bunk which was to be his bunk from now on. With a soft voice, he spat out another “damn.” The bed making mechanism buzzed, asking permission to make up the top bunk.
    “Whatever,” Carlos said. He was tall for his age, head taller than all the other boys in his class. He was skinnier, too. It was as if he was being stretched out from the top of his tousled orange-red hair down to his twelve toes. According to what he learned in his lessons, the persistent twelve toe mutation became the dominant trait one hundred thousand years after leaving orbit around Terra. Having bright red hair wasn’t noticed because everyone on Hercules had red hair.
    Today a new spoky was coming to live with them forcing Carlos to give up the bottom bunk. What bothered him most was the previous spoky, Stat, had just turned eighteen a month ago and he was gone within a week, leaving the lower bunk to Carlos, who relished the territory as his own. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how things went if you were renting the bunk to a spoky. There were families all around the rim with children from the spokes sleeping in the bottom bunk. Papa said we’re getting seventy-five credits a month to provide our new spoky room and board. They’d done it before and they would do it again.
    Papa said it was because of the physiology of those who lived in the spokes, whatever that meant. Papa said boys, and girls, had to come down to ensure they wouldn’t die earlier than normal due to unaltered genes. Most spokys had the wrong genome sequence for a long life and other normal extended aging issues. If the boys and girls had their genes altered by living through adolescence rim-ward, they would be eligible for a job on the new spokes, which were beginning to come online. Also, Papa didn’t call this spoky a spoky. Papa said the spoky’s name was Stefan. What kind of name was that? It certainly didn’t sound like a boy’s name, at least not a rim-ward boy.
    “Carlos? Is that you swearing, again?” Mama called out from the utility room. Today was laundry day for clothes; tomorrow she’d do the linens. After over several hundred thousand years in space someone still had to do the laundry. There were bots, but the household bots were too expensive for a farm family.
    Carlos looked around the room. There wasn’t anyone else, so it must be him. “No, Mama,” he lied.
    “You’re not too old for me to take you across my knee and give you a swat or three,” Mama said. She was middle-aged, about ninety, but didn’t look a day over twenty. Her light red hair was trimmed close to her scalp like nearly all farm females. She’d probably live another hundred years or so before having to choose electro-mechanical immortality (transferring her necessary body parts including the brain into a bot body), opting for molecular disintegration to supplement the ship’s fragile organic/inorganic molecular balance, or just letting the government decide what use she could provide.
    “Carlos, you should get up to the terminal to meet Stefan,” Mama said loudly from the utility room. “Carlos?”
    “Yes, Mama,” he whined, as he got up from the bunk that would never be his and walked out the door. It’d serve the spoky if he was late. Maybe he’d go back to his spoke where he lived, but, no, that wouldn’t be the case. Carlos knew the spoky had a map to their compound if Carlos wasn’t there to bring him home. Plus, the authorities would be very interested in a spoky standing outside the omnibus terminal as if he was waiting for someone to pick him up.
    “What’s gotten into you?” Mama asked as Carlos walked into the utility room. “I thought you wanted a new brother.”
    “He won’t be my brother,” Carlos spat. “The last one wasn’t and this one won’t be either. None of them will be my brother.”
    “He’ll be just like a brother, for the next seven or eight years, you’ll probably be leaving with him,” Mama said with her warm smile that always, always melted Carlos’s young heart. She pulled him into a hug and held him tight to her breast. “But, you’ll always be my favorite child. Now get out of here and up to the terminal.”
    “Yes, Mama,” Carlos said softly.
     
    * * * * * * * *
    Carlos climbed the ladder on the pilot’s side of the family cruiser (it was a standard model with two bucket seats up front and two rows of fold down bench seats in the back). When it was new it sported warm orange color with black accents and a slight rumble of its double exhaust pipes. Now, well, it was worn and gurgled, but the farm mechanical bots kept it in reliable condition. He took a deep breath and started entering his personal id code, trip authorization codes both standard and special for this trip, and moved the drive lever to auto.
    The cruiser hummed to life as its thrusters began to overcome the rim’s artificial gravity. After the cruiser deciphered their destination, the virtual landing gear dissolved into nothingness. Settling into the pilot’s seat Carlos tried to relax for the thirty-three kilometer ride to town. As there was so little traffic this early in the morning, the cruiser had no trouble hooking onto the county byway. The entertainment console offered light rock, but Carlos was in the mood for something else so he turned the dial all the way to heavy metal. Additionally, he turned the red switch implant in the back of his head to the nap setting. He looked forward to a bit of quiet time before he had to be at the terminal. Plus, this trip wasn’t an emergency which meant not going over the speed limit. Carlos figured he would arrive about the same time as the omnibus from the sixth spoke.
    The family cruiser shook a little when it arrived at the terminal parking lot. Carlos looked out the cruiser’s side window and saw an older omnibus come to a stop in front of the terminal. Carlos saw an empty parking space and switched the controls to manual. Although he had been driving only a few months, Carlos thought he could maneuver into the parking spot. Unfortunately the cruiser knew this wasn’t a time or place for a driving lesson, so it switched itself back to auto and locked the pilot control switch. After the landing gear settled onto the pavement, Carlos nervously looked around to see if anyone had seen him, but there was nothing other than two cleanup bots perpetually sweeping windblown sand from the sidewalk.
    As Carlos climbed out of the cruiser he watched a tall, slender boy step down from the omnibus. The boy gave the driver his ticket and the driver pulled out the boy’s luggage from one of the storage bins. They said something Carlos couldn’t hear and then the boy looked around the terminal until his eyes met Carlos’s.
    Walking over to the sidewalk where the other boy waited and as the distance between them diminished, Carlos’s eye orbit implants clicked as points of recognition were cross-referenced against Stefan’s image planted Carlos’s brain. Once they were sufficiently in agreement, a faint tone was transmitted directly into the boy’s brain. “You must be Stefan,” Carlos said with a hint of disgust.
    “Hi, that makes you Carlos,” Stefan said with a faint smile. “Can you help me with my luggage? With the two of us, we should be able to get it done in one trip.”
    “Sure,” Carlos mumbled, not wanting their similarities to be noticed by anyone in town. So, it was true that he looked like a spoky. Stefan looked exactly like him down to the freckles on his cheeks.
     
    * * * * * * * *
    Carlos was not in the mood to talk on the return trip, he and Stefan had eight years to have a conversation. So he turned the red sleep switch to the nap position and tried to find a comfortable position in the pilot’s seat.
    Stefan was too busy checking out his new home to realize Carlos was getting comfortable to go to sleep. The first thing he noticed was there weren’t a lot of buildings near the omnibus terminal. He remembered reading in one of the brochures that Farm Support Village Six Up was small, but, in truth, there weren’t enough buildings to make up what he thought would be a small village. When they hooked onto the county byway there were a lot of housing habitats surrounded by high fences. In fact, the fencing walled the byway from all the habitats and the small farms with large dark brown animals feeding in some of the pastures. When he queried the onboard terminal it told him they were beefalos, something he had only seen on the menu planner at home; which made him weep a little at the thought of being back in the Spoke 6 eating a beefalo steak sandwich.
    The fields that didn’t have beefalos were planted with nearly every grain or vegetable known to man. About five kilometers out of the village orchards of fruit and nut trees came into view. He wondered what was being raised on the farm that was to be his home for the next eight years.
    After a while spent contemplating his future he was jostled out of his reverie by the cruiser disengaging from the county byway and turning into the driveway that led up to a cluster of buildings.
    “Are we there?” Carlos asked, sleepily.
    Stefan looked over at Carlos and said, “Don’t ask me. You’re the one who lives down here.”
    Stefan watched how Carlos took control of the cruiser. There were three gates to go through, but none of the gates opened before the previous one closed. After passing through the last gate, the cruiser turned toward a cluster of buildings. Carlos stopped in front of a structure that resembled the domed residential habitats Stefan had seen in his history lesson on the Home Solar System.
    “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Mama,” Carlos said before he climbed out of the cruiser. The cruiser lowered until it was only a few centimeters off the ground. “Then we’ll move your stuff inside.”
    “Are you sure there isn’t an easier way to get out,” Stefan as he hesitantly climbed over the passenger side railing and down the outside ladder.
    “You look like someone who’s never used a ladder,” Carlos said.
    “There weren’t that many in Spoke 6,” Stefan said as he followed Carlos up to the door. “Mostly, we had lifts.”
     
    * * * * * * * *
    “Your mom is nice,” Stefan said as he grabbed one of the heavier pieces of luggage from the cruiser.
    “You’re not the first spoky to stay with us,” Carlos said to let Stefan know he wasn’t special. He wondered what a mom was and if they had one in their habitat.
    “Do you have a problem with predators?” Stefan asked, wanting to get this small piece of data safely put away. Actually, he was more than happy to change the subject as he missed his mom a lot. “I read there are predators rim-ward.”
    “They stay outside the first fence. It’s electrified,” Carlos said, not to give an answer with too much information. Sure, they stayed outside the fences, but a leopard killed a little girl just about a month ago. The authorities arrested both parents for neglect. The girl should’ve been playing inside the second fence. Plus, the parents hadn’t run any updates for the protection software. The leopard climbed over the electric fence, which for some unknown reason was turned off, killed the little girl, and took her back the over the fences. A rescue team found the little girl’s disemboweled body hidden behind a boulder out past the furthest county predator fence.
    Papa said the parents were put into a portable molecular reduction unit in their front yard. Their molecules were dispersed right there, without a trial. Carlos tried to get his mind around all of that, but since he didn’t exactly know anything about molecular reduction units he couldn’t quite see how it all worked.
    “What about the blood?” Carlos asked.
    “All the molecules are reduced to their atomic components,” Papa answered. “I suppose the water was broken down to hydrogen and oxygen and dispersed in the wind. I have to admit it’s not a good way to go. Have you started studying chemistry or atomic theory yet?”
    “No sir,” Carlos answered.
    “After supper tonight, how about we take a little look at what’s on the data terminal. Okay?” Papa said.
    “I’d like that,” Carlos remembered saying. He liked it when Papa, who was five years older than Mama, took the time to help him whether it had something to do with farming or schooling. Their farm stretched thirty kilometers turn-wise to the edge of the forested hills where weather was generated and wild animals lived. Crosswise, their land ran from Rim-Water to the outside wall. Their habitat compound took up nearly a hectare at the intersection of two secondary county byways. It was a standard model for nearly all farms around the first agriculture section on the bow wheel. From his schooling he knew there were other farm designs on two newer wheels of Hercules.
    Carlos wished he could live here forever, but that was impossible. When he achieved majority he had to report for governmental service. He looked at Stefan and wondered where he’d end up.
    “Well, that’s not completely true,” Carlos said. “If you don’t set the outer electric fence, leopards might be able to jump the second fence. Then it’s a matter of having your security system to identify the threat, initiating defense systems, and contacting the authorities. Luckily our house computer takes care of everything for us. I wouldn’t worry because you don’t have much meat on your bones.”
    “Well, if you hadn’t noticed you look a lot like me,” Stefan said.
    “Yeah, do all spokys look alike?” Carlos asked. “How does that work?”
    “No, there are some shorter, their hair color might be a shade lighter or darker, or maybe they don’t have twelve toes,” Stefan said. “There aren’t many like that. They’re kept up in the spokes so they don’t transition.”
    “I suppose looking like a spoky means my genome was altered before I was born. Maybe I’m destined for spoke work,” Carlos said as he picked up a duffel bag. “What’s it like living in a spoke.”
    “Well, first thing you might notice there aren’t any trees. There isn’t any living thing except for people, Stefan said. “Then there’s the overabundance of doors and passage ways. You can get lost if you don’t have a location implant. You do have one, right? Here look at the back of my head. It’s the blue knob.”
    “Oh, yeah, the blue knob,” said Carlos. Actually he couldn’t remember paying all that much attention to the switches, plug-ins, and knobs. There simply was too many to worry about. Papa or Mama usually hooked him up to the computer after dinner and told him to call one of them when the fuzzy feeling stopped. “Could you look?”
    “Bend down a little,” Stefan said. “Damn, you have a lot of plug-ins, but you also have the blue switch and a red one and a yellow one, too. How do you keep track of all of them?”
    “Better not say damn anymore,” Carlos said. “Mama doesn’t like people who swear. I know the blue is for locating my position on the ship. The red one is for sleep or keeping me awake. The yellow one is for entertainment.”
    “Is Mama what you call your mother?” Stefan asked.
    “I suppose mom is what you call yours. You can ask Mama how she wants to be called. I’m pretty sure the other one from the spokes decided to call her Mama. I know for certain they’ve raised more children than just me and they’ve all been boys. We don’t have a room for a female spoky.”
    “Like me? You can call me a spoky if you want. It’s what we call ourselves sometimes. What do you call yourselves?”
    “By our names, mostly,” Carlos answered. “Given the chance, a bully will call you something derogatory. You being new, you should expect something like “shit for brains” or if you’re lucky they’ll just call you “bean pole”. That’s what they call me sometimes or spoky.”
    “I used to be a bully,” Stefan whispered.
    “How’d you get here?” Carlos asked. “I thought spokys had to pass a bunch of tests to ensure they were safe to live on a farm.”
    “They altered my genome and modified my life-force software,” Stefan softly said. “Every time I think about doing something inappropriate, the programs stop me. It’s not a pretty sight.”
    “Oh,” Carlos said, unsure he’d said too much. “Is that why you’re whispering?”
    “Yeah,” Stefan said softly. “The calming program is doing that. I’ll need to lie down for a little bit. Could you show me to your room? I think I can carry this bag. Can you get the other one? Oh, damn! I’m going to drop out now.”
    Carlos watched Stefan slowly crumple to the ground and after a few seconds began to quiver all over. He knelt beside Stephan and placed a finger on Stefan’s forearm. The muscles quivered to an unknown rhythm. He stared at the boy’s face and saw a small trickle of saliva coming out of the corner of Stefan’s mouth.
    “What’s going on?” Carlos’s Papa asked. He came over and knelt beside Carlos. “Was he going to harm you?”
    “No, we were talking about which bag to carry inside. That’s all,” Carlos said. “Do you know about this?”
    “He should be back in a few minutes,” Papa said. “We were warned about this. I think we’ll need to hook him up to the systems module to adjust his response to stress. Why don’t you take his bags in to the laundry room? I’ll stay with him. Go on, I’ll watch him.”
    Carlos’s Papa watched Stefan’s body quiver as the seizure seemingly continued uncontrollably. There was little that could be done outside so he stood up and bent down to pick up the boy that looked so much like his own son. So, it was true. Other than the seizures and bullying, Stefan was truly Carlos’s twin. The boy definitely needed a reboot, which meant going online to file an incident report, then waiting for permission to do a remote hook up for a systematic lookup across all servers, which could take all night.
     
    * * * * * * * *
    Clara, Carlos’s mama, watched her husband, Jorge, carry Stefan into the sitting room and lay the boy on the sofa. She could of sworn the boy sighed as her husband attempted to give the Stefan some degree of comfort.
    “He’ll need a full hookup,” Jorge said. “Get on the terminal and start an incident report. They’ll want a report as soon as possible.”
    “He looks so much like Carlos,” Clara said as she sat in the side chair.
    “You know that’s what happens with twins,” Jorge said. “Damn! He doesn’t have enough jacks. You’ll need to append the incident report. He’s missing M1, all of the Ks, and D3. We won’t be able to do a reboot without those jacks. What were those people doing with him? Didn’t they know he needed to be hospitalized to get those plugs installed as he got older? Now, he’ll be lucky if a portable surgery team will be dispatched way out here. If they won’t come out, we’ll have to take him to the city for surgery. I’d better give him an injection.
    “You have the rice harvest coming up; I’ll have to take him,” Clara said. “It’d be best if I took Carlos with me, that is if they can’t, or won’t, come out here.”
  24. CarlHoliday

    Oops

    By CarlHoliday,

    I wait for things to happen, like today when I broke the television not more than an hour after my son left for work. A number of weeks ago I bought him a 42 inch TV and thought now was a good time to get an HD box from infinity. The picture was good, I guess, but I’ve always had a problem with HD (if you look close enough the picture doesn’t seem to appear better). Whatever was on our television today certainly looked good. I guess it was inevitable that I was going to muck things up.
     
    Things had been going rather well since I arrived. No major blow up for me, though there have been a few instances where my actions were duly questionable. Obviously my son has a high tolerance for loopy behavior from the mentally impaired (mostly gained from caring for his grandmother as she slowly deteriorated into the mental haze of dementia). I hope so because I know he’s going to be pissed when comes home tonight.
     
    I keep looking for the signs. Is the fogginess if my mind due to the medicine I’m taking or is it a manifestation of pre-dementia? I do know I have to keep a record of what is happening because I’m not that old.
     
    Oops, forgot to mention Carl Holiday has his own email. You can reach him directly at: carlholiday49@gmail.com.
     
    Now, that's something I can take off my deteriorating life and put it where it belongs.
  25. CarlHoliday

    Oops

    By CarlHoliday,

    I went to see a new shrink yesterday and failed to report the outcome of that visit on yesterday's entry.
     
    Back when I was first diagnosed of being Bipolar, that shrink said I was Type II which is a milder form of the disorder.
     
    Yesterday's shrink said I was actually Type I, good ol' Manic Depression. He based his diagnosis on the severity of my periods of mania, plus my bouts with Major Depression and my one serious attempt at suicide.
     
    I have to see another shrink at the clinic next month who will do the "official" intake. Maybe he'll have a different opinion.
     
    Frankly I don't give a hoot where I fall on the Bipolar scale of fun and games. At this point in my life, which has been completely destroyed because I didn't fully investigate the hazards of being Bipolar (mostly inattentiveness which was a great hindrance to being a successful truck driver), I'm left with living with my son in a small town (2,075 souls, 2010 Census) on the Stevens Pass highway. Luckily it's a nice town that has a really good Mexican restaurant (their Pollo Poblano is delicious), not counting our next door neighbor selling marijuana to my son the drug deals go down on the street in front of the elementary school, and only one grocery store that sells real tasty and soft chocolate chip cookies.

×
×
  • Create New...