CarlHoliday

Early this morning as I was driving down the Columbia Gorge, a small, furry, woodland creature tried to scurry across the interstate. He (I

I haven't read such ultra-conservative drivel in years. Thanks for sharing.

I try very hard to stay out of my characters. In fact, I have yet to have any character with my real name, though I used "Carl" on occasion as in my current project "The Artists." When I'm developing a character I also try to use as many characteristics that are different from me, though sometimes a bit gets in whether I want it or not. I don't think I can help not doing it, even though I should try harder not to. David in The Pastel Cowboy is probably closer to me than any character I've come up with and now that I've done him, I feel that I don't have to do that again. Looking at The Artists, I can honestly say that a tiny bit of me is in Six, Casey, Kevin, and Jim. Whether that amount is of any significance will be born out as the story progresses, though Kevin has already shown himself.

As long as we're talking celebrities, I'll add Flannery O'Connor and Brian O'Nolan. If we were talking about anyone, I'd say my nephew who at the age of three fell down an old well and drowned. He may have have the potential to become a celebrity, but it was snuffed out.

It's a truck stop southeast of Boise, ID, that I usually stop at going either east or west on I-84. I have an 0500 delivery appointment tomorrow morning in the Portland, OR, area (453 miles away). Then I get to sit for a spell before delivering the rest of the load to customers south and north of Seattle Monday morning. I like multi-stop loads because we get paid for the extra stops. This load brings in $65 in extra stop pay. Every little bit helps when it now takes nearly $65 to fill up the mini-van. I haven't been working on Chapter 15 of The Artists. I have been working on my submission for the Fall Anthology. It's an innocuous tale about love on the rocks and grasping for straws. It doesn't have any bunnies in it (I swear, I'm going to do a story with bunnies. Actually, I saw a bunny in Colorado Springs when I was delivery firelogs to the Ace Hardware Distribution Center, so I know they're out there, it's just difficult getting them up off the ground and into a story.), but there are horses and the possibility of a huckleberry pie. There are children, though. Two sets of brother/sister combinations. There's also a murder, double murder in fact. And, it won't be uncomfortably long, which so many have complained about in the past. After I deliver this load I get to have three to four days off. It's not like I need the time because this whole trip has had too many days of sitting without driving. I don't make money unless I'm moving. Yet, I look forward to seeing the dog and the wife, too. We're supposed to go out and see the son because supposedly he's having problems with my old desktop I gave him. For someone who saw no purpose in having a computer, suddenly he's on the bandwagon. The other thing I need to do is check with the consulting nurse at my medical center and see if I need to be seen by someone. My left calf is still very bad and extremely painful. A couple days ago after I stopped driving the pain was so bad I had to simply curl up and go to sleep (I can't take any pain medication because of various reasons. Grin and bear it, it'll go away soon.) And, I might need to see my psychiatrist about the mood stabilizer, which is working, sort of. I still get pissed at some drivers, but it's not seriously pissed and I get over it quicker. I've been acting a little weird lately and I don't want to have to stop driving because I can't make the money I'm making doing anything else. It's not anything serious, just weird, crazy like weird and it's kind of scaring me because it's so damn weird. Well, gotta go and try to finish that story so I can get back to work on The Artists. I probably won't have a chapter out this week because of the story, but that's okay, too. Then, again, I might because I'm going home and will have some extra time available to write.

I got out of the Metroplex without being burnt to a crisp. God, it was hotter than hooey down there. Well, not at hot as, say Phoenix or Barstow, but hot. It was an oppressive heat that pushed down on you. In the desert it is hot, but it's more scorching or searing. The heat moves around and through you as it goes onto the next person. The heat during the past few day was personal. It was your heat. Your's alone. One good thing about the heat was I was able to finish Chapter 14, which means Chapter 13 is free to be sent to the editor. Chapter 14 is primarily about Casey and Six. And, then there's the Fall Anthology. I haven't been submitting anthology stories because I simply don't have the time to write. The mental problems and associated medicine make me too tired to write; and, the mental problems affect my internal communications in such a way that working on one project seems to be all I can accomplish. Anyway, it seems my mind has latched onto the Ghost theme. Yesterday, as I was driving up US-287 between Wichita Falls and Amarillo, I saw a house that had seen better days and was, in all likelihood, abandoned. There were various items of rusting farm implements around and grass was atleast a foot high in places. There simply didn't seem to be any life in or around it. I see lots of empty houses in my travels around the country, quite a few of them very, very old, but this house was from the Forties or Fifties. There was, also, a bell on a tall pole in the front yard that was rung with a rope attached by the front door. My immediate reaction was someone died, but the family hadn't decided what to do with the place. The kids were at a quandry about tearing down Mom and Dad's house; or, worse, fixing it up and renting it. I can't remember exactly where the house is, but it wasn't too close to any of the towns along that stretch of road. It was, like a lot of houses out on the prairie, out there all be its lonesome. And, then my mind imagined a scenario, a horrible scene of murder/suicide, and a man in the mid to late thirties who has to live with this nightmare playing out in his head, until a lover finally shows up who is willing to help take the ghosts away. I can't be positive this story will amount to anything, but as long as I'm between chapters on The Artists, I might as well find out.

Yeah, well, I think everyone at some point in time wishes their life could be different. I'd like to have a guy in my life and not necessarily for anything other than friendship. I'd like to not have to drive truck to make a living. I'd like my wife to be more independent and not have to rely on me so much. I'd like to live in a neighborhood with sidewalks. Personally, I think to be totally satisfied with one's life is the ultimate boredom. You have to yearn for something better, whatever it is. It's either that or go off to a monastery, temple, or whatever your religion has for a contemplative life and live as a monk; not saying that is bad because in some ways a life of prayer is a very good life. Carl

I haven

I was trying to come up with a witty entry about "Three Broads" I ran into in the past few days, but I've got to go pick up a new load in a few and can't stay on topic for any length of time. Okay, the first "broad" is my favorite: the French Broad River in Tennessee and North Carolina, mostly in TN though. It's the name. French Broad sounds so erotic, so Rita Hayworth or seductive like Ingrid Bergman. Makes me try to imagine Burt Lancaster or Humphrey Bogart, a baguette, a bottle of cheap wine, and a French broad across the table. Then the other day I was driving up through North Carolina and crossed the Broad River. I've crossed that river so many times it's silly, but that time it finally clicked. French Broad and Broad? Could there be a coincidence? Looked up French Broad in Wikipedia. Seems there were two broad rivers back in the early days when people didn't get around too much and had a rather narrow view of the world around them, say twenty or so miles. It was those people who named the rivers, which coincidentally mind you, start their separate journeys to the sea quite close to each other. One headed east into the English colonies and was called the English Broad. The other headed west in the French colonies. English was lopped off the first one and it is now known simply as the Broad River. The French Broad River has one other interesting bit about it. When it joins the Holston River at Knoxville, TN, it is generally agreed that is the headwaters of the Tennessee River. The other broad of this story is Broad Mountain, Pennsylvania. I slept there last night, right up there on top where Sara Lee, Wal-Mart, and a few other companies have distribution centers. My delivery was at Sara Lee. She was quite excited to see me, too. When you're in a state like Pennsylvania and have a choice between putting your facility in a valley or on a mountain, well, sometimes up is just and good as down. Broad Mountain helps because it is broad and not pointy. No narrow ridges, just lots of plateaus, good for building huge warehouses. Well, it's about time to get ready to head up to Ayr to pick up my load. It'll be another night of driving as I head west toward Michigan. Deer time, again. As far as the writing goes, I am working on Chapter 13. I can say that. I've also started working on what will become my next big story. It takes place in the distant future, but not the future of sci-fi with spaceships that travel as fast or faster than the speed of light. No, this story takes place in a country that's run out of oil, coal, and quite a bit more. All those 0.001% bacterias and viruses that aren't killed and build up resistances finally had their day and decimated a lot of the higher lifeforms on the planet. The story takes place a hundred or so years after that when the survivors, the ones who had the correct genetics to fight off the diseases, are running the show, such as it is. Think of Kansas, Nebraska, and maybe Missouri around 1810 or so. You're not white, you're an Indian. My characters are not Indians, but their cultures seem to be going in that direction. This is an adventure/coming of age story about Jesse, who is different, not that that matters anymore, and yearns to be a warrior and hunter. He dreams of killing his first city feller and taking his head. You have to do it up close, so the feller's blood gets on you. The only problem is that the nearest city is a couple hundred miles away through hostile territory, he'll have to walk because horses were one of the species that became extinct, and he needs someone to guide him. Okay, I'm going, be safe out there on the highway and remember the big truck isn't going to jump out in front of you so quit hanging on the corner of the trailer. Go on by, damn it! And, while going by, don't linger in my blind spot. I might have to do something and if I can't see you, you'd better be ready for defensive driving lesson number one, the median or the brakes.

HAPPY 19TH JAMIE! Hope you have a beautiful day!

If you're looking for more dopamine, well you got the right medicine. Wellbutrin increases the amount of dopamine in the brain, they give it to people with Parkinson's Disease, but like all brain medicines it takes a while to get the brain to respond. I thought it was doing pretty good until I had a personal crisis, then it didn't seem to be able to handle the overload and I had to go back to a SSRI. I wish you luck, though, because Wellbutrin is well known for its non interference with libido and the physical response thereto.

The Canadians lit up the Northern Lights (for you Spelling Bee enthusiasts and college graduates, the Aurora Borealis) last night. I know because I was driving across North Dakota at the time of the big show, around midnight. Actually I haven

As I've said in previous blogs, there's no beach in Beach, ND. Other than the sky blue water tower, there's no substantial body of water to have a beach. I suspect it was someone named Beach who designated this little bit of America's Siberia to be a beach. It's been reported that some winters in ND are so cold diesel fuel gels and the trains stop running. I believe that because just across the border to the north is Canada and everyone knows how cold Canadians are. You'd be cold too if it never stopped snowing. Remember all those Ice Ages? Guess where all that ice came from. That's right, Canada! Today has been blustery, to say the least, with gusts exceeding 50 mph. Makes for a fun drive, but it also turns the prairie into a shimmering sea of greens, yellows, and silver. I think the wheat fields were the prettiest because they aren't quite ripe, so there's still a lot of green in the stalks and the wind opens up the rows exposing that green. They literally shine with the gusts running across the field. I also passed a sign advising Terry, MT, is The Official Home of the Evelyn Cameron Gallery. It's also the home of Evelyn Cameron, but I had to Google her to find that out. I think it's interesting they have to say Terry is the OFFICIAL HOME of the gallery. It's as if there are UNOFFICIAL galleries hiding out all over the place pulling in tourists and admirers of her work, while all the time no one is going to Terry, MT, to see the really good stuff. Terry, MT, isn't much of a place and I think dear sweet dead Evelyn is their claim to fame and they're going to run with it until everyone has seen enough. It feels good to be back on the road, but this load is a bear because I have to drive at night the whole way and you know who likes to stand in the middle of the interstate and ponder the meaning of life. There are lot of dumb creatures out in the wild and I wish they'd stay out in the wild instead of playing on the freeway. The last thing I want to have is an accident with a suicidal deer. It's bad enough hitting one who just plain didn't see me because my headlights blinded the silly thing, but to have one stand right out there and just dare me to hit it is unbelievable. Tonight I get to drive across ND and MN, hopefully getting to WI where I'll spend tomorrow sleeping. I've started Chapter 12 and this one will be totally about Casey. Chapter 13 goes back to Six, Jim, and Ben.

Okay, so I didn't get home before the Fourth. I was here on the Fourth, though. But, I didn't get three consecutive days off. I had to deliver my load on Monday and Tuesday. I was ready to go back to work yesterday, giving up a day of time-off just to get back on the road, but there wasn't a load to be had anywhere in all of Washington or northern Oregon. So, tonight at 2300 I pick up a load going to Illinois. It'll mean a lot of night driving through elk and deer country. Just what I like. I did finish Chapter 11, though. The story is settling down to episodic events in each character's life. Finishing Chapter 11 means sending Chapter 10 to my editor so all of you can enjoy it too. My own life is blah. The mood stabilizer is great because it has stabilized my mood into a great big nothing. My only concern is not being able to continue doing what I'm doing. Being stabilized isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Plus, I still get depressed a little. Anyway, whatever may happen in the days, weeks, and months ahead, I can look forward to being not all that excited about it.

My son's boss was treated for bipolar for twelve years before they figured it was ADD and could be treated better with those drugs, and he seems to be doing much better, but that could also be due to an occasional joint or something funner. Good luck with the Zoloft. My low dose of Celexa doesn't seem to be bothering anything down there. On the girl thing, well, speaking from experience try to be up front with her, whoever she may end up to be, when things get serious. Today it's probably a lot easier to tell a girl friend you're a celibate bisexual, but you have to be honest because she's bound to catching you looking.

At this point in time, Mister Perfection is probably around my age and a whole lot fitter, but not so adamant about it. I hate exercise freaks who think you can be one too, though it would be nice to have someone to suggest slyly that a less sugary fat desserts and more, ugh, exercise, might be nice for our relationship. He is also compassionate; intelligent enough to know that Colombia is in South American, Columbus is a popular name for American cities and a big one is in Ohio, and the Columbia River starts in Canada; not so intelligent that he has to add side comments in French or talk endlessly about some 20th century poet no one except a few MFA candidates will ever know; and did I say slender? He definitely has to be slender. He doesn't have to be short, that would be a plus, though, but slender is good. Oh, and, he'd have to be willing to say, with all honesty, that that story isn't quite up to standards and needs a bit more work. Of course, if he was just slender and maybe just a little shorter than me, we could work on all the other things. Love isn't finding Mister Perfect, it's being willing to accept the annoying little faults that destroy other relationships. Carl

Yesterday when I was driving up US-550 toward Durango, CO, I saw what looked like a small rottweiler puppy lying beside the highway. There isn't a breakdown lane in that stretch so the little doggy was lying in a narrow, a tire's width, space between the pavement and the weedy shoulder. I imagined Mom moving the kids the previous night and little Pokey trying to keep up before the next car came careening down the highway. It was probably too dark and the driver was probably distracted by the mother and puppies on the other side of the road to notice Pokey was trying to run across, too. Or, some kid wasn't paying attention and dropped their stuffed rottweiller toy puppy out of the window of the minivan and Daddy refused to stop and get it. Well, there isn't a breakdown lane so there was nowhere to stop. I couldn't really tell what exactly was lying beside the road because the highway was narrow and I'd been on the road for quite a few hours already. I'd like to think some little girl is really pissed at Daddy right now because the thought that Pokey died trying to cross the road isn't something I want to think about. If you're driving down I-35 in Oklahoma you'll see that at exit 86 you can go to Wayne and Payne. There're on opposite sides of the interstate, if that matters. Did you know Hereford, TX, is the Beef Capital of the World? Drove through it on my way to Friona, TX, the Cheeseburger Capital of the World, to pick up a load of beef I'm not taking to Portland. Interesting thing about Friona, there doesn't seem to be a lot of burger places other than the Dairy Queen. Is a dairy queen the gay guy who milks the cows? One thing I encounter quite a bit is feed lots. You know, well I suppose if you don't get out on the highways and byways of America that much you wouldn't, those big expanses of land where beefies are getting fattened so they can be turned into "It's what's for dinner tonight." The aroma of beef shit and piss on a hot summer afternoon is so undesirable it makes me wonder why anyone would want to live in the Beef Capital of the World. There are a lot of feed lots in Hereford. Finally, last night I'd gone to bed early (1800) because I had to get up at 0100 to get to our yard in Salt Lake by 0800. I woke up with a start because there was still light coming in through the blind. I looked at my watch and it was eight o'clock. I did not look at the sleeper clock which is on 24 hrs or the instrument panel clock which shows AM and PM. I got myself together and was on the road by eight-thirty. I drove for nearly 20 miles until I finally began to absorb some of the evidence of the actual hour. One major clue was the setting sun. I assumed it was rising. In the west? Something was horribly amiss because if the Earth had altered its axial spin everything wouldn't be so okey-dokey. Finally, I looked at the clock on the instrument panel and noticed the PM under 08:56. I had looked forward to at least six hours of sleep, but ended up with only four and a half.

Last night as I was driving here (Clarksville, AR) I saw a deer standing in the grass beside the interstate. It was not looking into the oncoming headlights, but away from them. I thought that was rather clever for the stupid, hairy, suicidal beastie. They run out in front of cars and trucks. The question isn't "Why did the chicken cross the road?" It is "Why did the deer cross the road?" There's grass on their side. They don't need to go to the other side to get food. And, why is it people let their pets wander all about, especially if there is a busy highway out front of their house. Cats, dogs, but thanksfully no hamsters or budgies, are often seen lying mangled on the highway. You almost want to stop and go into said house and shoot the stupid f**ker for letting their pet play on the highway. They certainly don't let their kids do that. Growing up, we used to play in the street, but it was the only paved surface of any length or breadth within blocks of our neighborhood. It was play in the street or nothing. You had to watch out for the occasional Ford or Chevy, or at the minimum be able to hear the honk when it came. There was always a honk, but never a yelled "Get out of the street you stupid kid." People were kinder back then. Do you believe the audacity of parents who would allow their city or county to put up a sign that announces "Deaf Child Area" or, worse, "Blind Child Area." I haven't seen a "Deaf-Blind Child Area," but I have to assume they're out there some where in America playing on their little side street. Can a deaf-blind child ride a bicycle? Well, they'd bump into things a lot and probably fall off a lot, but I suppose you could use a tandem bike and use them as a power source while you steered. That would keep them healthy and what? It's not like they're going to be watching television or listening to the radio, or playing games on their computer. On the other hand, it's not like you can send them out to play in the yard because they're going to bump into things and tromp on the peonies. You'd have to put up fences to keep the dears out of the roses and vegetable garden. Yeah, I'm kinda feeling better today. I've come to the realization that the new meds keep me on a fairly even keel, but I still have problems laughing. Yet, I'm not getting that angry at stupid, f**cking drivers as much anymore. They're just a way of life, like deer running out in front of you. At least they're not elk. Those hulking beasts actually stand in the highway daring you to hit them and elk can kill. They're so big they can turn your Toyota into a squashed can of Coke. Last month I saw a Toyota post elk. The elk looked rather pristine lying dead in the granny lane, but the Corolla was truly smashed. The way everyone was acting, I imagine the driver wasn't walking away from that one.

As Sharon said, the mind knows something's gone awry in your life and it wants you to fix things right away. Unfortunately, Death is just about the only thing any of us can expect in their lifetime. It's the ultimate Dead End. It's down the road and there's no turn around. Thinking about it, letting it consume your thoughts, probably isn't a good thing, but as a religious person you probably have a little more understanding of what Death means. Take comfort in what you have now and fix what's wrong. You'll definitely feel better.

The good days are a blessing and should be enjoyed to the fullest. Look forward to a string of them and take a walk in the sunshine. Those who truly care for you, as in not saying it to make themselves feel good, will remain at your side no matter what. A simple apology goes a long way to keeping friends.

My real name is my paternal grandfather's middle name and my middle name is my maternal grandfather's first name. The combination was created by friend of my mother's family because my parents had no idea what to call me. They knew what they weren't going to name me. Carl was my paternal grandfather's first name, it was also is son's first name, as in Carl, Jr. The only problem was they both died in 1945; Sr. from lung cancer and Jr. from tuberculosis. My mother was not about to name me after those two. My father's name was taken by one of my cousins, so I couldn't be a Jr. Oh, and Holiday is a misspelling. It should be Holladay, but it was misspelled on the birth certificate and never changed.

On my way up from Florida yesterday, I didn

I don

Way back when the pioneers were slogging their way into the Platte River valley from Kansas, they found a large island in the river, hence the name. Back then, it was a great big island, twenty-three miles long. What's that, a day on a horse? The US Army determined the up stream end of the island would be the perfect location for a fort. Of course, the Platte River was, at the time, known for being "a mile wide and an inch deep," but there was an island in the middle of it and an island is always a perfect location for a fort. I should be doing a lot of things that I'm not doing right now. I should be getting a shower. I should be getting ready to get down the road. I should be acting responsibily. I'm not. But, I will as soon as I finish this. I've started Chapter 10, but haven't gotten further than the first section. I need to write about a first date between two kids who look like "a couple of lesbians out on a date," to quote one of them. The other is a bit put out by the comment, mostly because he's been trying very hard to look like a boy. Well, he is a boy. And, then, yesterday I started thinking about my next story, which I don't want to because then I'll have too stories going, which with my work schedule is not a good thing. I barely have enough time to write one story. The way I'm looking at it the new story will be quite close to my personal situation, my story, maybe. It will be filled with a ton of lies, more deceit than you can shove into a walk-in closet, and a truth that can never be revealed. I'm beginning to think this might be the most violent story yet. The problem with having a story like that is you have to work on it. Luckily, I'm focused primarily on The Artists. There is no block looming on the horizon, but I now have this other story that I think I'll keep in a dark corner for the time being. Well, got to go.

Back to work . . . well, sort of. I left home yesterday morning headed to Salinas, CA, with an empty trailer to pick up a load headed for a grocery distribution center somewhere in America. Then yesterday afternoon as I was approaching the end of my run for the day I received a new destination, Riverside, CA. So, I wasn't going to pickup salad, after all. It's not that I don't like hauling salad, but I don't like going to Salinas. You can't like everywhere and Salinas is one of my nowheres. Today I'm all focused on determining where I'll stop for the night so I can shower, whether I'll go into the yard tomorrow or stop short at Frazier Park, and all the other details of getting the big truck from here to there. As I was passing Dunnigan, I noticed the QualCom had a new message (the bell on mine doesn't work so I have to keep looking at it to see if someone sends me a message). The first message is from my dispatcher telling me not to go to Riverside, but to go to Linden. Okay, fine by me, but where in California is Linden. So, I pulled over to the side of the road and found Linden. It's just up the road from Peters. More importantly, it's in Northern California so I lose out on a bunch of miles. As a result, I'm spending the night at the Pilot in Dunnigan. Tomorrow I'll drive to a small truck stop the other side of Sacramento. I was planning on simply staying here until Saturday morning, but CalTrans is shutting down I-5 through Sacramento Friday night and who wants to try out the new detour while trying to get to a customer location by the appointment time; I don't. Hopefully, my load will be going somewhere east just for the miles I'm not getting by sitting in the middle of the Central Valley oven. Did I mention that it was hot? Did I mention that California's new idling law has taken affect and I can't idle my truck for more than 5 minutes? Did I mention how hot a black Volvo 670 gets while sitting in the sun? Did I mention how I've suddenly taken a strong dislike for California?