Hey. How you doing?  How’s the family?

I’m getting that out of the way now, because I care and because maybe after reading this, you’ll decide you don’t want to be my social media friend anymore. For one, I did say on Facebook that I was going to try to stay away from making as many political posts and then here I go dropping this massive tome on you. Totally uncool. Then again, I might as well let you know that I sometimes use social media in a feast-or-famine kind way, so that sometimes I post after post after post…and sometimes I don’t post anything for days. I can’t necessarily “be honest” and let you know how I’m going to do it, because I don’t necessarily know what I’m going to do myself.

For the moment what I have decided to do is step back away from my “less politics” declaration. I might post more about politics. I might not. But the way the world is now, I just can’t say. I will touch on a few issues, and that may make some of my friends on the conservative side decide to part ways with me. It might make some of my friends on the left do the same. If it does, then I’m sorry to lose you, but I also don’t believe I should censor myself. So here are a few things, not necessarily in a particular order, although I do think this first one might be the most important.

Steve Bannon

Steve Bannon is on the National Security Council. He’s on the council, while the Director of National Intelligence and the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff are not (they are included if the meeting has to do with their particular field of expertise). Technically, there’s not anything necessarily wrong with this, and it is within the president’s discretion to do this. Steve Bannon does not have a vetted security clearance, in much the same way I did when I was in the Air Force (neither does President Trump or the members of Congress, except, perhaps, those who served in the military or worked with specialized contractors). Steve Bannon also ran (is still running?) Breitbart News, an “alt-right” publication, which is a bit of a polite way to say he’s essentially a white supremacist. He’s also a person who is reported to admit that he was a Leninist, one who believed in destroying the state and “all of today’s establishment” (when the person he spoke to, Ronald Rodash, contacted him for confirmation, Bannon said he did not recall the conversation, but he did not deny it).

Many people on Twitter on calling Bannon President Bannon. It is, of course, Twitter, and, as with all social media, they should be taken with a grain of salt. But some of those people on Twitter include former Intelligence officers like John Schindler, who I don’t personally think I would enjoy spending any time with, who calls what Bannon and Mike Flynn are doing as equivalent to a coup. The fact that as I write this Custom and Border Patrol personnel are denying access to refugees in airports, against judge’s orders, and apparently on the orders of the White House, also says something. Whether you want refugees here or not, there are three branches to the government to check and balance each other, and when one of them just runs roughshod on another, that’s a breakdown of what makes America.

Immigration

Speaking of refugees…this may be where I lose some of you on the left. But, perhaps, not as much as I might have thought. Like a lot of Americans, I dwell in a midway area in my political thinking. The events that happened yesterday are one thing. The people detained were, for the most part, people who either had visas and had gone through the refugee vetting program. It can take a year up to a year-and-a-half for refugees to make it through vetting, and from what I’ve seen of the vetting, it’s possible that some of my friends and neighbors might not make it through. I’m okay with the vetting. I think it needs to be done. I even am okay with it being it a little bit more intensive, if need be. Intensive doesn’t mean necessarily more paperwork, because, as someone who has been part of the government, I know how paperwork can just be overkill and confusion. I’m all for give-me-your-huddled-masses and so forth, but security-wise, we shouldn’t be stupid. The approach used with this executive order was stupid.

Wall?  Stupid. Work on immigration, sure. The wall is just a symbol. As some people have pointed out, there is already a bit of a barrier. This is just an expensive piece of art that we’re going to end up paying for, perhaps twice.

Religion

This may be a hard pivot, but writing about that made me think about this. One of the things that was talked about in the good old days (a week ago) was abortion. I’ve mentioned that personally I’m against abortion in abstract. I think there should be less abortions. I personally don’t know anyone who says, hey, there really should be more abortions. There are people who think people should have access to them, sure, but nobody demanding that we have a National Abortion Day or anything (I’m sure someone will bring up someone on the outside of norms to disprove me). One of the ways to have less abortions is to provide education and contraception. Abstinence doesn’t work. It just doesn’t. States that push this have some of the highest teenage birth rates. Abortions themselves are on a steady decline.

Which brings me to religion. If your religion makes you chastise those who get abortions, while also telling them they can’t have the ability to practice safe sex or get useful knowledge, then you’re not a Christian. Tell me you are a follower of the Old Testament, then I’ll believe you. Tell me that you’re a Christian, as in someone who follows the words of Christ, I have to doubt it. Tell me you’re pro-life, but not care about the death penalty (and, hey, I have confusing thoughts about the death penalty myself, but, then again, I don’t say I’m pro-life) or taking care of homeless children or helping those in poverty, then, no, you’re not.

By the way, neither is Donald Trump. He’s not a Christian. He’s not. The evangelists know it. You probably know it, in your heart. He practices no religious belief except himself. Which, fine, he doesn’t have to. We’ve had way more non-religious politicians than any of us probably think, I assume. But every time I see that stupid meme of Christ behind him in the Oval Office guiding his hand, my eyes roll so far back I think I might end up getting a jackpot on the Daily Double.

But Hillary, But Obama

No, stop. You can’t do that anymore. Trump is the president. Whether we want it or not, he is the president. He has to be held to that, not based on what happened before. If you didn’t like something Obama did, but then say “but Obama” when Trump does something similar…well, then the problem wasn’t what Obama did, was it. Obama wasn’t a perfect president. Chances are he’s going to be held to higher esteem as years go by than maybe he should (not to the exaggerated extent that Ronald Reagan is, likely). Considering he came into office with the GOP openly saying they were going to oppose everything he did, that their number one job was to make him a one-term president (and, yes, this was before he even came in office; remember that when you tell people to give Trump a chance), he did all right. He was more moderate than I liked in some ways; more liberal in others. But he can’t be your excuse. I was less a fan of Hillary than I was of Obama, but I voted her only because I thought the other option was worse. I think that still. If she was elected, we would have the same standstill we had for the last eight years, but we wouldn’t have what we have now.

What We Have Now

Climate change. Yeah, it’s real. You know it is. Scientists say it is. The EPA is a pain in the ass. It’s supposed to be a pain in the ass. I’m just sorry (not sorry), but if you don’t care about the climate, then I just don’t understand it, especially if you have children who, hopefully, will get to live with the results of our actions.

We’re making enemies around the world. We’re making enemies right next to door. We’re being looked as a global bully. China is open to war with us now. Iran just said no Americans can travel there. Maybe we don’t want to be beholden to other countries, but there are ways to do it, and walking like we’re the biggest guy in the bar isn’t going to cut it. There’s always somebody bigger eventually.

I thought the March for Life demonstration was ridiculous. But they have the right to do it. The same as people have the right to march for equality or immigration or whatever else. If you think that everyone has equal rights and there’s no reason to march, then explain to me why Brock Turner did so little time in jail. Explain to me why John Crawford is dead. If you mock this right and then whine about your second amendment rights, then guess who’s the snowflake, baby.

Me

I’m not perfect. In fact, I say here and now I would be a horrible choice for president. I don’t hold grudges, but I get angry quickly. It also dissipates quickly, but sometimes I end up typing a reply and sending it before I allow that to happen.

If you voted for Trump, that was your right. I don’t necessarily think it makes you racist or xenophobic or uncaring. How we all react to events now will determine that. If you want to debate with me, I am open to that. I won’t respond to memes, though. Memes follow Sturgeon’s Law, in that 90 percent of everything is crap (with memes, it might be actually a little higher). Memes can be hilarious or insightful, but not often. If you feel like you have to call me “snowflake” or “libtard” or something of the sort, you might as well unfriend me now, because, while those pejoratives don’t hurt me, your need to use them does automatically decrease my respect for you significantly.

I’m not right about everything. I don’t know everything. But I try to learn as much as I can, to see as many sides as I can. But that only happens if communication is open and respectful.

Oh, One More Thing

When you do argue with me, please have something to back it up with. Mainstream media does suck a bit, although not maybe for the same reasons you might think. Media nowadays (and, let’s be honest, way in the past, also) is about telling a story, about pulling you in. I don’t necessarily think that media lies (some outliers on the left and right do), but they frame the story a certain way. For example, with the recent refugee stories, we’re told story about translators who helped the military and who are supported by military members they worked with. That’s true, and that’s great. There are also translators who betrayed the military members they were working with, but that doesn’t fit a story.

So read as much as you can. I know it’s a bitch, but it needs to be done. I probably read a dozen different sources in a day, most of them independent journalism publications. Read academic journals on certain subjects. Find experts in the field (one of the reason I follow Schindler on Twitter is because of his national security expertise). Do not do anything within a bubble.

And if you’ve gotten this far, and you’re still with me, then I hope we can all make it through it together.

I’ve tried to write something the last few days.

Each time I sat down and put my fingers on the keyboard…I just stopped. Not because I didn’t have anything to write. I have so much to write. So much that the words can’t seem to come out of my head in any coherent or linear form (not that linear writing is something I’m competent at even in the best of times).

I read earlier today about Sheriff David Clarke (a Milwaukee sheriff who often guests on Fox News and whose prisons seem to have died of water depravation). He told people that the only way he would reach across the aisle to liberals (and, technically, he’s registered as a Democrat, which is advantageous in the county he runs in) is to wrap his hands around their throats.

Now, despite what some people think and have said to me, I don’t think of myself as liberal. I don’t think of myself as conservative. In fact, I’m pretty adamant on not labeling myself, to what is probably an annoying degree. I do tend to have many opinions that fall in line with general “liberal” thinking, but I have several “conservative” opinions, also. In the last election, I voted for Democrats, Republicans, and an Independent, based on what I felt was the right person for the job. But people insist that you have to be this one thing or the other, despite the fact that the majority of the American population identifies Independents rather than Republican or Democrat.

I’m not a Trump fan. Have never been a fan, although for much of my life I didn’t really think about him. The more I learn about him, the less I care about him. I did try to give him a chance, though. I mean, what else is there to do. But even now, in the last few minutes in which I’ve been writing this, he’s accused the media of lying about the size of his inauguration, claiming that it reached to the Washington Monument, even though we all have the ability to see this is not the case. He claims the media made up the tiff between him and the intelligence community, even though there are direct quotes from him about it. Not to mention the people who he has put up for appointments (barring a few that were actually good choices). Not to mention the positions he hasn’t even bothered to appoint someone for.

But I try, I try. And I see again and again people saying, “get over it,” “he won,” “he’s your president,” “give him a chance.” The fact that these same people have spent much or all of the last eight years complaining about President Obama doesn’t seem to matter to them.

And that’s the crux, I think. I don’t feel like I can assign myself to a label, and I don’t feel like I can talk to people, besides people who agree with me, because they won’t listen, they won’t engage, they won’t have an honest conversation. I saw someone link something that called Obama the worst president in history. In history? I want to ask them what about James Motherfucking Buchanan, but the sad thing is, I’m pretty sure they don’t even know who that is. And I consider myself far from a presidential expert.

I want to reach across an aisle. I want to find those who disagree with me, those who think Trump will be a great president, and I want to understand why. I want real information, not something that comes in a meme or a slogan, a catchphrase, a carefully concealed hint of racism. But they don’t come out. I don’t know that I could tell you the last time I had an actual exchange of communication with someone who didn’t agree with me on a political issue. I’ve had fights, disagreements, threats against me and my family…but an actual conversation, no. I want one. I want it so desperately. I want to understand exactly what they see, and I want them to understand what I see, but everything is so divided.

James Buchanan would know about that.

A rapist lives a mile down the road.

Technically, he lives slightly less than a mile. And it’s not quite down the road. It’s more of a left, then a left, then a right, then a right.

What is true is that he was convicted of sexually engaging a five-to-seven year old girl. He was sentenced for this crime and recently paroled.

My wife pointed this out to me after seeing it on FaceBook. I would not be lying that my first reaction was much like those of some of the commenters on this post: talk of bullets and rope and castration.

Subsequent thought, however, has cast my thoughts in many different directions. The first, and most pressing, has to do with my daughter, and how I should handle this. Realistically, there is not much I should need to do, at least not any more than we have already done with her in regard to sexual predators and other dangers. We’ve had talks. We’ve told her what she should do, and we’ve made her repeat it back to us. This man is a mile away, true, but, because of how secluded we are and that my daughter is home-schooled (and therefore doesn’t ride the bus), in the normal course of events, it’s highly unlikely she would ever encounter him in any type of dangerous way.

Not impossible, though. So tonight we will have another conversation. And we will tear down another board in the safe house she lives in, where there are still happy endings, where Santa Claus still exists, where girls like her don’t get raped and murdered. That house has to be torn down. It’s a necessity, but it’s a necessity that feels shameful.

Theoretically, a man gets punished for his crime (or, in a quite laughable concept that I’ve heard actually happens in other countries, he is rehabilitated), and he is able to continue his life as a productive member of society. The chances of that happening, particularly in America, are slim. In the cases of sexual abuse and rape, less than that. As a parent, that last statement is hard to reconcile with my forgiving nature and my need to protect my children and, to an extent, all children.

I’m not going to attack or harass this man, though. I see what people write on FaceBook, and there is empathy for them, some, but also disillusionment. What they write they do not mean. In some ways, they are doing no more than posturing in front of others, like a child would do until he is called out by someone. In a way, it’s understandable, almost a ritual or superstition, a ceremony to keep the darkness away. Darkness held back with darkness still consumes.

For now, I can only keep my eyes on my child. I can only tear another board off her house. I’ll hold her hand as we walk through parking lots, anticipating her pulling her hand away once we get in the store, because she’s too old to need her hand held all the time. Better that than have it snatched away.

Time is an oil leak. At first you don’t notice anything, and then all of a sudden a rod is thrown and the entire works is shot. As part of that constant of American traditions, I decided to write down some goals for the next year (“resolutions” being somewhat beneath me, for reasons). One of the goals was to write blogs more. So I come here and look. Holy shit, I haven’t written a blog since July of 2013, after Jaden, the empress of cats, had to be put to sleep.

Then I felt like cats would no longer be part of life for me.  There was Oy, but he took a mysterious trip sometime around the time Jaden died (I can’t remember if it was before or after; all I know is that cat was Satanic). There’s Beetle, who is still around and still bigger than a breadbox. Beetle doesn’t sound like she’s going to be long for the world, honestly, and I can’t work up much sadness about that. I don’t want her to die, but she’s not like part of the family to me. She’s like a piece of furniture, something unused, but which covers up a stain on the carpet or a hole in the wall, so we don’t get rid of it. So I figured once Beetle was gone, that would be it.

There are five pets in the house now. Even today, I’m still not sure exactly how that happened. Well, sort of, I guess. We decided to get a pet for Tatiana. That was a mistake. Because going to the shelter meant Katy could fall in love with creatures, and she did. Rose was the first. Rose was Tatiana’s dog, but really, she belongs to Katy. Katy calls the dog her baby. Katy has her sit in her lap, even though the dog weighs about seventy pounds. I believe the dog likes me more than anyone else in the house, but that’s through no fault of my own. I’m not a dog person. I haven’t been since I was a kid, but the damn dog won’t leave me alone.

Wash came along next. Honestly, we got wash because the shelter was giving away cats for nine bucks, and who wouldn’t want to buy a cat at that price. Wash is aloof. Nothing affects him. His need and desire for affection is fleeting, and if he notices you noticing him giving you affection, it stops. He’s my favorite. As much as this cat could have a favorite, I suppose I might be his.

Fred and Xander came together, in that we got the dog, Fred, and the cat, Xander, at the same time. Fred is small and pathetic and, if you look her in the face, she looks creepily like a little Jewish man. I think we’ve had her for six months, and she still runs away anytime I come near her. Doesn’t stop her from sleeping right next to me on the bed, slowly pulling the blankets off my body.

Xander we got, honestly, because he’s the softest cat we’ve ever felt. I assumed that I would be his favorite and he mine. Somehow, no. Xander is not mean in any way, but he doesn’t understand play, at least not play with people. I have claw marks on me every day. Strangely enough, Tatiana and Xander are the best of buds. She picks him up and carries him around as if he were one of her dolls. If Katy or I did that, we would both be marked up. He’s walking around the house right now, meowing because she’s not here. He’s looking for her, but she’s visiting her mother and won’t be here until next week. I shudder to think how he’ll respond in the summer when Tatiana spends much of the summer away.

Too many pets.

I remember two pets from my childhood.  My family had pets probably before and definitely after, but I never really thought of them as my pets.  I only had two pets, both of them dogs, both of them, at least in my memory, looking quite similar to each other.  From what I remember, I had them at different times.  Their names were Mikey and Mickey, and I cannot for the life of me remember which one was which.  In my mind, they’re the one that ran away and the one that got ran over by a school bus in front of me.  That was when I around eight or nine, and as far as me and pets went there was nothing doing in my teens and twenties.

Saying no to pets is pretty easy when you’re a single Senior Airman in the Air Force, living in a small apartment with your daughter.  We didn’t get a pet until we moved to Altus Air Force Base, Oklahoma, at which point we essentially got two.  We got Strickland, who soon unfortunately we had to put to sleep because of feline leukemia.  And we agreed to watch Jaden, my friend Martha’s cat, while Martha was deployed.  Martha came back and we had suffered through Strickland’s loss and Martha also saw how attached Robyn and I were to Jaden, and long story short, we had a cat.

Jaden wasn’t like other pets I knew.  She wasn’t like other cats I knew.  In fact, I think Jaden was what I would have been if I was a cat.  People say sometimes owners and pets look like each other; Jaden and I sometimes acted like each other.  She didn’t put up with bullshit easily, even as a kitten.  Give her a string or a laser light, and she would give it a few bats, but eventually she would look at you, as if to say, “you know, I’m not going to dance for you.”

She also didn’t suffer fools easily.  Everyone who came into contact with her, including other animals, had to earn it from her.  She didn’t seek out fights (at least not in my presence; others might tell you differently), but when her zone got intruded on, whoever was the intruder, whether it be Strickland, Eponine, Beetle or Oy, got the famous Jaden paw.  She wasn’t antagonistic; she just didn’t trust easily.  But when you earned her trust, you earned it.  Strickland did.  Beetle did (we would sometimes joke the two of them were an old lesbian couple, often lying together wherever the sun shined in the room and grooming each other).  I did.

Jaden was my cat.  Martha might have given her to us with the intention that she would belong to Robyn.  But she was mine.  It just was the way it was.  She wasn’t the attention whore other cats are, although she became more friendly as time went by.  She would come up to me and present herself as if to say, you can pet me if you want; if you don’t, whatever.  And she slept with me.  Countless nights I would wake up to the little gray ball of fur lying on my chest, her face against my face.


Jaden was a cautious adventurer.  I can’t tell you how many times she’s taken the opportunity to run out the door if you let her--only to stop at the edge of the sidewalk, as if to say, okay, I did that, what now?  One time during another horrible dust storm in Altus the back door came open, allowing her out.  I went outside to find her standing under my bedroom window, waiting to be let back in. 

In recent years Jaden became...well, I won’t say friendlier, but more open.  When people came over and sat down on the couch, Jaden would jump up  and put herself across their legs, waiting to be petted.  Maybe I’ve become more friendlier as I’ve gotten older, and she is just following suit because of our symbiotic E.T./Elliot  relationship.  I haven’t figured out which one I was.


I got Jaden in 2001.  In the last month or so I noticed that she had been losing weight.  I noticed it, but didn’t necessarily take any special note of it.  After all, Beetle was roughly the size of, well, a Volkswagen Beetle, and we had recently gotten a new cat, Oy, who liked to eat and who also liked to “play” with the other cats as they attempted to eat.  So I could see Jaden losing weight.

Things happened very quickly over the last week or so.  I realize now, but didn’t make any special emphasis on it, that she wasn’t running around the house a lot, not getting away from Oy or chasing him down for annoying her, not jumping into my bed to sleep with me (that I could blame on Oy, too, since he seemed to take a deliberate pleasure in “playing” with me around three in the morning).  Then I noticed her eyes appeared to be watering.  Two things I saw last Friday were what showed me there was something terribly wrong.  First of all, when Oy jumped on her and wrestled with her, Jaden just lie there and took it.  She didn’t give him the paw.  She didn’t chase him off.  She just endured.  The second was she attempted to jump on the couch to be with me...and she didn’t make it.  She just fell back.  I looked at stuff online.  I told myself it was something simple, something that could be fixed with a pill or a shot.  I was going to go to the vet on Monday, and she was going to be all right.

I came home that Saturday and she attempted to get on the couch again.  I helped her this time, and she lay on my chest, softly purring, barely moving. 

I took her to to vet Monday.  I put her in the car.  Jaden in the car was quite a sight to see, usually.  She would pant like a dog, and usually get up on the dash or up on her paws to look out the window (I hated putting her in a cage).  This time she just rested on the seat and then flopped on to the floor.  She didn’t jump down to it; she just flopped.

The miracle pill/shot never came.  Within seconds of holding her, the vet told me, “we’re in trouble.”  I knew it.  He told me her organs were failing, pointing out the way her bones stuck out, the jaundice on her ears and eyes.  He could, he said, do a lot of test and have her there for about a week, going through surgeries, and all he could give me was about a five percent chance she would live another six months. 

I didn’t cry much in the vet’s office, but enough so that this grizzled old veterinarian with hearing loss and fingernails like sheets of fogged glass offered me tissues.  I signed the papers, allowing them to put her to sleep.  I could have taken her home and buried her here, but I thought about all the dogs around here and how I would feel if they dug her up...so I let her be cremated.


Robyn cried when I had to tell her Strickland would have to be put to sleep.  I didn’t.  I liked Strickland, but he just wasn’t my pet.  When I called Robyn to tell her, we both cried.  I cried more in that conversation with Robyn than I did in the weeks following when I found out my father had died.  Nothing against my father.  Jaden had just been a bigger part of my life.  I lost a friend.

Rest in peace, Jaden.  You were the best pet I could ever hope to have.  Beetle and Oy are here, and I hope that Tatiana will look at them the same way I looked at you.  But I never will.  They’re just not you.

I was originally going to write 61 of these, one for each year of my father’s life, but I started to find it more difficult to write, especially given the parameters I gave myself.  So here are the ones I wrote on Facebook, plus a few additional ones.

Heart Truth #25: Anne and Beth, with all due respect to my other aunts, you have always been the ones I have been closest to. Unfortunately, time and distance have made it more difficult to communicate as much as we used to, although I hope to change that. I miss seeing the two of you in South Carolina. I hope one of these years I'm able to go back again. I love you.

Heart Truth #26: Kim, I'm pretty sure everybody has those people they encounter in life who aren't going to be THE one, but with whom you still are glad they're in your life. I was having many issues after my separation, and you were the first person who helped me get past that. Since then, I think you're an amazing friend and an amazing person, and I'm sorry I still have your Mentalist DVDs. Here's hoping you have a long life with the prince you deserve. Love and thanks.

Heart Truth #27: This one is a bit of a scatter-shot. I don't want to thank one specific person, but all those people who have been instrumental in my love of books and writing, from my mom, who first installed in my love of reading; Mr. Moody, who was willing to discuss books with me and whom I finally forgive for introducing me to Billy Budd and that damn whale novel; Stephen King, who is the first person I remember reading, specifically the stories The Mangler and The Boogeyman when I was eight years old (so, yeah, I was destined to be a little warped); and anybody who has talked about books with me or recommended one, and all the authors over the years who have provided me hours upon hours upon infinite hours of joy.

Heart Truth #28: Marsha, you are really the only connection I have to my father before I existed (except for my mother, of course). I appreciate your friendship, and I appreciate that you made the attempt to bridge that gap between my father and me. Even now I sometimes wish when you said he was there and asked me if I wanted to talk to him that I had actually agreed to. Links are easily broken. Thank you for strengthening this one.

Heart Truth #29: Kelly, we've only known each other a few years, but I already know that you are one of the people who I can talk to at any point and you would be there to give advice or just listen. I appreciate your friendship. Love ya.

Heart Truth #30: Teresa, I met a few people after I separated that were friends for a short time, and others who I still count as friends today and with whom I see being friends with for a long time. I count myself lucky to have you as one of them. Love ya, and I still owe you a hike.

Heart Truth #31: The Air Force, there have been times, especially in the last few years of my enlistment, when I wasn't terribly fond of you. Because of you, I had to endure people I shudder to think about and I've spent roughly a quarter of my career in meeting after meeting. But also because of you I have people who have been (and will continue to be) my friends for 5, 10, 15, 20 years. Because of you, I found something to do when I was working in a chicken plant with a pregnant wife, and because of you I have my college degree. So, thank you, Air Force, and my good thoughts are with those of you still in in (except for a civilian or two...shudder).

Heart Truth #32: Cory, I knew when I met you getting off the plane in Germany that you would be a lifelong friend. I just didn't know that life would be so short. Here are some things I learned from you: never think there is no pain behind the smile; speak up (I never would have had that fun but short relationship if not for you); sometimes people use drunkenness to say what they're afraid to sober; watch what you say (nearly 18 years later I still want to kick myself thinking about us joking about the suicide information in the PFE; if only I'd known...). I only knew you three years, but you will always be a part of my life.

Heart Truth #33: Eventually on social media someone will mention a song or musician who "changed my life." That's not me. However, Bruce Springsteen has enhanced my life. I cannot say the number of times I've listened to "Jungleland" (the last two minutes of the song are the best you could ever listen to) during dark times. I know that for any mood I can find a song to enhance it. Thank you, Bruce, and thank you, music, in general.

Heart Truth #34: I've written this before that I don't remember much about my grandfather, even though he didn't die until I was 10, almost 11. What I do remember is he was a full-blooded Frenchman who served in the Navy during the second World War, had a thing for redheads, and was the father to many daughters. He took my mother, sister and I in, and we essentially lived with him for three years. I wish I could remember more than the flashes I have of him, but I cherish what I do remember, and thank him for all he's given me, especially my mother and aunts.

So now some additional ones:

I want to thank everyone who’s ever insulted me, beaten me down, held me down, looked down on me, from the bullies at Chaffin to Mr. Holyfield who threw my notebook across the classroom to the family member (technically) I saw last week who looked down on me because I was working at Walmart (hey, I don’t want to be working there, either, but at this point it’s a job), because all those people help me strive to prove them wrong.

To all the women who have been in my life, from my first crush (and likely the beginning of my fascination with redheads) Ruby, to Dawn and Melinda at Eastside Elementary, to everybody who were, often unfairly, rebounds after my long relationships, I thank you for what you taught me.

To all my family, many of whom have been there for me over the years.  We probably don’t talk enough, but I love you.

It’s days like this when writing is difficult.  Working a eight-hour day (nine, since I get an hour for lunch) and driving one hour to and one hour back (because of construction), so I don’t have a lot of time.  I suppose I could have gotten up earlier in order to write, but my present and persistent yawns suggest that might not have been that great an idea.

I’ve been thinking about what I want to write after I’m past this week of blogs.  I don’t want to write blogs just to write blogs; I’ve actually found myself a bit dissatisfied because my blog is not as structured as I’d like it to be and I am writing sometimes when I don’t have the knowledge about the subject or the interest.

I feel like I’m dead-ending here.  I get pissed at myself because I put all that time and effort into getting an English degree, and I’m not doing anything with it.  I want to write for a living, so I am just going to have to put forth the effort to break this cycle.

I’m scared of the novel I’m writing, because I am already finding myself criticizing myself for things I should have done.  What I should do is realize that I need to get through the first draft and understand that it is a first draft, that’s is going to be...well, essentially a blueprint.  There are people who can write their first draft and basically publish that.  I’m not one of them.  When I write I get so caught up in the story that I tend to overlook things like setting the scene.  It’s like I have a novelist’s heart, but a screenwriter’s fingers (and no, I don’t want to be a screenwriter). 

I’ve been thinking about some of the things I want to write, and although the stories I have in mind are different, you can definitely see the link through all of them.  The novel I’m writing now could be a thriller or a supernatural novel, based on your point of view (if it’s a rather morbid one, you might think it’s a sweet Christmas tale), but essentially what it is about is family.  I won’t go into more detail about it, because I don’t want to spoil anything, and if I do it right, you should learn things slowly throughout the novel which make you question what you thought before (or you could figure out by page ten everything that’s going to happen).

The second thing I plan on writing (although it’s been in the forefront of my mind up until recently) started to form after the miscarriage of my son.  The problem I am having with that, beside any emotional issue, is that I have to find a way to make the novel my own, because there are elements of it that are similar to other stories, and if I can’t find a way to differentiate it, I’m going to have to scrap it.

And there’s the vampire novel I am thinking of writing.  Of course, there are way too many vampire novels right now.  The problemI can see with that one is that it is going to involve a lot of research, because the novel is actually as much a political novel as a vampire novel.

And the last thing I want to write (or the last thing that is somewhat fully formed in my mind, besides bubbles of short stories that drift in and out of my cerebellum) is a ghost story, one that I’ve been thinking of a long, long time.  How long?  Well, the original title of the novel was going to be Jeremy after the protagonist, but then the Pearl Jam song came out...after I had thought of the novel!  So, yeah, it’s been something that has been in my mind since high school.  It involves fathers and sons, and maybe I’ve gotten to the point where I can actually sit and write that from a good place.