It Ain't What It Appears To Be: Part I

Now, in the usual roles between siblings, the big brother (the title refers to age, of course, not size, but size usually coincides as well) looks out for, and takes care of, the younger sister. It is the proper order of things, so to speak. However, in my particular situation, it seems my little (younger would be a better description since neither of us are of a large size) sister is actually my big brother. Not in the sense of always watching everything I do (spying on me), as in George Orwell's novel, 1984. No. More in the sense of being always ready to lend aid, in any way that it may be needed, whenever it's needed. 
Yep, I would have to say that my little sister is, and has been, a better big brother to me than I ever was to her. There are times I feel guilty about this apparent role reversal. But our circumstances, mostly mine, have shaped this aspect of our relationship. I am a lucky son-of-a-gun, as my Uncle Louie used to say. I probably wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for the support I receive from family and friends. As well as the companionship of my feathered friends, one now dead, and one alive and currently yelling (or, kicking and screaming, if you prefer). And of course, Albert. My untamed, but mostly friendly (at least to me), black bear. Don't tell anyone though. I believe it's most likely illegal to have a bear sleeping under your bed in the state of Connecticut. 
There is more to any life beyond what it appears to be. And if you don't believe me, better make a habit of keeping a firm grip on your hat.

The Illusion of Familiarity

There are author's I love, and have been reading (their stories & novels) for what seems to me to be a very long time. In my mind, they had become gods of the written word. I had done what all, well at least most, children do with their parents, set them on a much higher plane than myself. So, when I first met some of my  favorite writers, I was quite disappointed, to say the least. They turned out to be only human, with warts and everything. It took me awhile, but I finally was able to disassociate the writer I would meet, talk to, touch, and could like, or dislike, from the work they actually did. I learned that making a connection with a writer's stories, no matter how great a connection it might be, did not mean I would also have a great appreciation for the person doing the writing. But the important lesson, that no matter how I felt about the writer I would meet in person, it did not, and should not, lessen my appreciation for what they had written. I believe that a good story, be it short or a novel, is more than the person who created it.
Anyway (I still prefer anyroad), today I broke down & had my favorite online bookstore, Camelot Books, set aside a collection of stories by an author I haven't read in a long time. I will not mention his name. He is quite popular among certain circles, gets great reviews, and is highly unusual. My problem was, that while he was doing a book tour quite a few years ago in the US, I heard him do a reading in Boston. I have heard a number of authors read their own work, and some are better than others. Some are truly wonderful. This particular author was not one of those. In fact, I don't really know how to describe the effect his voice had on me. Imagine sitting down to listen to a magnificent piece of music, which is about to be performed live for you. And then someone runs their finger nails down a blackboard in front of a microphone. All I can say, is I haven't been able to read anything by him since. Mainly because I would kept hearing his voice, and would not be able to continue reading. Well, I think I'm ready to give him another try. But I'm not rushing it. 
It's amazing how quickly it seems we can forget some of our most pleasant experiences, and yet, the truly awful ones take forever to fade away. But I will not stop going to author readings. And I want to stress that, that particular author, who should not read out loud where people can hear him, is truly a wonderful writer. Go figure. Anyroad, I have never heard anyone else reading their work, or anyone else's, who had the ability to make me flee the room while screaming loudly. Thank God.

Reality, Shmeality

One man's/woman's reality is another man's/woman's La La Land. What reality is to anyone depends on how he/she perceives the world around them. And so, one human's horrifying world view, could look like an afternoon at an amusement park to someone else. Or, put another way, one person's idea of heaven, could be another person's idea of hell. And vice versa. 
The play, No Exit, by the French author whose name is escaping me at the moment, Sartre, maybe? Something like that. Anyhow, the play put forth the premise that people are hell. And sometimes, I believe they are. Certain people, anyway. But for me, more often than not, they are the part of my reality that makes life bearable. 
When I was a boy, my father would take me with him to exciting places, like a garage while his car would be worked on, shopping for tools at sears, and other (for me) cold, empty, and lonely corners of the world that I found soul-numbing. So, at an early age I got a good look at how ugly and lonely the world could be if there was no strong, or any at all for that matter, emotional connection to the "real" around us. I don't blame my father for my feeling of insignificance, emptiness, and, yes, horror at seeing what I thought was the world of men that I would have to live in. He couldn't help who he was. If there was anyone who was not cut-out to be a father, it was he. But to his benefit, he did introduce me to fishing. And although I don't fish anymore, it was something I truly enjoyed all the way into college. 
But long before then (college that is), I discovered the liberation of the imagination through reading science fiction, fantasy, horror, noir, etc., etc. Speculative fiction. I began reading everthing I could get my hands on at a young age. Even today, I can never have enough time to read. I dream of living in a house on the edge of a forest, by a lake, with my books (I do have quite a few), and all the time in the world to read. And that is my idea of heaven.
Anyroad, I just finshed a collection of stories by an Author I recently met, and heard do a reading, Paul G. Tremblay. The collection is titled, Compositions For The Young And Old. I cannot praise it enough. I believe that art, be it literature, paintings, movies, etc., should expand and/or change one's view of the world.  Or, if you like, change one's perception of the world. And there is nothing wrong with just being thoroughly entertained. For me, all the stories in this collection do all of that. There wasn't one I didn't like.This would not be a book for the English learner, I don't think. It isn't that easy a read. And, some of the stories require a strong stomach, or at least not a queasy one. I saw it classified as science fiction, but I would not do so. These stories have elements of more than a a few genres, and are mostly dark, even when I find them warm, and human, they still show the dark side of human nature, and of life. But then, I've been told I do have an affinity for the unusual. 
I won't go into all the stories, as wonderful as I think they all are. I will mention just one, The Jar. It has to do with the addictive, scary of course, and exciting "benefits" of fear. And, it is at it's core, about how the characters' (a grandmother and grand daughter) perception, and enjoyment of being scared, changes as they age. It's a beautiful story. As many in the collection are.
Anyway (anyhow, anyroad), Eddie's understanding of reality is about to intrude on mine. He's going to need some attention. Eddie's idea of heaven is having fresh food and water on a regular basis, getting head-rubs whenever he wants them, having me on the couch so he can sleep on my running shoe for at least an hour or so a day, and having lots of commercials on television with someone whistling in the background (you would be amazed at how many there are now), so he can yell his little lungs out. 
If this is your first experience with this blog, Eddie is a 16 1/2 year old cockatiel (small parrot). 
And so. Adieu for now. 

What?!

I am not always sure what world I have woken up in, until some bureaucrat makes life easier for him/herself by making my life more difficult. Now granted, here in the US, usually if you are denied something because of improper documentation, you don't normally get sent to prison, or get shot. At least if you're a citizen. Even if you're not, normally the worst that might happen is you're deported. In some countries, the consequences of not providing, or being able to provide, all the paperwork requested, can be, well, severe.
But luckily I'm in the good ol' US of A. So the worst that happens, is some damn clerk can make someone else's life a temporary hell, forcing them to run around trying to get all the right paperwork, so they can continue to drive a car, get food stamps to feed their kids, get a prescription medication, start a new job, move into a house/apartment, or to get the proper medical care. As they say on South Park every time Kenny gets killed, "Bastards!"
All these little clerks and demigods better be careful. When Cthulhu returns to this world, things are really going to change. Just ask Lovecraft (H. P. Lovecraft: famous horror writer, now dead).

If Ignorance is Bliss, Is Enlightenment Painful?

Sorry. I have nothing to say. Well...not nothing. But nothing earth shattering. Water is still wet. The sky is still blue (when not cloudy). It is still better to love than to hate. (Although a lot of people don't really seem to be able to appreciate that last one.) Republican politicians still seem believe that lying to, and cheating the American people is the way to win elections, smear those they consider enemies, and gain the power they crave. And the bears (according to Albert), still want humans to get the hell off the planet. Or at least, move out into the countryside so they can live in our houses.   
Most of us seem to be stumbling through our days, only seeing what is right in front of us. Too many people don't want to know what's going on. And I can understand that, somewhat. Most of us do feel a bit powerless to change things, and it is easier to go along with what is, than to fight for what isn't. But for all those who prefer safety and ignorance, I would point out that their lives are boring, and in many cases, ultimately pointless. I think raising a ruckus can, at least sometimes, be a damn fine thing. I don't advocate violence, you understand. But when something's wrong, I think one should make some noise.
And I do have to admit that there are times I wish I were a someone like a Batman, a dark super hero, who not only went after the usual criminals, but those evil-doers who use the system to their advantage to attempt (and sometimes succeed) grabbing power for their own greedy and selfish purposes.
For not having anything to say, I guess that's enough for the moment. Remember, if you just look at what's right in front of you, you're missing all the realities(yep, plural; life exists on many levels) of life that are happening all around you, all the time. Later, Dudes and Dudettes...stay out of trouble. Unless, of course, trouble is called for... 

I Had Some Wonderful Dim Sum While Travelling Between Inconveniences

Well first, my television's screen went fuzzy. Actually, it was more like snowy. Not a full blizzard, but the kind of snowstorm you wouldn't want to be driving in. So it seems I'll have to be acquiring a new tv. Nuts. Then, I had a run in with the Nurse Ratchett (not sure about the spelling, but the name refers to the character of the head nurse in the movie adaptation of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest) of my general practitioner's (family doctor) office staff. 
I think my doctor is a damn fine one, and most of his staff is excellent, also. With the exception of one. He has a nurse practitioner on staff, who is a serious "B". I'll let you figure out what the B stands for, but it ain't Buddy. Anyway, I talked to someone on his staff last week to call in a prescription I needed to renew for one of my immune system disorder's inconvenient (and a bit uncomfortable) symptoms, which I'm sure she did. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, the pharmacy did not show receiving the request as of this morning. I called my Doctor's office, and talked to one of his staff, who then had me hold until the Iron Maiden (which is actually a device of torture used in Medieval times) came on the line, and said they showed the call to the pharmacy had been placed Friday. I said, fine, but the pharmacy didn't have the request. To which, she said, the call was placed, and was documented. She had it right in front of her. I said, fine, but the pharmacy didn't have the request. Then, she said, it had been done, as if I was questioning her authority in the matter. Maybe, when she got a chance she would talk to them later. Not having just fallen off the back of a turnip truck (an expression that means, I didn't just arrive in the big city fresh off the farm), I immediately called the pharmacy, and told them what the wonderful nurse lady had said. The woman at the pharmacy (who truly is wonderful), told me she would call the doctor's office. And lo and behold, I was able to get my medication. Amazing. How simple things can be. 
Albert, meanwhile,who was trying to remain asleep under my bed, had escalated from making snuffling noises, to loud huffing, and finally to growling. Albert is a bear, who just so happens to enjoy sleeping under my bed, particularly on hot and humid days like today, since I have an air conditioner. Eddie, my other roommate, a cockatiel, was yelling up a storm as he usually does when I talk for any extended period on the phone. He feels it's his duty to join in. He really does enjoy himself doing this.
Luckily for me, I was late for a birthday party, and had to bolt (or to use a really big word: I had to asquatulate, which means to leave in a hurry). Which made Albert very happy, and Eddie very upset.
Anyroad, it was a simply magnificent celebration, at a local Chinese restaurant, that serves truly outstanding dim sum. Between the excellent food and my wonderful friends, all my tiny inconveniences, were finally left behind. 
And may all your troubles, big or small, be as easily disposed of.   

The World IS a Strange Place, but The Weird is Where I Come From

I left the town I grew up in a long time ago. The name isn't important. You wouldn't be able to find it, anyway. No matter how you tried to get there. Not unless you fell into it by pure dumb luck. Which very likely would be bad luck.
Let's call my hometown, Little Valley. It fits. It is in a little valley, sitting right between several hills, with a  river running through it. Very picturesque as I remember it. The population has always been around 3,000, without much fluctuation as far back as I can recall. And everyone appears to be quite normal to those passing through, of which there are not very many. 
It's difficult to explain, but those who travel the roads that would, and should, carry them into Little Valley, suddenly find themselves on the other side of the small town that they didn't see. It might strike them as a little strange that they seem to be a little further along than they thought, kind of like there's a tiny blank spot in their perception. But the brief memory of something being out of place, quickly slips away, into the depths of their subconscious without even much of a ripple. You see, if you're not from Little Valley, it's simply not there for you to find. Oh, a few people stumble upon the town every once in awhile. But for them, that's not necessarily a good thing.
When I was growing up, there were stories about a very old tree that was very difficult to find, even if you'd been there before. And at the base of this tree was a hole. Well, more like a cave that was underground. And as the story went, this cave let to a kind of door, or portal, between worlds. Or, at least to someplace else. Depending on who was telling the story, it might be a wonderous and magical place, or, it might be a dark and scary place. I always thought it was just a story, until I was 12 years old. That's when I came across that tree myself. It was while I was hiking through the woods one day with a couple of my friends. That's also when I lost one of those friends. And never saw her again.
Enough. This is not a short tale, and I am wrestling with some strong emotions, and memories I haven't thought about in a long while. So, enough for now. You might find this a hard tale to believe. But I assure you, it's true. At least as true as I can remember it. And as difficult as you might find it to believe what I tell you, I guarantee, it is a much harder tale to tell.