What Bears say when no one is listening.

Before I share the events of the day I wanted to think out loud about something that's bothering me. Those of you who use an RSS reader may not have noticed the comments in my last post. It's alright, you don't need to go look at them. Suffice it to say that Beezle discovered my Blog. I'm not sure how I ought to feel about that...

Assuming extreme optimism, I have one more reader, someone actually posted comments, and I've written something that an ancient evil felt strongly enough about to sit up and take notice - even actively oppose. (I should mention that he found one of my comments on a friend's site wherein I put in a plug for my own blog, and posted a reply publicly denouncing me.)

The thing is, it's really hard to feel optimistic when you feel violated; and I feel violated. I had one form of expression that Beezle did not yet have access to. That made it pure and holy and a great place to vent about him. Beezle found it and did his best to defile it. Something tells me that he's not going to stop. At any rate, I suppose I'll just do my best to ignore him. The last thing I'm going to do is acknowledge him or do anything that might count as "feeding the trolls" (except posting these inflammatory remarks of course). If I'm lucky he'll get bored and find something else to do with his time.

Anyways, I wanted to tell you about something else.

I was pleasantly surprised yesterday when Duncan stopped by for a visit. He doesn't like to come very often. The neighbors get nervous and call Wildlife services. (Duncan is, by the way, a rather large and gruff old grizzly bear.)

It's hard to convince the rangers that Duncan is smarter than the average bear and relatively gentle with people. (Will would argue, he's been on the receiving end of more than a few swats.) Generally, Duncan will get exasperated and tell them politely but frankly to "get the hell away" from him and tend to their own business. Generally after that they feel the need to find a shrink that can tell them that they didn't hear a grizzly bear talk.

By the way, I apologize to those with delicate ears. Duncan is a teddy bear on the inside; but as I mentioned previously, he gruff and cantankerous and fairly free with his 'hell's and 'damn's. I am, however, pleased to inform you that that is as colorful as he gets; and really, to be fair, he tries to keep it to a minimal when in my home.

To get around the park services issues we've tried a few things: cages and costume parties and the like. Once we passed him off as a circus bear - my idea, not his - and when the neighbors heard about it they all sent their kids over to see "Duncan the Wonder-bear". We had to hurry and improvise. I happened to have a clown nose, and we found some tennis balls for him to juggle, and we pulled off an impromptu performance. They loved it. Duncan swore to me afterwards that if I ever pulled that kind of stunt again, he'd eat one of the spectators. Truth be told, he loved the attention, and he loves kids, but that doesn't fit his image, so he complains and I grin for him by proxy.

When I greeted Duncan in the main hallway I said, "You should have told me you were coming. I'd have invited Susan."

Susan is a neighbor kid - seven years old, real cute. She likes to come around every couple of days, bash her eyelashes and ask, "did Wadsworth make cookies today?" Of course, he never has, but he throws together a batch and sets out the tea set for her and her dolly. She also happens to be one of Duncan's favorites.

"Why?" Duncan rumbled as he ambled in, "So she can tug at my fur and poke at my snout when I'm trying to nap? No thank-you."

"Oh, and here I thought that maybe you'd come looking for a small hand to scratch behind your ear."

"Pah!" Duncan said, and he eased down on to the shag carpet, "she's just a little snack waiting to happen."

"You say that every time you see her, but I haven't seen any missing children reports yet."

"I'm just waiting for her to fatten up a little bit. She's all ribs. Not even worth the trouble - yet. Maybe you had better call her over for cookies. Speed up the process."

I grinned. I knew from the start that he wasn't here for my company, so I picked up the phone and dialed. "Hello," I said, when the other side picked up, "Mrs. Lovegood?  Yes. It's Jason Secrest, down the road... Very well, thanks. Yes, everything is dandy. Listen, Wadsworth is making some cookies, and don't know what goes through his head, but he always makes too many. I don't suppose we could borrow Susan and Miss MarySueBee to make a few disappear? Oh, I always get that wrong... How does she say it? Marry-Soup-Bee? Got it. Thanks, you're a life saver. We'll call you when she gets here.  Uh huh. Bye."

From the Lovegood's house, it's a five minute walk to the Mansion, but for short legs and eyes that catch on every butterfly and daffodil it's fifteen in reality. I tugged on the chord that rings Wadsworth in and asked him if he could whip something up and pull out the tea set. He smiled magnanimous and said that he could.

In the meantime, Duncan and I chatted. He told me about his most recent headaches with "Meg the Heg" the resident semi-evil witch that's under his protective jurousdiction, and I told him that i was putting down solar flare for a little while to work on another project.

He snorted and said, "Let me guess, 'you're stuck?'"

I grinned sheepishly and said, "Yeah, I've got this other idea that's really nagging at me and -"

"Huh - you'll never finish a damn thing in your life. It's guys like you that make society crumble - generation 'get me a sandwich mom, and by the way, I'm living in your basement until one of us dies.' If you go a day without your Nintendo, you crack."

"Now wait a minute -" I started to counter, but the doorbell went off, and that was the end of that. Duncan smiled coyly. Talking to bears is strictly off limits when I have company.

Wadsworth got the door, and I phoned Mrs. Lovegood to tell her that her Susan had arrived safely. I almost didn't get the phone down fast enough for Mrs. Lovegood to miss hearing her daughter exclaim, "MR. DUNCAN IS HERE!"

Susan was wearing an enormous ladies hat with a long green feather when she entered, but her bouncing threw it to the floor when she dashed to the bear. She threw out her arms and hugged his great shaggy head. Miss Soupbee dangled by a threadbare doll-arm from one delicate hand, and the other was unintentional jabbing at one of Duncan's tightly closed eyes. I wished I had a camera.

The rest of the day was pleasant. Will shuffled in for long enough to make a tall stack of cookies in his hands and shuffle back out. Beezle was quiet, presumably pirating movies. Susan ignored the tea set, choosing to snuggle up against Duncan's side with her plate of cookies and chatter to him about the things that seven year olds save especially for their favorite bears. Duncan never moved an inch. He just lay there and lazily rolled his eyes to look at her now and again. If it weren't for that, you might have thought he was stuffed. Ever so slowly, a contented smile grew across his muzzle and as the hot afternoon grew into evening, Susan fell asleep on his forearm. He lifted his head and gazed down at her before putting it back down and closing his eyes.

I left them like that until Mrs. Lovegood called to request her daughter back. The ringing of the phone woke Susan up. She sat up slowly with her long blonde hair sticking out in every direction. Wisps of it covered her face. She pulled it back and stretched and said, "Mr. Seacwest?"

"Yes, Susan?"

"Did you know that Mr. Duncan can talk?"

"Oh?" I said. The surprise and interest in my voice were very real.

"Yes. He talks when nobody is here."

"And what does he say when he talks?"

Susan looked at him quietly for a minute. I listened to the soft wheeze of his slow breath, and watched her pat his ribs. Without looking back at me she stated as a mater-of-fact, "He says he loves me."

"You know," I said, "You're absolutely right."

Carry On

I've done my best to limit this particular blog to my dealings with the inhabitants of the mansion house. Today I'm talking about something I read. It may be slightly less entertaining, but I thought it appropriate considering that I talk so much about working towards that chromium-plated goal of full blown authorship.

It's been a strange night for me. Everything has been still and silent. There were no shenanigans from Beezle to start with, but the night also had that kind of strange quiet that makes the ticking of the clock boom in your ears. In the loud silence found it difficult to sleep, so I read a post in a good friend's blog wherein he discusses book covers. (By the way, Nathan's always got something interesting to say. Check out http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/)

I started thumbing through my bookshelf looking for a book with a great cover to link to his post. Instead, I found a favorite book with a cover that would never entice me to read the book. I was saddened, and nostalgically picked it up again. I read the whole thing in one sitting, like I always do. I think it must be my favorite book. The book is called, "Carry On, Mr. Bowditch." It was first published in 1955 as a book for young readers. The book is a dramatized biography of the life of Nathanial Bowditch.

The book starts when Nat is six and goes over all the major events of his life. From the first couple pages you really latch on to this kid, and you're rooting for him. Every step of the way he's held back from accomplishing anything he really wants in life but he never gives up. That's compounded with multiple deaths of loved ones, fear for his family's well being, and the occasional dangerous situation. He struggles for every break he gets, and he really becomes something in the end for it; When I was a kid he was my hero, and I wanted to be just like him. I still do.

Besides loving the man and his story, I've gained new appreciation for the author since I've started taking writing more seriously. The writing is clearly targeted to younger readers, but it's compelling to me as an adult. At the beginning of the book when Nat is a kid, the writing makes you feel like you're in the mind of a kid, and slowly as he gets older, the writing adapts gracefully so that you steal feel like you're in the mind of an adolescent and then of an experienced adult. You never notice a transition. THAT IS REALLY INCREDIBLY HARD TO DO. The learning curve is perfect. I know nothing about ships, but without being blatant, the book taught me enough about ships to understand what was happening and make it natural. The author, Jean Lee Latham, is talented at displaying human behavior and the way it changes, in both the protagonist and the side characters. She has a way of presenting the human spirit as noble and dignified. I never leave the book uninspired. The kicker is, that she does all of this in 250 pages. It's a quick read. Go read it. It's the best book ever.

One day I'll write something like that. First I have to learn to get to the point. Good luck me.

I think I'll go see what Wadsworth is whipping up in the kitchen. All this inspiration is making me hungry.

-Jason

Advertising and Anthropomorphic Personifications

I am in a particularly cheerful mood today. That is to say, I was this morning. I think much of it came from Beezle, or at least Beezle's vocal absence. Ever since he got connected to his "Internets" he has been extraordinarily quiet. It's something like giving a child a new video game on the day that you'd like him to do anything but bother you - at least that's how I deal with Will when I have the money with the exception that I get to play the game first.

Because of the silence from the ventilation system I've been able to get a lot done with my writing. I like to write to music. Usually I listen to my writing playlist on iTunes, but recently iTunes has been angry with me, so instead I’ve been listening to George Winston Radio on Pandora. It's mellow, and since it's mostly piano there aren't lyrics or sudden changes in the mood of the music. It makes for non distractive inspiration, at least until I get interrupted by commercials.  

Most of the time I'm able to ignore the advertising, but today the cosmos had it out for me... maybe it had to do with balance or karma or the ying-yang or something. Beezle wasn't preventing me from working, so something else had to get on my nerves. Today it was McDonalds. I am not exaggerating when I say that I was subjugated to four of their commercials in the space of one hour.  Three times I was ambushed by an a distracted woman who has trouble making her own decisions, but can easily add a coke to her BigMac for a dollar, or maybe to her chicken nuggets, har har. The other one I can’t remember, but it was just as obnoxious.  

Some people might have got the hankering for a BigMac after all the not so subliminal messaging, but not me. Fat Six Dollar Burgers from Carl's Junior can entice me, yes; but Six Dollar NastyMacs just won’t cut it. The redundant pitches were distracting, getting on my nerves, and dropping my word count, so I took off my headphones and made due with silence. Five minutes later, to my great frustration I heard a little ratta-tat-tat on my study door. Extra distractions weren't what I was looking for, but I saved,swiveled around in my chair and sighed, "Come in."  

It was Will. He was wearing slacks and an orange patterned vest that had been mine a month ago. It was loud and ostentatious and the opposite of posh. However, I liked it. Wadsworth did not, and he'd somehow managed to manipulate it from my grasp. Seeing it on Will was slightly gratifying to my ego. The vest was big on Will, but so was everything he wore - probably because he lives in my dumpster and resupplies his wardrobe with items that leave mine.  

"Yes, Will," I said, doing my best display my annoyance at being interrupted, "what do you need?"  

Will placed his hands in his back pockets and leaned back a little. "Well, Sir," he said, "I just wanted to know if you're hungry."  

"No, not particularly,” I said, “Should I be?"  

"Well... I was just thinking about how much you probably want to go buy a BigMac or something.”  

I closed my eyes slowly and left them shut, "Will,” I said, “I'm trying to write. Why is it that you suddenly think that I need to pound down a greasy hamburger with wilting lettuce and a paper thin tomato on a deflated sesame seed bun? By the way, if you haven't guessed yet, I'm not a huge fan of Ronald McDonald's signature entree."  

Will bit his lip, "Yeah, he said, I know."  

"Then why are you in here bothering me?"  

"I thought that after you bought it you might decide to throw it away."  

"Why would I buy a burger just so that I can throw it away?"  

Will cast his eyes to the floor and mumbled, "I don't know… just 'cause."  

I'm afraid that I'm a little slow, and it took a few seconds of glowering at Will to mental connections. When I finally caught on, I said, "Are YOU hungry Will?"  

He smiled hopefully, "Yeah."  

"Well, I'm not going to McDonalds. I'm busy. Go ask Wadsworth to get something for you. Besides, his cooking tastes better and won't make you die from an early heart attack."  

A whine started creeping in at the edges of Will's voice. "It's not the same."  

"Yes, we just established that. It's better. Now please, I have worked to do."  

"Fine." Will stomped off toward the kitchen leaving my door open. I covered my face with my hands and sighed. Then I swiveled back around to my keyboard and put my fingers on the keys. The moment they touched the plastic, the knocker on the door boomed out three slow rapports. That had to be Death. No one else had the talent to knock so ominously. I balled my hands in frustration before pushing away from the Desk and calling out, "Don't bother, Wadsworth. I'll get it." I wasn't likely to get anything done as long as Death were here, so I resigned to just give up for an hour. I exited my study and walked down the main hall to the door. Opening my door I found death hovering stoically above my porch with nothing but darkness under his cowl and his sickle in hand.  

I opened with the customary greeting that I reserved just for him, "Business, or pleasure?" (It's important to me, that I get that out in the open, you wouldn't believe how tense it is to sit through lunch, not knowing if after the small talk you'll be invited to permanently change residency to the underworld.")  

"Pleasure," Death boomed. His voice is resonating, crisp and deep. I keep trying to convince him to give voice acting a shot, but he remains uninterested.  

"I've been working hard this afternoon,” Death began, “and would enjoy resting and sharing conversation for a short time.” He hesitated before adding, “I would find one of Wadsworth’s rolls most invigorating, if they are available.”

I gestured for Death to come in, but without much enthusiasm. He noticed, and I’m somewhat embarrassed about that now. He regarded me and didn’t move, rather he said,”I know that you are a busy man and I do not wish to impose if you are working, have you already had your break today?"  

I cocked back my head and and screamed at the cosmos and the fates and whoever else had taken up promoting with my least favorite food chain, "Fine! You win! I'm going to McDonalds! Just leave me alone!"

You wouldn’t think it, but Death has expressions. They are subtle and hard to perceive, but I’ve been acquainted with him for a long time. At the moment, he’s head was slightly cocked and it was as if he was furrowing his brow.

“This seems like a bad time,” he said, “I will harvest more souls and come back later.”

“No. I said, now is just peachy. We are going to McDonalds and we are going to like it. WILL, get out here! We’re going to the magically toxic land of the golden arches.”

“Wouldn’t you rather eat a roll? It would taste better and contribute to, rather than detract from, your overall health.”

“Don’t you know,” I said, “ ‘It’s just not the same.’ ”

“If you say so. It will be your funeral.”

“And yours. Get in the truck.”

And so it happened that the local home of the BigMac was first visited by Death. Do not fear for him. He has no arteries to clog.