tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38096418749548183612023-11-15T05:09:50.457-08:00The Mansion HouseAnd now, a descriptive poem:
Mansion with valet;
a small child lives in dumpster;
also ingracious demon.Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-65126888110460404002012-02-01T21:42:00.000-08:002012-02-10T02:44:34.637-08:00A Disturbing Dream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again, I'm interrupting my adventures in hell to bring you
other news:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a horrible terrible nightmare last night. It was so
visceral. So real. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was 12 again, and I was outside in a dark wood. A man much
resembling Wadsworth approached from the forest. When he looked at me I felt
small, insignificant, and frightened. He walked closer leaning slightly on a
black and silver cane. I tried to shrink back from him, but found that I could
not move. When he was close the man bowed stiffly and locked his gaze on me. I could
see disdain burning in his eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am Walters,” he said. His voice was firm, cryptic, and aloof. “I have been sent to fetch you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lightning flashed and the wood was gone. Before us there was
an enormous building that I immediately recognized as the mansion house, but it
was old, crumbling, and decayed. The lawns had gone to seed and the hedges were
full of long sharp thorns. Here I’d like to mention I have a favorite hedge
sculpture at the mansion. In reality, it
is trimmed to resemble Abraham Lincoln patting a large squirrel on the head. In
the dream it was Hitler throttling a rabbit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my dream Walters walked up the path to the house,
waggling his fingers at me. I didn’t want to go, but behind me I heard howling
and a scream. Swallowing I followed Walters. At the door I looked inside
without entering. The interior was decorated in deep black colors complimented
by red velvet trimmings. Most of the furniture was covered with black sheets
and cobwebs ran rampant.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I timidly crossed the threshold the ancient doors (which
were iron rather than oak) swung shut with a bang, clipping my heals. I heard
the deadbolts lock of their own accord. I tried the handle, but it wouldn’t
budge. Walters turned and lifted an eyebrow. There was a hint of amusement on
his face. Then he turned, waggling his
fingers at me again. I followed him past the cold unlit fireplace of the grand
foyer and up the great stairs to the door of Uncle Nick's study. It was black
and foreboding. Walters stepped back and gestured at the door.
I turned the knob and peered inside. One glance was enough to make me shriek and
jump back in fear. A blody altar of bones sat atop a scrawled chalk pentagram. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walters calmly pushed me inside and slammed the door behind
me. I pounded against the door, yelling in fright as Walters dryly intoned,
"We do hope you enjoy your stay, sir. Please call should you need
anything."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard deep resounding laughter behind me and spun around
to see a skull hovering over the alter its eyes were aflame.<br />
<br />
I woke up then,
cold and sweating. I leapt from my bed clambered up on my dresser and yelled
into the vent, "Beezle! What the heck are you doing?"<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"FUS ROH DAH," said the vent and I was blasted
backward, thankfully landing on the bed. "Beezle," I hollered not
missing a beat, "Stay out of my dreams!"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I USED TO INFLUENCE DREAMS LIKE YOURS," said the
vent, "BUT THEN I TOOK AN ARROW IN THE KNEE."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Beezle! I'm serious! Stay out of my head!"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"AND I'M BEING SERIOUS. I WISH WITH ALL MY BLACK HEART THAT I COULD HAVE EXPERIENCED WHATEVER TORTUOUS FANTASIES YOU ENJOYED LAST NIGHT - THOUGH I
DOUBT THAT MY ENJOYMENT OF YOUR AGONY WOULD COMPARE MUCH WITH THE THRILL OF
OFFING THE KEEPER OF AN ORPHANAGE. WHICH I AM ABOUT TO JOYOUSLY DO, THANK YOU
VERY MUCH."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Truth be told, Skyrim is the best game that ever happened to
me. Not just because it's a great game, but because it keeps Beezle occupied.
He can't spend more than a few hours away from it at a time, and the occasional dovahkiin shout through the vents is more than worth the peace I get throughout the rest of the day. I hope some DLC
comes out soon, so that I can release it to Beezle in manageable trickles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was disturbed by Beezle's reaction though. It’s not like him to NOT claim something like this. He’d
have been proud of it, would have drawn out his victory by taunting me. I supposed that it was possible to have a bad dream <i>without</i> Beezle’s help, but it didn't seem likely.
There was a knock at my door, interrupting my thoughts. "Lord Secrest?" came Wadsworth's soothing
voice, "Are you alright?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blushed. I hadn't meant to wake Wadsworth. He does enough already without being shouted awake in
the middle of the night. "I just had a bad dream, that's all," I
called through the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Ah. Perhaps a cup of something warm would help settle
the nerves? Shall I fetch you something?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"No thanks. I'm okay. You can go back to bed."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Very good, sir. Please, don’t hesitate to wake me
should you change your mind."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lay back down and tried to think pleasant calming
thoughts. I was almost asleep when the vent bellowed, "WHAT? SHE'S EVIL?
HOW CAN I IN GOOD CONSCIOUS KILL THE ABUSIVE CARETAKER OF AN ORPHANAGE? IS THIS MANDATORY IF I WANT TO JOIN THE DARK BROTHERHOOD? IT CAN’T BE. THAT WOULD BE
CRUEL."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled and let myself fall into a peaceful, dreamless
slumber.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-10441523636558527442012-01-23T12:10:00.000-08:002012-01-23T12:20:29.432-08:00Crimson Surprise (Part 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Last time on Crimson Surprise the following happened:<br />
<div><br />
<div>I attended a writing convention and got a little creeped out by Paul Genesse's over interest in Beezle, so I skipped out on the rest of the convention, went home, and locked my door. </div><div><br />
</div><div>A few days after the convention I came home to find the house unnaturally quiet. Suspecting that Beezle was up to something I dashed off to his lair finding his door open. This left me disquieted because that door is the one thing keeping him contained. Inside the lair I picked up a letter left on a pedestal and in doing so triggered some sort of spell that slammed the door behind me:</div><div><br />
</div><div><blockquote><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Dear Lord Secrest,</span></i><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></i><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Until recently there has been an evil entity occupying this space. Whether you considered it a blessing, curse, or tenant, it will not bother you again. To ensure both your safety and cooperation this room has been sealed for the next twenty-four hours. Have an enjoyable weekend. As always, feel free to submit stories about any demons you encounter for inclusion in 'The Crimson Pact.'</span></i><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></i><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> -The Spirit Traveler"</span></i></blockquote>At this point I left to have a good cry. Since then, I've left you out to dry as Griseus so sternly reminded me. Let's jump right in, shall we?<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Looking around my prison, the prison which had once held Beezle, I felt an enormous weight of despair. "<i>Beezle? Gone?" </i>I thought. Then I chided myself angrily, "<i>Beezle has been a pain in my neck since the first summer I spent in this house, way back when it belonged to Uncle Nicholas. Not only that, but he's a demon for crying out loud. He's never stopped trying to get at my soul. It's what he does.</i>"<br />
<br />
Still, Beezle has been a significant part of my life for over a decade, howbeit obnoxious and dangerous. Maybe it was his devilish charm or his evil sense of humor, but I found myself feeling hollow and empty at his loss. "<i>Just a trick," </i>I thought, <i>"Just a ruse. He's been working on me all these years, trying to make me like him more and more to make me a loyal friend, ready to fall into some deadly trap that would cost me my soul to escape."</i> Honestly, I still believe that what I thought here was fully accurate, but it was no use. I felt like a family member had just been kidnapped, and the culprit hadn't even left me the option of putting up a ransom.<br />
<br />
Angrily I threw the letter across the room and began to pace it. I didn't try to look for a way out. There wasn't one. That was the idea. You keep demons in it so that they can't get out. There was the vent in the ceiling of course, but it acts as a pressure valve - lets Beezle reach into the world and interact with it but prevents him from building up enough energy to blast his way out of the wards. The vent wasn't any kind of use to me though. It was several stories above me. I couldn't even see it in the vaulted darkness.<br />
<br />
Finally I dashed at the letter and attempted a good kick. It got caught on my shoe and lifted a few feet into the air and settled back down next to a thin trail of demon blood. Grimly I followed it with my eyes to the wall where a larger stain smeared the smooth onyx stone etched with golden runes. I squinted and knelt down next to the smear. A small black circle containing one rune was completely blood free, and it was close to the center of the splatter.<br />
<br />
I brushed my finger thoughtfully over the rune and it lit up. I stepped back as I felt intense heat radiate from it and it glowed red. The fiery glow spread to surrounding runes, and from them to others. Soon a full third of the wall was burning like a furnace, forcing me to the the other side. I thought that at any moment I'd be roasted like a pig. The shining onyx stone before me melted away revealing Beezle's fireplace.<br />
<br />
The Beezle's fireplace is one of the few things in his room that never seems to change shape or size. It's always the same. Twenty feet tall, surrounded by ironworks and statues depicting torturous burning misery, a blazing inferno - except today there was no blazing inferno. The fireplace was completely empty save one thing: a golden door with a silver handle.<br />
<br />
"<i>Of course!" </i>I thought, <i>"I forgot about the fireplace</i><i>."</i><br />
<br />
I've known for a good long time that Beezle has had a route too and from the demonic realm via his fireplace. It's not anything that's ever concerned me much. What comes in and out of the hell-fires is no business of mine, unless it wanders into the rest of the house. The room and the door see to it that nothing ever does. Now though... now I had to make a decision that I never thought would be difficult: I had to decide whether or not I should leave the safety of my house, and of this world, and enter a the demonic plane.<br />
<br />
<i>"Beelze obviously ment me to find this," </i>I thought, "<i>so presumably it's relatively safe for me to go through, or at least close to the door."</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>"But what if," </i>I added, <i>"What </i>if<i> this is one last kick in the ribs? I never did sell him my soul, so what if he led me to the door out of spite?"</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Somehow I doubted that. Not because Beezle isn't spiteful. No, it's because currently Beezle is <i>my </i>demon. That relationship is more important than you might think. It's a matter of pride for Beezle that he gets my soul and no one else. If he sent me as a mortal into the depths of hell and I somehow ended up selling my self to some other demon, Beezle would never live it down. And Beezle wasn't dead. Otherwise I wouldn't have been locked in my room.<br />
<br />
If Beezle thought he could get back he wouldn't have led me to the door either. Obviously, he thought that whatever the risks behind it, this golden door was the only way for he and I to be reunited as tempter and temptee.<br />
<br />
I walked tentatively toward the door, <i>"Are you really going to do this?</i>" I thought, <i>"Are you </i>really<i> going to risk your life and probably your soul to get Beezle back in your house? Don't you think that maybe you should just sit back for 24 hours, and then throw a 'Beezle is Gone' party after the fact?</i>"<br />
<br />
"<i>Well," </i>I countered lamely, "<i>he must think I'm capable, or he wouldn't lead me this way. Beside's he'll owe me one. It might make life better when he's back. Look, I'll just step through and if it looks too risky I'll just say I'm chicken and come right back."</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
With that final foolhardy thought firmly in mind I gripped the long silver handle. It was curved ever so slightly and felt comfortable in my hand. With measured pace I pushed it down and pressed softly against the ornate door. The moment it cracked open a magical gust of wind caught me from behind and sent me tumbling over the threshold. I tumbled through the air for several feet, landing on my back in the dark on something surprisingly soft and textile. A ray of light above me revealed the door as I looked up, but the ray became feebler and vanished as the door closed with a subtle click.<br />
<br />
----to be continued-------<br />
<br />
Sorry, but I just scared my own pants off reliving the horrible realization that I was trapped in the dark in Hell of all places. We'll pick up on this again next week when I'm not quite so short of breath.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">(Crimson Pact references used with the written permission of Paul Genesse. Get the anthology or risk your life submitting your own demon related experience at <a href="http://www.thecrimsonpact.com/" target="_blank">www.thecrimsonpact.com</a>)<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div></div></div></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-31812600218240341292012-01-02T01:55:00.000-08:002012-01-02T16:03:04.837-08:00A Mansion House New Year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have been visiting the mansion house for a very long time now, and I've been bringing you stories about it for 1 year 6 months, and 28 days, and I have done it with great satisfaction. It pains me, however, to admit to you or to myself, that I haven't truly cultivated a sense of duty about these reports. I've flitted from topic to topic, and only written on days that I found convenient, meaning almost never. Well no more. I've been awakened to my responsibility by a an ancient and nearly forgotten book in the library.<br />
<br />
You see, today, or rather the day which has just ended, is the first one of this year, and last night was the last one of the last year. It's a time of new beginnings, not just for me but for everyone, everything, and particularly for the Mansion House. Every year, as the first light of the new year dawns upon the house, it undergoes hundreds of changes. Some are spectacular, others mundane, some permanent, and others instantaneous and fleeting. This year, for example, one tile of the marble floor of the library gained an extra vein of crystal; a staircase shifted locations; a room appeared and another vanished (with a beloved family heirloom locked inside of course).<br />
<br />
Any dust and grime that had not yet withered at Wadsworth's gaze vanished from existence, and new gargoyle appeared on the southern battlements, and the eastern cellar repopulated itself with various rare spirits - which I do not drink - and a particularly vibrant flavor of root beer - which I savor.<br />
<br />
Most of the day, miniature fireworks have been sporadically exploding inside the fireplace; and our perennial phenofuax, a rare red bush, has been exploding in flame, burning to ashes, and growing again from the soot. (It would, of course do this in any house on the first day of the year. The whole cycle takes about one hour, so it does this approximately 24 times before sitting still and quiet for the rest of the year). Even more spectacularly Beezle slept quietly for the duration of the day. (There are some days of the year, like New Years and Christmas, that sap him of strength.)<br />
<br />
At about midday, I walked into the library with Wadsworth for a private poetry reading. We had each selected a few verses that we found inspiring, along with one or two that we each had written. I would post them here, but I still find them private and personal. As we finished, the afternoon light spread into the room and little things changed here and there. Nothing major happened, with the exception of Griseus waking.<br />
<br />
Griseus is a very old book—not a dusty one, Wadsworth has seen to that—he's full of arcane writings and lost spells and hidden knowledge. At least, that's what he'd like you to believe. Actually I believe quite a lot of it. I just also happen to also believe that Griseus exaggerates more often than he'd like you to believe. Griseus has been deeply asleep for a number of years, but as the light of the new year caressed his black leather cover his pages fluttered open in a wide yawn.<br />
<br />
Wadsworth's eyebrows lifted, and so did mine. "Good morning Griseus," I intoned. The book snapped shut, and hovered a few feat above it's pedestal, before turning to face me. Griseus's is blank on his back cover and on his spine, but the front cover is adorned raised silver emblems - the masks of comedy and tragedy that are commonly seen on the walls of acting theaters. The mask of tragedy made a quizzical face and gave voice to the words, "Good heavens. Am I still here? I expected to wake somewhere a little more... prestigious."<br />
<br />
I winked at Wadsworth and responded, "Yes, well, I did once consider pawning you a at a gypsy flee market a few years ago, but nobody offered enough to make it worth the trade. I suppose it's for the best. I needed the cash, but you've made an excellent ornament."<br />
<br />
Griseus swelled up like a waterlogged journal, and I couldn't help but wonder whether he most wanted to protest the indignity of the flee market or the disgraceful idea of using him as a common decoration. To my surprise he did neither. Instead he compressed his pages, smoothed his cover and icily replied, "I will not dignify that obvious jib with a response. However I suggest that in the future, if you do not wish to find yourself lost in the nether, you address me as is befitting one of my station." Then he turned to Wadsworth and said, "Though the lad has grown older, he's not much more mature, is he."<br />
<br />
"His lordship is light of heart, certainly," said Wadsworth.<br />
<br />
I smiled wryly. "You're personality hasn't changed much either, Griseus. And that's why I know that when we leave this room for the comfort of the smoking room fireplace, you'll follow, but pretend that you don't like us much."<br />
<br />
"There is nothing to pretend. Tombs as old as I have few thoughts to spare on the briefly lived existence of insolent mortals like you."<br />
<br />
I turned and walked toward the door. "Then I guess you won't follow me and pester me about what's happened in the last few years."<br />
<br />
Gristle sniffed loudly. "Interest in you, and interest in keeping up with current events are two separate and highly dissimilar concepts."<br />
<br />
"Yes, yes, of course they are," I grinned.<br />
<br />
As we entered the hallway Wadsworth paused and asked, "Shall I prepare a hot beverage and perhaps a light snack, Sir?"<br />
<br />
"Yes thanks." I responded. "A cup of hot dark Belgian chocolate would be nice right about now."<br />
<br />
"Very good sir," Wadsworth bowed, "I shall rejoin you shortly."<br />
<br />
And so it was that I spend the rest of the evening, in the smoking lounge updating Griseus on current events. I told him a few anecdotes, showed him a few objects of interest, and read a few of these blog posts to him.<br />
<br />
"How many of these 'blog' postings have you recorded?" Griseus asked, after I read to him from <a href="http://whathowadsworth.blogspot.com/2010/08/from-my-first-night-in-mansion-i-have.html">Dumpster Diving</a> and <a href="http://whathowadsworth.blogspot.com/2010/07/what-bears-say-when-no-one-is-listening.html">What Bears Say when No One is Listening</a>.<br />
<br />
"Well, let's see," I said, and did a quick tally, "Looks like 22 of them,"<br />
<br />
"I see. And for how long have you been producing them?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, about a year and a half... something like that."<br />
<br />
Griseus's tone took on a hint of annoyance, "Do you realize, your lordship<i>, </i>that in one and one-half years there are 78 weeks? That is nearly 18 months, or 546 days. Do you care so little about this place and its happenings that you have only made brief public mention of it on an average of little more than once each month?"<br />
<br />
I cleared my throat. But I wasn't quite sure how to respond. I wanted to say, "I've been busy," but as I opened my mouth to say it, the words withered and died on my tongue. I have been busy. But not so busy that I couldn't write now and again.<br />
<br />
"I've been writing a book," I hazarded through a tight throat, "It's about the mansion."<br />
<br />
"Oh? And how for how long have you worked on it. Is it complete?"<br />
<br />
"No." I said, "and I've been compiling it for much longer than it should have taken."<br />
<br />
"I suspected as much. What is the last thing you reported about this house?"<br />
<br />
I quickly surfed to <a href="http://whathowadsworth.blogspot.com/2011/06/crimson-surprise-part-1.html">Crimson Surprise</a> on my laptop and read it out loud, pausing with shame at the incomplete ending.<br />
<br />
"Mmm. Yes. This seems like a particularly consequential event." said Griseus, "Where is the concluding entry?"<br />
<br />
"I haven't... I haven't quite -" I trailed off, but Griseus finished for me, "-gotten around to it?"<br />
<br />
I nodded, and we sat in awkward silence for a short time.<br />
<br />
Griseus sighed. Then he hovered in front of my face very deliberately said, "Please listen carefully, Lord Secrest. I believe that you began this project because you believed it was important as well as entertaining. You thought it was worth something, not only to you, but also to others. However, your negligence strips your writing of value and makes a mockery of it's subject. Some tasks are better left uninitiated than having been done the disservice of being started only to be left undone. This project is perhaps a task of that nature. Now, I think I will take my leave. I do not wish to distract you. It seems to me that you will wish to take some time to write before you sleep."<br />
<br />
Griseus hovered quietly out of the room. Subdued, I began to write this entry. I have nearly finished, but I haven't written nearly enough. The new year is a time of new beginnings. It's a time for change, so here's my resolution. I will update weekly. Expect it. If I disappoint you, know that I have also disappointed myself along with a very old and very wise friend. But let's not dwell on that. Let's look forward, and raise a glass to the coming year. God bless both my endeavors and yours.</div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-50694469621917729712011-07-26T00:34:00.000-07:002011-07-26T01:13:06.761-07:00We interrupt this programming to bring you statistics.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've really been a naughty boy as far as this very true and very frightening story has been concerned. I got it half way down and started chasing bunny rabbits (Literally. A good number of them popped out of a drawer in my study one day. I'm not sure how they got there, and I'm sorry that they didn't get there with newspaper underneath them.) and forgot to tell the rest. Now I've been occupied trying to finish my memoirs of my younger years before worldCon comes up in august. The second I have a spare moment, I promise I will finish dragging you back from that nefarious cliff I left you hanging on.<br />
<br />
To prove that I haven't been slacking, I'll give you a little status update about how my day went today. This was the first day that I have ever devoted full time to writing. My writing group and Wadsworth pushed me to try it this way instead of wandering around the mansion looking for important memorabilia for 8 hours on a Saturday before giving it an obligatory unproductive hour in the evening. I finally gave in. Here are my statistics for the days work:<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
My new record for <b>words written in one day: 6247 Words</b>.<br />
<br />
Estimated<b> time spent writing today: Between 10 and 11 hours</b>. (also a new record.) (also got the "treat it like a job" achievement)<br />
<br />
<b> Words per hour: Between 570 and 625.</b> Not very high, not a new record, but not terrible. Some of my hours had really good productivity. Others I zoned out a bit, and had to fight to focus. I also had to spend a little time thinking about the plot.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div><b>Current Book Word Count: 43,560</b> (what I wrote today accounts for 14% of the existing count or 7% of the estimated final count)<br />
<br />
I guess that <b>I’m half-way through the plot</b>, meaning that the <b>book will probably be around 87120 words</b> long. This is probably too long and will need to be cut down to around 75 I think. I need to double check the genre standards.<br />
<br />
Assuming 600 words per hour (which seems average for me) this book <b>should take 72 more hours of writing time to finish.</b><br />
<br />
Number of<b> days that I can fully commit to writing before worldCon: 1 maybe 2.</b><br />
<br />
The amount of<b> editing that I’m going to want to do before worldCon, but not do: All of it.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Chance of being able to interested an editor in my book at woldCon and overnight her/him a full manuscript? Zero percent. </b><br />
<br />
<b>How about the first 3 chapters? Good percent.</b><br />
<br />
Amount of <b>nasty sticky residue on my armrests</b> after a day of sweating away in my study. <b><i><u>Way too much</u></i></b> for comfort. I know, too much info, sorry.<br />
<br />
Amount of <b>hope/fear generated by looking at these stats: <i><u>infinite</u></i>.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Person who keeps posting stats that make me angry enough to write more: <a href="http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/2011/07/effulgent-corruption-afterglowwarmdown.html?showComment=1311667837969#c7573864243416603739">Nathan</a>.</b><br />
<br />
P.S. Nathan has ePublished a book called Paradise Seekers, and it's one of my favorite books. Read it all day one day and finished it. Could barely stop for a potty break. It's 70,000 words for a dollar, the story is great, it's well edited, and it's way better than all of the garbage eBooks that are written in a week to flood the market in get rich quick scams. Also, Nathan's wife Rebecca feeds me frequently when Wadsworth has the day off, so by buying his book you are ensuring my health and happiness. (I may be just a little biased, but you can be too because of your love for me.)<br />
<a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/61859">get it on Smashwords in lots of formats</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Paradise-Seekers-ebook/dp/B0052EXLWI">get it on Amazon</a><br />
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11459010-paradise-seekers">get it for your nook</a></div></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-85794748516867939922011-06-01T02:56:00.000-07:002011-06-01T18:17:43.674-07:00Crimson Surprise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Forgive me, but I'm still not talking about quarters today. I was working on a history of Beezle's obsession... trying to decide what was relevant and/or entertaining and what was not. Unfortunately something more drastic has occurred, and I felt it more relevant. Enjoy this week's installment of "Crimson Surprise!"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">------</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> The last few days have been trying to say the least. I've been dealing with things that are... <i>less</i> ordinary that what I'm used to. The details of the whole story started a long time ago, long before I was born, and I'm not really too clear about exactly how they go, so I won't attempt to divulge or explain them. My part begins four days ago on Saturday, May 28, 2011.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Saturday morning I abstracted from the Mansion House to my Provo residence where I met up with a few friends who had invited me to spend the day with them at Conduit. Conduit, for those who don't know, is an annual convention that encourages authors and nerds in general to be as embarrassing as they want to be without feeling quite as self conscious about themselves. I've attended twice now, and after observing a few of the attendees I've concluded that a few of the people are much like me - we experience reality slightly differently than the people who surround us. I'm convinced, for example, that Larry Corriea carries a concealed weapon not because he's a gun nut, and not because he feels the need to protect himself from other people. I suspect rather, that he is acutely aware that creatures of myth and legend are stalking him on a regular basis. It is likely that Monster Hunters International is a spiced up set of memoirs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I enjoyed the convention greatly, took a few notes, and did my best to schmooze with the successful people around me. One such person goes by the name of Paul Genesse, though now I wonder if that's just an alias. You see, Genesse has been collecting stories about demons, and he's especially interested in Urban Fantasy (you know, accounts of winged nightmares that terrorize the streets in back-road villages; inner-city libraries that hide do-it-yourself possession booths in the self-help sections - stuff like that.) At first, I found Paul's invitation to submit a story intriguing. I keep a demon in my modern-day basement after all <i>and</i> I exploit the antics of said demon shamelessly in an attempt to win myself a little fame and fortune without selling my soul. Paul's pitch sounded just exactly like my kind of thing. I said as much to Paul, and immediately regretted it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Most of the time, when I tell people about Beezle and The Mansion House, they chuckle with me and we move the conversation along. Paul however had a completely different reaction. He got a sort of darkly eager look in his eyes and started probing me with endless questions. I answered them uneasily and did my best to end the conversation. Paul reluctantly let me go, but he insisted on trading business cards. I pretended to have lost mine, but he pressed his into my hand along with a flyer requesting submissions for his Crimson Pact anthology. I smiled, said I might submit something, and backed my way towards Correia's corner of the room. Genesse's eyes followed me as I went, but I felt a little safer. Larry, as I mentioned earlier, packs heat. It wasn't long before Paul was smiling at another fan, and I slipped out of the signing area. I sent a text to my friends saying that I felt ill, walked around the street corner, and abstracted back to the mansion house where I breathed much more easily. I shrugged the episode off and completely forgot about it by dinner time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Monday was memorial day. I went home to Roosevelt to visit the graves of some loved ones and to enjoy the company of my immediate family. When I returned to the estate, I abstracted into the northwest forest. This perturbed me because I'd been aiming for the cluster of trees next to the driveway. The evening was late and cloud-cover hid the moon and stars. No lights were on in the house and the walk was dark and foreboding. I was severely anxious until I remembered that I'd given Wadsworth the day off so that he could honor a few comrades who had fallen in The Wars. (He wouldn't say which ones. He gets cryptic like that.)<br />
In Wadsworth's absence I grabbed a snack from the fridge and settled down in the study to work on my memoirs. After an hour the silence of the house was grating on my nerves. Beezle hadn't breathed a word. I checked my ventilation shaft. It was neither stuffed nor shut. Generally I see quiet as a blessing, but given that the day was Memorial Day, I wondered if Beezle wasn't preoccupied with some special way of honoring the dead. (The list of rules at the mansion house is growing long. One of the prominent rules reads "Reanimation and other extracurricular activates involving the (un)dead are strictly prohibited." This rule is preceded only by the rules that prohibit things like lighting me on fire.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Concerned, I cleared my throat and called into the air duct, "Beezle, how's Memorial Day been for you?" I got no reply. After several seconds I repeated, "Beezle? What are you doing down there?" Nothing. I listened intently. The silence was complete. Usually I can at least pick up the soft roar of Beezle's hellish fireplace. My stomach twisted with anxiety and I had to force myself to walk instead of run to the wine cellar. As I went I made loud remarks like, "Duncan is more than willing to lend me his witch taser," and "Beezle, answer me or so help me I'll cut off your internet access again." By the time I'd made it to the basement door I was jittery and nervous, looking everywhere for anything out of place.<br />
Nothing was. Everything was unnervingly still and orderly. Even with Wadsworth home there was always <i>something</i> misbehaving. I gave up on walking and dashed the rest of the way to the cellar. I had force myself to slow again and to take the stairs carefully. They're old and rotted. I replaced them once, but they decayed again before the day was out. At the bottom I dashed through the perpetually dusty wine racks. I seized the box of matches by Beezle’s tunnel. My hands were shaking so badly that I snapped three match heads before I managed to light the torch in the scone. Usually when I visit Beezle I burn away the ever present spider webs that lead to his door. This time I just ran with the torch before me and blazed a trail through the webs. In retrospect, this was rasher than it sounds. Some of those webs are occupied by more than one variety of deadly arachnid. The end of the tunnel and the heavy bronze door couldn't come quickly enough. I rounded the final corner to find that the door was already open. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> I cannot think of any situation in which that might be a good thing. Beezle can't open that door. He can barely affect the world beyond that door. If he found a way past it, heaven help this world. More than that, heaven help my Uncle. Uncle Nick travels dimensions. Beezle happens to be his ticket home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I burst through the entry, ready to charge into Beezle's cavernous lair. Only, it wasn't cavernous anymore. I nearly crashed into the close far wall. The room was as it had been ten or twelve years ago, when I unwittingly opened a portal for Beezle and launched my uncle deep into somewhere else. There were only two differences between now and then. The first was a large splotch of blood on the south wall. The second was a sealed envelope on the polished onyx floor. In shock I picked up the letter and examined the red wax seal. It was stamped with the letters CP. When I lifted the seal the bronze door slammed shut and a gust of wind circled the room. I ran to the door and inserted my key. It wouldn't turn. I tore the typewritten letter from the envelope and read,</div><blockquote><i> "Dear Lord Secrest,<br />
Until recently there has been an evil entity occupying this space. Whether you considered it a blessing, curse, or tenant, it will not bother you again. To ensure both your safety and cooperation this room has been sealed for the next twenty-four hours. Have an enjoyable weekend. As always, feel free to submit stories about any demons you encounter for inclusion in 'The Crimson Pact.'<br />
-The Spirit Traveler"</i></blockquote>--to be continued---<br />
<br />
Sorry for the break. I had to stop here to cry a little bit. Much as I hate to admit it, I've grown attached to Beezle. This is an emotional scene for me.<br />
<br />
-Jason<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New',Courier,monospace;">(Crimson Pact references used with the written permission of Paul Genesse. Get the anthology or risk your life submitting your own demon related experience at <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><a href="http://www.thecrimsonpact.com/" style="color: #0065cc;" target="_blank">www.thecrimsonpact.com</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">)</span></span></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-33006974183409787132011-05-14T06:49:00.000-07:002011-05-14T18:00:22.731-07:00"I Beezle" or "The future is a delicate thing, Sir. Do try not to break it."<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">If you haven't yet read the previous post, I recommend that you peruse it. It contains facts and terminologies that I are slightly relevant to this post. I've moved the most important fact to this one though. Actually now that it's done and I'm really thinking hard about it, if you get this one fact you may not really <i>need</i> the rest, but maybe you'll understand a few more of the inner workings of the story? I certainly hope so after taking the time to type all that out. There <i>is</i> a story about a fire breathing opossum in the previous post if that's enticing to you at all...<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
I learned a new verb recently through the power of Google. I performed a search on Beezle, trying to decide how seriously people have been taking his newly formed e-cult, and this is what I found:<br />
(<a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Beezle">http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Beezle</a>). Of course, I took immediate interest. It's important to me to know if the things that Beezle sees on the internet can impact me negatively. As of the time of this posting, the most upvoted definition of 'beezle' on Urban Dictionary is as follows:<br />
<div><blockquote><i>Beezle:</i></blockquote><blockquote><i>This term is used to describe any activity done for its own sake/pleasure. People seeing someone/something beezle will likely not understand why that person/creature/thing is doing whatever he/she/it is doing. Examples include: frolicking, climbing trees, most things done while stoned/drunk. Baby animals (and for some reason, squirrels, dolphins and whales) naturally beezle all the time. It's generally considered complimentary, but just a little confusing...</i></blockquote>I had several reactions to this. First I had a good laugh at the image of Beezle romping playfully with aquatic and woodland creatures. Then I realized with shock that the term is accurate. If anyone beezles, Beezle does. What do you suppose he accomplishes by hypnotizing me at night and making me sleep dance? Or by pretending to be "The Mummy" and swallowing me with swimming pool water when I make use of the high dive? (I don't think I've ever mentioned it yet, but I that's actually how the Mansion House Wars started. I nearly drowned. Maybe I'll remember to tell you the story one day.)<br />
<br />
Finally, I realized that if anyone else besides Beezle beezles, it would probably be me. I'm easily entertained, and I was actually glad to have a word to put to the group of actions that entertain me. Any word is better than "dinking around." However, to be honest I was a little terrified to learn that I do yet another thing that Beezle does. I don't like feeling similar to Beezle, but as time rolls onward my list of like traits keeps growing. I'm writing them off as meaningless - I'm not damning souls after all, but I've got to watch myself. Having more common ground makes it harder to keep my guard up.<br />
<br />
That's not the point of this post though. The point is that I beezle, and that I need to be careful when I do it because there can be consequences. Here is an excellent example:<br />
<br />
I rent an apartment in Provo out of necessity. I work and go to school at BYU and there are rare occasions when I can't quite seem to abstract<b>*</b> back to the mansion house. If those moments happen to come at night, I don't much like competing with Riverman Johnson for park bench space (or bridge space when the weather is foul.) I mentioned at one point that he told me he was going to acquire a sword and Chinese stars with which to defend his multiple forms of literature, didn't I? I can attest that he <i>has</i> acquired these, and that he is more than willing to defend his territory. His weapons are of poor quality and very dull, but they still hurt quite a bit when he manages to land a hit.<br />
<br />
<b>*</b>(I've covered abstract travel recently, but here's the gist: to get to the mansion house I have to be both distracted and in motion. It's really not that hard, it just doesn't always work as advertised. I don't do magic, remember? It just happens to me when I'm not paying attention.)<br />
<br />
I also like warm water. If there is time and hot water enough, I like to take long showers or baths. Even when I don't mean to take a long time, I loose track of time in the shower. It's because I relax and let my mind wander. Since I first came to the mansion house, I've spent inordinate amounts of time in the natural hot-spring cave that the mansion is built around. When I'm stuck in Provo, I can do almost as well at the outdoor hot tub behind the complex's clubhouse. The hot tub in question is large by apartment standards, and can accommodate perhaps twenty people if all of those people don't mind literally rubbing shoulders. When it's empty it feels spacious.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago on a thursday I was stuck at my digs in Provo. Feeling active I decided to have a short swim and to then enjoy the hot tub. When I got out of the pool the tub was empty and I was happy about that. I try not to beezle in public - it feels awkward. I eased into the tub and let the jets work on my back. As always my swimming trunks filled with air and I became more buoyant finding it harder to stay anchored to my seat (I am a very light person.) On this occasion however, I had a beezeling epiphany of sorts. I wondered If I could float on my back and drift about the tub in whatever direction the currents took me.<br />
<br />
No sooner did I start my experiment then two very muscular guys and their girlfriends splashed into the pool. (I didn't actually see them because I was staring up at the stunningly clear big dipper. I just heard them through the water.) I sat up quickly to move out the way and to appear less silly. The thing is that sitting up while floating makes a person sink. I sputtered back up to the surface and took my original seat. The other four had the common decency to keep their chortling to a minimum, and for that I was grateful. I wondered how long they would be there and I busied myself by playing subtly with the flat leaf-like elm seeds that had fallen into the water. They floated nicely like little boats and I sent them off on excursions in the eddies.<br />
<br />
When I was bored of sea seed missions I had another swim until the group left. I then I hustled back to the hot tub. I laid out on the water, puffing my chest out and tucking in my legs so that they didn't touch the bottom. The currents did the rest. I only bumped into an edge once and I was kept in a continual counter clockwise rotation with my head at the center. It was enjoyable and relaxing. The whole time I watched the crisp stars above me rotating. More than ever, the big dipper appeared to me as the turning hour hand of a giant clock. (It really is one. See the companion guide to this post). I must have made at least three full rotations before I realized that I had abstracted to the mansion house hot tub. (Not the hot springs cave. It doesn't grant an open view of the stars. There is an actual man-made hot tub outside, close to the pool and conservatory.)<br />
<br />
Pleasently surprised and done with sailing about on my back, I toweled off and went into the kitchen through the servants door. I grabbed a roll from the constant supply Wadsworth keeps there, and pulled on the light fixture that opens the hidden door to the hidden passages behind the walls. (I like using the secret corridors every so often despite the fact that the standard hallways are much more comfortable. It's a beezle thing.) I walked happily toward the Master's Chamber until I heard Wadsworth's pleasant voice saying, "Will take your supper here or in the dining room sir?" I stopped dead in my tracks. I was at that point, just above my study. The secret passages are designed for eavesdropping (hence the clarity of Wadsworth's voice) and I unstopped a peephole in the floor. There was Wadsworth, and there was <i>me. </i>I was saying "No, the dining room will be fine. I'm nearly done reading this entry in Uncle Nick's journal and then I'll be in. What's for dinner?"<br />
<br />
"A salmon steak with steamed vegetables, sir. What would you like to drink? I suggest that something citrus would complement the fish very well."<br />
<br />
"What about that lemon orange concoction you put together? I like that."<br />
<br />
"An excellent choice sir. May I help you in any other way, sir?" As he made this last remark Wadsworth's eye roved up to my peephole, and I had the distinct impression that he was talking to me, besides talking to me. Nothing gets by the man. He's as much ninja-sleuth as he is butler. I stoppered the hole and tried to comprehend what I had just experienced. Seeing myself wasn't totally new. I'd seen transparent and barely detectable versions of myself in many places in the mansion, doing different things without acknowledging me. I'd also seen gruesome figures in my image march happily to a joyful death in Beezle's fireplace. (These later were a demonstration to show me how easy it would for me at payment time, if I ever felt I wanted to buy something with my soul.) I had, however, never seen Wadsworth offer dinner to one of my dopplegangers, and I was heavily disturbed that he should do so now. And hungry. It didn't help that I remembered having a similar meal three days earlier. It was phenomenal - the fish was moist and flaky with subtle interplays of spices and herbs.<br />
<br />
As I thought longingly of the meal and made way for the kitchen to intercept Wadsworth I had a sudden more revealing insight. In the many years that I have eaten at the Mansion House, Wadsworth has never repeated a meal exactly except by special request, and he has certainly never cooked the same kind of fish twice in the same month. He would probably faint at the thought of it. I'd been reading my uncle's journal three days ago too. I had traveled time! I yanked the door open and launched into the kitchen.<br />
<br />
"Good evening, Sir." said Wadsworth. To someone who didn't know him, he would have looked and sounded like nothing but pleased to see me. I've known him for long enough that I could tell he was annoyed as he continued, "Will you also be having salmon this evening? I regret that it will be a duplicate of something that you have presumably already consumed. With more <i>notice </i>I could have easily compensated."<br />
<br />
"The salmon was excellent three days ag-- er.. today, I think it will be just as good.. um.. today. So, I'll just have what he's - er... what I'm having."<br />
<br />
"Very good sir."<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry about the short notice. Is there enough? I didn't exactly realize that there would be two of me today until just now."<br />
<br />
"I am always prepared for unexpected guests, sir. There is always enough. May I offer a word of advice about your current adventure, sir?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, please. That's why I came down."<br />
<br />
"It is not well known what happens when one's past self comes into contact with one's future self. Theories range from nothing to a universal Armageddon. The current middle ground of the debate is that the person fades from existence. While scientists and pranksters alike might appreciate one's rushing in headlong to see the look on one's face, I suggest that the action would be inadvisable at best, Sir."<br />
<br />
"Right. Well. I guess I'd better stay out of sight then."<br />
<br />
"In that case, sir, I suggest that you make yourself scarce. I think I hear you coming."<br />
<br />
"Oh. Distract me." I said, and I dived back into the passage way. I went up a floor and unstopped a peephole for the kitchen. I really didn't need to. I remembered the upcoming conversation, now that I had a clear picture of the day. As I'd placed a bookmark in my uncle's journal, Beezle had announced that, "THERE IS SOMETHING VERY INTERESTING TO SEE IN THE KITCHEN. I THINK YOU'D BEST HURRY OUT AND SEE WHAT IT IS BEFORE IT'S GONE."<br />
<br />
Normally, I wouldn't pay much attention to something like that coming from Beezle, but the kitchen is next to the dining room and I happened to know that Wadsworth was there, so I didn't even feel the need for too much caution, just a bit of caution. I watched through the hole as I entered the room and said, "Looks like the kitchen, Beezle. An interesting kitchen, to be sure, but nothing I haven't seen."<br />
<br />
"LOOK IN THE HIDDEN DOOR. IT WILL BE FUN."<br />
<br />
"Have you seen this interesting thing, Wadsworth."<br />
<br />
"As far as I can tell, sir, there is nothing out of the ordinary behind the afore mentioned door."<br />
<br />
I can't help but marvel sometimes at Wadsworth's ability to misdirect without telling lies. I've only witnessed it on a handful of occasions, but I still marvel. On this occasion I wondered if he meant that I shouldn't be behind that door anymore, or that it wasn't out of the ordinary for me to be behind it. Knowing Wadsworth he probably meant both.<br />
<br />
I watched myself open the door, see nothing, and say, "Nothing to report here."<br />
<br />
"GO LOOK AROUND. IT'S IN THERE."<br />
<br />
"If you will pardon me sir. Your salmon is approaching its optimal temperature for consumption. You may either have a meal that boarders on perfection or go chasing 'interesting things' through the passage ways; possibly with apocalyptic consequences, given Beezle's definition of the word 'interesting.'"<br />
<br />
"I choose dinner," I said happily and I strode into the dining room with Wadsworth close on my heals.<br />
<br />
I, the me upstairs, went back to the kitchen and waited for Wadsworth.<br />
<br />
"HOW DOES HE DO THAT?" Beezle asked. He sounded genuinely interested. I could also hear him pleading me urgently to come back into the kitchen from the other room. I knew I was safe. I remembered being annoyed and shutting the dining room vents three days earlier so that I could eat in peace.<br />
<br />
"Do what?," I responded, "Look so good? It's because he's me."<br />
<br />
"HOW DOES HE LIE SO WELL?"<br />
<br />
"He didn't lie. He told the truth."<br />
<br />
"I'M AWARE. MAYBE I SHOULD TRY THAT SOMETIME."<br />
<br />
"Wouldn't that be nice. The problem is that you'd start by telling me to come look at something that might make me fade into oblivion, and I would believe you."<br />
<br />
"LIFE IS UNFAIR. I'M GOING TO GO ENLARGE SOME INSECTS. CARE TO JOIN ME."<br />
<br />
"No thanks. Knowing you they'd probably try to eat me."<br />
<br />
Beezle sighed loudly and added, "TELLING THE TRUTH GETS ME NOTHING. YOU WIN. YOU SHOULD REWARD YOURSELF BY TAKING DESERT INTO THE DINING ROOM EARLY";<br />
<br />
Wadsworth came back and put together a to go box for me in preparation for driving me back to Provo. (Even distracted, Wadsworth is a competent and safe driver.) Before we left I had a final epiphany.<br />
<br />
"Wadsworth, I failed a cleaning check tomorrow because I couldn't get a stain off of a wall. Do you have anything that might work?"<br />
<br />
Wadsworth handed me a spray bottle of something green that smelled like minty lemons and said, "Try this Sir. And do be careful, Sir. The future is a delicate thing. Do try not to break it."<br />
<br />
That was that. I left the bottle in a conspicuous place with the label, Care of Wadsworth, and avoided myself for three days. I passed my cleaning checks without breaking the future (finding myself 20 dollars richer in the process) and made sure to position myself for watching Jones crash into the conservatory. I figured if someone was going to demolish the side of a glass building I owned and I wasn't able to stop it, I'd at least better watch.<br />
<br />
-Jason</div></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-67210179258880202932011-05-14T02:52:00.000-07:002011-05-14T02:52:51.808-07:00The "I Beezle" Companion Guide - Kind of<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There are four facts that are fairly relevant to the post "I Beezle". You can skip it if you like, but you might get confused and you might not learn the answer to the ultimate question: "Where do my left socks go?" On the upside, that's less reading if you just wanted a brief anecdote. If you want the best of both worlds, you'll find key words and phrases in bold. (Edit: really this is only semi necessary since I moved the main fact, fact four to the main post. There is still that bit about your missing socks though, and maybe you'll understand a bit more about how things work around the mansion house in general.)<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Note: You may have noticed that I tend to get off on tangents and forget to get to important things that I've promised to tell you about. That would ruin the point of this companion guide to the other post so today I'm trying to herd my thoughts together with a new html tag that I've just invented: the <b><tangent></tangent></b> tag. If you didn't really care about my ramblings just look for the end <b></b>tag and move on with the facts.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>The Facts</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b></b></div><hr /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Fact 1.</i> I'm not talking about Beezle and what he likes to do with quarters today. I promised to and I meant to, but I've got something else on my mind today. Next time?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b></b></div><hr /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Fact 2.</i> The big dipper is attached to the north star, a fixed point in the sky. Because of this, as the earth rotates the <b>big dipper forms the hour hand of the largest twenty four hour analog clock in the known universe.</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b></b></div><hr /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Fact 3.</i> There are 2 main branches of magic, which I will informally call <b>'flashy magic'</b> and <b>'just missed it magic'</b>.</div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><i>Fact 3.a</i><b>. </b>Generally speaking <b>flashy magic is like the hood on a cobra, it's main function is to make the wielder look more powerful and impressive.</b> Beezle loves flashy magic, and there are plenty of other natural examples. Take, for existence, two headed dragons, fire breathing opossums, and levitating islands in the sky. These are all about as useful as a forest fire.<br />
<br />
<b><Tangent></b>The levitating island was actually the aftermath of the legendary battle between and Eddie - the resident fire breathing opossum - and some wandering Siamese dragon who probably got distracted while flying and abstracted here. We now refer to the dragon as "Two Face." Eddie and Two Face burned down fifty acres of the western forest, but something about their magics didn't match up properly and the whole chunk of land just picked up and left. This was fortunate as the fire suddenly became self contained and spared me the joy of dealing with the fire department (They'll come, but they don't like it. They hate all of the flashy magic that goes on around here). Actually, it's still around here somewhere. I can't see it today, but it generally hovers over the lake at varied altitudes. Eddie won, by the way. He lives happily on the island among a rising generation of saplings and a few larger, somewhat singed, oaks and pines.<b></Tangent></b></li>
<li><i>Fact 3.b.</i> <b>'Just missed it' magic is the kind that happens just as you look away.</b> This kind of magic is most relevant to me. I don't do magic. Magic just happens to me when I turn my head. Actually it happens to most people while doing laundry. Think about it. Why did you start the month with only paired socks of the same brand and end the month with half as many pairs and a large drawer full of differently branded and lonely unpaired socks? You just missed the originals straight into The Void and, like a slot machine, The Void spat missing socks from around the nation into your dryer. (The Void is a real place known also as The Either, The Nether, and Under My Bed'). I also just miss my wallet, my cell phone, my truck keys, and my assignments on a regular basis (It gives me back gas station receipts, broken charger chords, keys to unknown doors, and last semesters homework.)<b> </b>Sometimes when I'm around other people for extended periods of time they accuse me of 'rubbing off' on them because they can't find something. The unfortunate truth is that I'm just missing things for them.<br />
<br />
Don't think that 'just missed it' magic is a complete pain. It's actually quite useful. It's the basis of the travel to and from the mansion house for one. For another, how do you think you miss the memos about waste of time meeting that you were supposed to go to (other than... you know, the times that you accidentally shredded that memo on purpose). Just missed it magic also makes the current day of the week Friday when you still think it's Wednesday, and causes to flowers bloom and money to stretch and all manner of other things besides loosing stuff.<br />
<br />
<b><Tangent></b>'Just missed it magic' is why it's so hard to tell real magicians and stage magicians apart. Stage magicians make you look at one hand while they load a coin into the other. Real magicians make you look at one hand while the other materializes a coin. If anybody (magician included) can see where the coin is supposed to pop into existence nothing happens. Sometimes real magicians <i>are </i>stage magicians. Take Penn & Teller for instance. Real magicians. They are the longest running inside joke of the magical community because they do real magic and then they show audiences a well performed trick that might explain the magical thing that they did. Masterful. <b></Tangent></b></li>
</ul><div><hr /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>4th and Final Fact.</i><b> </b>I recently learned <b>a new verb: "to beezle." </b>This fact is the main point of the main "I Beezle" post, so I'll just use it as place to start from, shall I? Very good. See you there.</div><div><br />
</div><div></div></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-84223696585950016022011-05-14T02:45:00.000-07:002011-05-14T06:56:15.301-07:00Texting to the Mansion House Is Not Approved<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="background-color: transparent;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.5957495763432235" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a lot on my mind today: Here's a short list of the things I'd like to cover. We'll see how far I get.</span></span><br />
<ol><li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The secret location of the mansion house. </span></span></li>
<li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The less secret method of travel to the secret location of the mansion house.</span></span></li>
<li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other people who ride the less secret method of travel to the secret location of the mansion house (but don’t get off there).</span></span></li>
<li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beezle's affinity for quarters.</span></span></li>
</ol><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some of you may have noticed that I've never been very specific about the exact </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">where</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> of the mansion house. It's because it's a well kept secret, and I don't know it. Wadsworth does. I do not. "But Jason," crys the logical mind, "you live there. You also write posts about riding the bus to and from the mansion house."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That I do, logical mind. That I do. Here's the thing: the most direct route to the manor is through what my great uncle Nicholas calls 'abstract travel'. It takes a special kind of ‘unfocus’ combined with motion. I find that I travel most abstractly on the bus. All I need is a newspaper or an interesting person to watch.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I've never been able to drive to the mansion house. I'd have to be distracted - texting, or something - in fact just the other day a seventeen year old kid from Chicago with the last name of Jones smashed through the conservatory and into a baobab tree. Leon, the more aggressive of our two bangled tigers circled the car for an hour before I got home and saw the kid there, shivering in his boots and screaming for help. I jumped into the car with him as soon as I saw Leon pop out of the brush. (Leon's a touch sadistic. He likes to get a good look at me getting a good look at him before he chases me down. He doesn't hurt me of course, or at least, not much. He just plays aggressively. I can tell you from experience that scratches from a bangled tiger are a slightly bigger deal then the ones from your household kitty. Unfortunately, he's too old to declaw. When he gets out of the conservatory he does murder to our screen doors - thinks he can hang on them like Will's tabby.)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, this unfortunate accident happened on the second thursday of the month - Wadsworth's day off. Jones and I hunkered down in his beat up old pinto and ate the granola bars I keep in my backpack for exactly these kinds of emergencies. Before that though, we took a moment to express our feelings. Jones yelled at me historically. Called me crazy for keeping a tiger in my house, and thought I should be arrested for endangering public safety. I in turn, tried out a little trick I'd learned from Wadsworth. I raised a brow, glanced pointedly at the phone he still held in a death grip, and rounded the whole expression out with a wistful silent appraisal of the gaping hole in my conservatory. The coupe de gras was the bit where I held out a granola bar and asked if he'd like to share some light refreshments. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After that we talked a bit about girls, grades, parents, and the location of one white tiger named Leon until late in the evening. Jones was fairly open. He told me just about everthing about himself like he thought he was about to die. I thought about getting out of the car, or pushing Jones out just to get things done with so we could go inside, but by a stroke of luck Duncan sauntered around the back of the house looking for me. He understood the situation immediately and growled, "Go to your room." (Leon's 'room' is a small lockable compound where he is confined when he is being disciplined.) </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As much as Leon views me as a toy, he sees Duncan as an authority figure. Duncan is, after all, an immense talking grizzly bear. Leon doesn't talk - at least unless when Beezle isn't putting words in his mouth - but he does pout. He pouted at me when I got out of the car. He pouted at Jones (who opted to remain in the car whispering "I'm not crazy" over and over.) He pouted at Nisa, his smaller, more domestic sister when she joined us as we strode to the other end of the conservatory's "Jungle Room." He glared at Orvil, the Jungle Room parrot, who shrilled out "Na na na na na nana" over and over as we walked under Orvil’s branch. Leon didn't pout at pout at Duncan though. He wouldn't look at Duncan. Other than Orvill, everyone was silent. That's the rule: when disciplining, everyone who isn’t giving an instruction is quiet. It helps more than you might think.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As Leon slunk moodily into his compound and I secured the gate, I said, "Thanks, Duncan. I wasn't in the mood to 'play' tonight."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Duncan shook his head slowly and rumbled, “You let him walk all over you. You’ve got to get him in line. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Or</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> maybe you need to get </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">yourself </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">together. Whenever Wadsworth takes the day off everything goes to pot around here.” </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I chuckled and nodded amiably. It doesn’t bother me anymore when Duncan gets gruff with me. He gets gruff with everyone. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Duncan continued, ”Who’s the kid? Another distracted driver?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yep. Third one this year. Most destructive one too. He must have been going pretty fast. Probably texting on the interstate or something before he abstracted here.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Stupid kids. They think they’re invincible when they get in a car. I wish they’d abstract into the lake.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I nodded heartily. “That would make them pay attention. So did you come up just to check on me, or is there something I can help you with?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“A few years ago I gave your uncle an artifact to hold for me. I need it.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh, well do you know where it is?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“In the shed, probably. Looks like a marshmallow roster with a blue glass handle.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I know the one. It’s close to the door. What is it?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A cheerful tone crept into Duncan’s voice. “A kind of a witch taser. Meg’s been over stepping bounds a bit. I thought I ought to remind her who’s in charge the next time she does it.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well good luck with that. I’m going to let you find it. I’ve got to make some calls to the insurance people. Will you do me a favor and help that kid abstract his car home? He lives close to Durso Park in Chicago.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh?” Duncan said, “did you get his name?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He goes by Jones. Wouldn’t give me his first name.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Duncan grinned, “Well this day gets better and better! I’ve had four wards this year from Chicago. Every one of them came in through a Durso Park dumpster at the hands of a kid named Jones. We’ll have to have a little chat. Maybe with a witch taser if all goes well.” (Duncan is a steward over a kind of magical safe house for bullied teens. That wasn’t what it was originally built for, but for whatever magical reason, anybody who’s hiding terrified in a dumpster has a chance of falling through the dumpster bottom and into Duncan’s protective lap.)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Don’t be too harsh on him.” I said, “Since he thought he was going to be eaten by a white tiger named Leon he flashed his life before my eyes. He doesn’t have a happy home and he’s failing out of school.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, maybe a well placed tickle with a marshmallow roaster will help motivate him to finish. I can only see everyone winning in this scenario.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Duncan went back for Jone’s and I went into the house. What brought this up? Why was I telling this story? Oh. You have to be at least moderately distracted while in motion to get to the mansion house, and then be either lucky or attuned to the location. Speaking of which, I seem to have abstracted to The Mansion House Study. I was wiggling around a little bit in my cheep office chair at my Provo apartment while I was typing. I didn’t know that would do it. That’s good to know. Even better, it’s nearly lunch time. I wonder were having...</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh. So. I didn’t make much progress on my list.. I got a bit off course. I’ll see when I can get to the rest.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-Jason</span></span></div></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-24582470049942634222011-02-08T02:52:00.000-08:002011-02-08T02:58:57.994-08:00Nothings - AKA "Beezel's Poetry"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Beezle and I have history. I found a piece of it sitting on my desk today - a little scrap of paper that once floated to me from an air duct in the mansion house. It read as follows:<br />
<br />
" Poetry; Airy Nothings - definitely not hints or riddles for anyone in particular.<br />
-Beezle<br />
<br />
~nothings<br />
never did I think that with<br />
orwell at the helm the ship would sink<br />
tall gardens rise, planted far below<br />
how ponderously their tendrils sway<br />
i sway with them, finding peace in their shadow<br />
nothing of life keeping<br />
grasp adequate upon me<br />
so goes another soul to Davy Jones."<br />
<br />
I'm not so sure that Beezle has ever been a good poet. I'm not so sure that he's written much of it. This was the first occasion on which I encountered Beezle's musings. While I didn't find his work exceptional, I didn't think it was horribly bad either, and I was pleased that Beezle was writing about souls instead of taking them. I set it aside and forgot about it until later. I should have known better. I don't have time to tell the full story at the moment, but I thought the poem might be interesting for you to ponder on until I do.</div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-65696343418485836432011-01-21T06:50:00.000-08:002011-01-21T06:50:00.705-08:00Reading Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Today I was reading through one of my journals from a summer I spent at the Mansion House when I was very young. I found an interesting entry that I thought you might enjoy. Of course, I won't be posting the entire entry, but the rest of it will be found in my novel, should it ever be published. Enjoy.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">[date unreadable]</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I woke up yesterday to early morning sunlight streaming through my bedroom window. It offended me greatly. I groaned and rolled over, shielding my eyes from the brightness.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was not surprised to hear Wadsworth’s soothing voice waft through the air from the direction of the light. He said, “You may be interested to learn, young master, that </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">‘Angels, in the early morning </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"> May be seen the Dews among.<br />
Stooping – plucking – smiling –flying—‘</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">And one can’t help but wonder, Sir,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">‘Do the Buds to them belong?’"</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?” I moaned groggily.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It is nothing of great import, Sir. I merely noticed that a poem by Emily Dickenson is being enacted outside of your window. And if I might dare to hope that anything is at all inspiring to your young self at this early hour, I would hazard that it might in fact be the stooping, plucking angels on yonder lawn.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What time is it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It is nigh unto six o’clock am sir.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I closed my eyes again and covered my face with my hands and groaned, “It’s before six? I’m going back to sleep. Come back in a few hours. ”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“If I may quote William Wordsworth’s observation, Sir,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Time was, blest Power! When youth and maids<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At peep of dawn would rise,<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And wander forth in forest glades<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thy birth to solemnize.’”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What are you talking about Wadsworth? I can pray at nine o’clock just as well as I can at five. Why are you in here? What’s with all the poetry?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Forgive me sir; I am merely trying to keep with the spirit of the day. It is, after all, Universal Reading Day today. This is also why I have intruded upon your most sacred morning hours.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You woke me up because it’s reading day? Leave me alone.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Perhaps you would reconsider, Sir? The books won’t respond well to neglect today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What are you talking about? The books don’t care. They’re books. Come back at nine.” I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wadsworth hesitated for a half second before he responded, “Very well sir, I shall do my best to see that you are allowed your usual morning indulgences. Rest well while you can, Sir.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I yawned a half hearted “thank you” through the pillow, and was asleep again in no time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t think that it was more than a half hour later, probably around 6:30, when a racket from outside my room woke me. I heard menacing growls that made me think of rabid dogs and an unending fluttering of paper. Above it all, I heard Wadsworth’s voice ringing out clear and commanding, “Back fiends! The young master needs his rest! He is a growing young man with less than efficient energy expenditure. You must be patient!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I threw off my covers and ran to the door, throwing it open. The corridor was filled with books from wall to wall, and from floor to ceiling. They flapped open and shut in the most menacing way possible. In the narrow gap between the door and the books stood Wadsworth, faithful and stalwart, broom in hand, defending my position.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At my appearance the noise intensified, and a book from the top of the stack launched itself from the pile. It was so fast that didn't have time to react, and it would have hit me in the head with force if it hadn’t been for Wadsworth. He swatted the book from the air with the broom. It yelped loudly and fell to the floor whimpering and crying at his feet. Wadsworth raised the broom in defense once more, waiting for another attacker. There was a kind of anguish in his face though – a horror filled regret. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked down at the book. It sprawled across its pages with the spine upward. The title was printed boldly on the spine. “Lyrical Balads.” Poetry. I’d made Wadsworth hit a poetry book. I felt awful. I felt even worse when I picked it up and saw the author, “William Wordsworth.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the upside, the second I had the book in hand the room fell instantly silent. The books were merely books again – inanimate and voiceless. Wadsworth turned to me and said, “I’m sorry to have woken you, Sir. I did my best to hold them off at the bottom of the staircase, but alas, there were too many of them and I steadily lost ground.” Wadsworth’s tone was composed as usual, but there was a slight waver to it, surely suppressed pain over what he had been forced to do.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wadsworth,” I said, “You’re a true friend. I’m sorry.” My voice broke a little on the “I’m” I don't know if that was because I felt so sorry or because my voice has been cracking a lot lately. Either way, I really did mean it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Perhaps it was for the best, Sir. That book was already in need of repair. Now that it is further damaged, I will more easily justify taking the time to attend to it. Will you be returning to bed, Sir?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Um, no,” I said, “I’m not very tired anymore. I think I’m ready to start reading.” I glanced at the enormous pile. Do you think they can wait for me to put on some pants?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wadsworth took a defensive stance and brandished his broom again. “I will see to it that they do sir.”</div></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-45428317803417663252010-12-29T01:05:00.000-08:002010-12-29T01:15:13.385-08:00*ahem*: Big News with a side of Apology. Also, you've been demoted.Dear friends, fans, and (most of all) the split second search-engine visitors who come and go in the blink of an eye.<br />
I owe all of you an apology for my long and unexplained neglect of this blog. I do, of course, have a number of ready-made simpering and apologetic excuses to offer (by request only). Most of them have something to do with Beezle. The rest of them have to do with college finals and the weeks leading in to them. <br />
<br />
The one interesting and possibly satisfying comment I have to proffer in regard to my extended hiatus is this:<br />
<br />
I am writing a book.<br />
<br />
I ask you now to take a moment to revive those of our frailer followers who are choking on their shock. When that is done, please allow the sniggering of the others to abate. <br />
<br />
I am very serious. The blog has been enjoyable to write, but has very little following. I attribute this not to my whimsical update schedule, but to the hard fact that adults are boring and lack good taste. Therefore, I have decided to direct a set of memoirs from my younger years to your children. Upon completion, they will dramatize my life as a young boy and my first experiences within the walls of the mansion house. <br />
<br />
Some of you will cry out that I have been false with you. You will point to a post in which I mentioned that I purchased the Mansion recently disillusioned Lord. Your great minds will deduce that I could not have enjoyed the Mansion House in my childhood. <br />
<br />
Of course, you are correct. Had I only just recently learned of the Mansion House I could not have known it as a child. However I have not, nor shall I ever, lie to you. The truth is this: several months ago I discovered one of my Uncle Nicholas's old experimental devices in an unused room. Against my better instincts I mucked about with the thing and it exploded in a ball of fire and magical energy. My eyebrows were only slightly singed, but my memories were fuddled a bit. <br />
<br />
Fortunately the effects seem to be less than permanent. Today, for example, I remembered that the reason for the small venomous snakes in a secret compartment in one of my desk drawers. They are not, as I had previously supposed, decorative; but they guard a small treasure trove of foreign dark chocolates from young boys who live in dumpsters. Will was both eating them and trading them to Beezle for favors. Needless to say they were diminishing quickly. Perhaps if I am lucky tomorrow I will remember the secret to rescuing my choice candies from the clutches of the over zealous serpents. (The direct route is not the correct one. I've tried it already, at great cost and with little success.)<br />
<br />
I hope that now, knowing what you know, it will not surprise you if there are a few inconsistencies between things I said before and things that I remember now, or even between things which I reveal today, and alter a bit in the future. As far as I can tell, that's what memoirs are for in the first place. <br />
<br />
In closing, I promise that I am not saying goodbye to the blog. I shall do my best to keep it current with whatever new events I deem worthy and I may even supply short snippets of my novel. Know though, that your lovely young ones come first now. The rest of you have officially become afterthoughts.<br />
<br />
Congratulations,<br />
<br />
Lord Secrest<br />
<br />
PS - Beezle and I have reached an agreement through the miraculous power of mediation, courtesy of Wadsworth. I won't bore you with the details right now, but know that less is rotten in the state of Denmark, and more is quiet on the home front. Beezle has the internet again. If you are wondering why he hasn't posted anything caustic recently, it is because he probably considers The Mansion House beneath his current attention. Perhaps when he gets bored with youtube clips of "Big Bang Theory" maybe he'll work up the energy to be snide with me online. Until then I'm content enough with our arrangement.Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-40095694209526998342010-09-26T21:06:00.000-07:002010-09-27T01:06:10.968-07:00Like (but not quite) a Thief in the NightSo... Bezel still hasn't relented and neither have I, but there have been other developments (as those of you who read the comments know). <a href="http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/">Nathan</a>, a good friend turned saboteur, recently invaded the home of my sweet and elderly neighbors, the Jorgensons. (I'm not sure how - maybe he was posing as some sort of repairman or something.) He did this so that he could install a wireless router in their home and trade the password to Beezle, who now values an internet connection as much or more than he values souls.<br />
<br />
I assume that their transaction occurred on the night that I caught Nathan giddily trotting up the stairs from the basement at three in the morning. Though he was bright and chipper, I was sluggish and groggy. The evening went something like this:<br />
<br />
"Nathan?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, hi! There you are. I was just... looking for you."<br />
<br />
"In the Basement? What time is it? What are you doing in my house?" (It should have occurred to me at this point that the alarms had never gone off. I wish that I'd asked about that. I wonder if he payed Will to turn them off.)<br />
<br />
"It's time too... play Starcraft! I couldn't sleep, and we all know that you don't sleep, so I came to see if you wanted to play."<br />
<br />
I yawned and said, "Why would I be sleeping right now?"<br />
<br />
Nathan rolled his eyes and said, "Don't even give me that crap. You don't <i>ever</i> go to bed, at least not when normal people do. Don't even <i>try </i>to deny it, we all know that you hate your body and stay up all night playing games, 'cause you're definitely not <i>writing. </i>I haven't seen any new 'Amar' from you since I made you write last Saturday.<br />
<br />
I rubbed the back of my hands across my eyes and managed, "Why didn't you just try to get me on g-chat?"<br />
<br />
"Because, it is <i>fact</i> that you never log off when you're done at the computer and nobody in the entire freaking world can ever find you when they want to. Did you get your phone yet?"<br />
<br />
"No... it's on it's way though," I slurred.<br />
<br />
"Your stupid phone company takes longer than one of my Grandma's rants on Obama and government conspiracies. Do you know how long those are? They are <i>freaking long</i>. Anyway, you look like you're too tired to be any good at all tonight. We'd just get raped. Hard. So... go to bed, and I'm going home. Also, I'm taking this pie that Wadsworth left on table. Don't even try to say 'no' because you mooch from me and Bec <i>all the time." </i>(It's true. Nathan and Rebecca Major kept food in my mouth before I had Wadsworth. Now they and <a href="http://burninglizardstudios.blogspot.com/">Derek</a>'s family take turns feeding me me on Wadsworth's days off.)<br />
<br />
I gestured my assent and turned to stumble up the staircase toward my bedroom, and Nathan went after the pie. From the landing I heard the front door rumble open a few seconds later and Nathan yelled up at me, "And don't forget to write tomorrow. You haven't written for at least a week, retard. At <i>least</i> update 'Mansion House.'"<br />
<br />
That was the end of the exchange, and until these recent comments on '<a href="http://whathowadsworth.blogspot.com/2010/09/it-is-with-great-sadness-that-i.html">Riverman Johnson</a>' I didn't think anything more of it. Now, we know "the rest of the story," or at least some of it anyways.<br />
<br />
At first I was troubled when I realized that Beezle had another way to get at the internet. My thought was that if Nathan became Beezle's internet provider, I would lose my one and only bargaining chip. Now though, I see that the nature of things has in truth turned to my advantage. You see, Nathan didn't take three important facts into consideration:<br />
<br />
Fact 1: Beezle is in my basement. There's something about concrete and earth that impedes even the hardiest of signals.<br />
<br />
Fact 2: Beezle's lair messes with traditional physics. Die hard Mansion House followers may remember that when I entered my basement for the first time, I was immediately taken by the sheer volume of the place, and realized that it couldn't possibly fit inside the mansion. The chandeliers were sitting exactly where my study and front parlor should have been. It's got something to do with inter-dimensional space-time physics or something. I don't understand it, but there it is.<br />
<br />
Fact 3: As a direct result of fact one and fact 2, Beezle's wireless internet is comparable to bad dial up. It's worse than my family's internet connection was in the 90's when my dad's 386 would take over a minute to upload a page on a good day.<br />
<br />
Beezle has been accustomed to the luxury of my cat5 connection, and he's not taking this reduction in speed well. In his words, "WITH THIS... <i>IMPOSSIBLY </i>SLOW CONNECTION, BROWSING THE INTERNET HAS BECOME A SPECIAL KIND OF HELL."<br />
<br />
That's how I know i'm making progress with Beezle. He admits now, that it's not enough. Two days ago he couldn't stop trying to convince himself vocally that what he had was enough. You'd think that it would be the same for him as if there was no internet. It's not. He's so addicted that he can't help but sit there and wait for each page to load. I can tell when there's a spike in his download speeds because I can literally hear him scoot forward in anticipation. It might be that with the powers of the internet so close to Beezle, and yet, so far away, I may be able to reach an acceptable treaty with him.<br />
<br />
The best part is that I've noticed a decline in the strange negative coincidences in my life. This could be because Beezle is so drawn to suffer through surfing that he doesn't have time to attack me. However, it might just be that he's switched targets... last week Nathan's phone died at an inopportune moment. Because of this, and other odd circumstances, he and his wife spent the entire evening trying to find each other instead of relaxing in their house. That could just be coincidence. I sincerely hope that it is. Otherwise, thank you Nathan. You've always been the kind of friend that was willing to take one for the team. (Rebecca, I sincerely apologize.)<br />
<br />
-Lord SecrestJason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-46999559710475239342010-09-12T13:02:00.000-07:002011-05-14T06:52:52.036-07:00Riverman Johnson<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It is with great sadness that I announce that the epic struggles between Beezle and I, now commonly referred to as The Mansion House Wars, have not ended. They are getting worse, and I’m not coping as well as I would like to. The new semester is starting too, with all of the stresses of a new school year; but I am also finding that there is a measure of relief that comes with it. You see, I spend many more hours at the university than I do in my study. I like my study, but I’d like it more without Beezle’s constant interruptions.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I usually take the bus to school; I have many reasons for doing so. First and foremost is parking. There is no special parking for owners of Mansions believe it or not, and generally speaking, those without assigned or privileged parking can expect to take longer to find a spot than they spend in class. The second reason that I bus is that I save money. Last month I saved enough to pay Stan for his work on the grounds, and to eat out a few times. Finally, I like to ride the bus because of the environment. I can read on the bus. I can doze on the bus. I can watch quirky people, and eves drop on their phone conversations. (Please don’t think ill of me, but listening to people talk on the phone in public is a great way to stimulate the old grey matter for the invention of characters, plots, and settings. Knowing this, I stick to texting.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">On my way home yesterday, I wound my way to the back of the bus, stepped over the top of a beaten looking pack, and sat down. The seat next to me was vacant, so I dropped a sheaf of papers on it between me and a ragged looking man, presumably the owner of the pack. “Hey,” he said, looking out the window.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Hello,” I responded cheerfully. He looked like the type of man who talks non-stop on a bus, and I was in a mood to listen, so I waited for him to continue. He didn’t. He only stared out the window. I shrugged and pulled out a book to read.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Without warning he leaned in close, overpowering me with his potent body odor, grinned, and said, “Hi, I’m Johnson!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Um… Hello,” I choked out. He leaned back again, and I caught my breath as tactfully as possible.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m going north,” said Johnson. “I was going to go south, until I changed my mind.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Ah,” I said, “And what are you going to do when you get where you’re going?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">get</i> some beer.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Oh?” I asked. I don’t drink, but I’m fairly certain that there is beer to be found at every gas station in any direction so I probed a little further, “And what will you do then?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">drink</i> some beer.” Johnson nodded profoundly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I mirrored him seriously and said, “I see.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Then,” Johnson added, “I’m going to buy a two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hundred</i> dollar bike for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thirty</i> dollars.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“That sounds like a great plan,” I said, “This is a nice time of year to spend some time on a bike.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Yep. And it’s good, because my last bike got stolen.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Yeah! And would you believe they stole my bible too?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Oh, that’s terrible. I think I could get you another, if you need one.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Nah, I got another one, but it makes me mad. They stole my dumbbells, and my bike, and my Bible and my nudie magazines! I just got some new ones today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well, that’s too bad,” I said (I was thinking mostly about the new purchase when I said it), “but I’m glad that you got another Bible. Where are you living?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Down on the river. I don’t like the homeless shelters here. I said some pretty rude things to them because they deserved it and they put me on suspension. I haven’t had a shower for three months! Can you believe that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"> I nodded emphatically with overwhelming belief. “Yes, that’s really too bad. So, where on the river are you living?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Johnson’s leaned in, bringing his three month old ambiance with him, and scowled, “I don’t tell people that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I put my hands in the air nervously and said, “I don’t blame you, after all that you’ve had to deal with.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He leaned back again and said, “Yup. But the next time they come I’ll be ready for them. I went to the pawn shop and bought a sword and some Chinese Stars. They weren’t very sharp, but I’ve got them so sharp now that I can chop your head off, well maybe not all the way off, but most of the way. I’m gonna get a pellet gun too.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The bus stopped, and Johnson stood up. As he walked forward he kept talking, and the further he went the louder he raised his voice so that I could still hear him, “Believe me, you don’t want a pellet in your ass! My cousin shot <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> ass with a pellet gun once and the pellet got stuck in there, I had to go to the -”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The doors closed, and I chucked, before offering a silent prayer that Riverman Johnson be safe from harm and theft. As an afterthought I prayed for the people that got too close to his possessions. I got off at the next stop walked leisurely to the Mansion and Promptly threw my stack of papers down on my desk. I withdrew to the smoking lounge and put my feet up for a few minutes. (I don't smoke, but honestly, a non-smoked-in smoking room is a really cool room. Mine is furnished with overstuffed beige couches, chairs, a fireplace, a bar that I keep stalked with smoothy ingrediants, and several stuffed and mounted heads that once belonged to big-game animals that I never hunted. Sometimes I even put on a smoking jacket because those are also pretty fantastic.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I would have enjoyed the casual, restive silence but death metal was blasting through the vents. Honestly, I don’t think that Beezle likes it either. He just likes that I don’t like it. Before the Mansion House Wars he seemed to lean more towards classic rock and show tunes. (One time I was pleasantly surprised to walk in on him singing “Portobello Road” from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bed Knobs and Broomsticks</i>. The pleasant ended when he started substituting torture instruments, pickled organs, and other gruesome items for the usual wares of the famed street market. I have to hand it to him though; he’s got a pretty spectacular voice.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">After a short break I shuffled back into my study, put in some earphones and started on my homework. I finished it, and tossed my folder of school papers to the side so that I could do my writing (This is “finish a book” month for <a href="http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/">Nathan</a>, <a href="http://burninglizardstudios.blogspot.com/">Derek,</a> and I.) Instead, I was startled to discover the image of a busty and scantily clad woman gazing lewdly at me from my desk. She lounged seductively over a magazine stamped with the emblem of the Playboy Bunny. There was something else under it. I gingerly shifted the Playboy and found a Hustler. With a groan I realized that they must have been under my papers on the bus. I had unwittingly stolen Riverman Johnson’s replacement “nudie” magazines. I gingerly hefted them. I wasn’t sure what to do with them, but there was no way that they were staying on my desk.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I reached for my trashcan but then I remembered that as far as garbage is concerned, all roads lead to my dumpster – the magical home of a developing teenager. Not a good plan. My cheeks were growing hot and my heart rate was rapidly climbing. I didn’t want to leave these out, and I didn’t want to conceal them anywhere, for fear that someone might find them and get the wrong idea. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then I thought about Riverman Johnson, and remembered my prayer for those that touched his possessions. When I offered it I had no idea that it might touch this close to home. I prayed it again with twice the fervency. What if he suspected me? He might confront me loudly on the bus. I could already hear it, “YOU STOLE MY NUDIE MAGAZINES!” I flushed harder and tried to think. "<i>Maybe," </i>I thought, "<i>I can avoid a scene if I just put them in my bag and hand them back discreetly tomorrow."</i> Then I realized that such an action would necessitate bringing pornography to and from a campus where it is strictly prohibited upon pain of expulsion until Riverman Johonson decided to go North instead of South again. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">"<i>Maybe, </i>I thought, "<i>It would just be better to find a safe place to burn these and then hand him a ten dollar bill discreetly."</i> Was there such a thing as discreet with Riverman Johnson? Would he make less of a deal about it if he got the original merchandise? I swiveled in my chair and hovered the magazines over my backpack, trying to make a decision. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"> “Pardon me, Sir, but -“</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I jumped and shouted, throwing the magazines across the room. One of them landed, open to the centerfold I might add, at the highly polished feet of Wadsworth. He glanced down, then quickly up at me. His eyes riddled me with accusation, but his tone remained polite and respectful as ever as he said, “Please excuse the interruption, Sir. I did not wish to infringe on your… <i>personal</i> time. My intentions were to announce my return, but I have just remembered an important item of business that I have neglected. Perhaps it is for the best; my absence will give you time to conclude your indulgences.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“No, Wadsworth, I’m not –“</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">William appeared next to Wadsworth holding a McDonalds soft-drink and said, “Hey, I heard a scream, is everything – is that a Playboy?” Without looking, and with great speed, Wadsworth flipped the offensive material shut (cover side down) with the toe of his shoe. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was finding it difficult to breath. I leaned back in my chair, covered my face with my hands and groaned, “It’s not what you think!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well,” drawled Will, “I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> it’s a Playboy Magazine. Am I wrong? Is it Penthouse? Hustler?” He sucked at the straw of his drink, getting mostly air. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> “I HAVE RECENTLY LEARNED OF A WONDERFULL GAME CALLED TWENTY QUESTIONS. MAY WE PLAY IT?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I feebly wondered how I’d missed the moment when the blaring music had shut off, and Beezle had tuned in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Look,” I said, issuing a silent command for my cheeks to lose their blush, “These aren’t mine! I accidently stole them from a homeless man -” </div><div class="MsoNormal"> “IS IT JUST ME, OR DOES THAT SEEM BOTH IMPLAUSIBLE AND CRUEL?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> I was trying to figure out how to get rid of them before something like this happened.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Why didn’t you just throw them away?” asked Will, and he took another air filled pull at his straw. I narrowed my eyes at him, but Wadsworth did better. He shot his hand out to pinch the air, on the way he clipped Will’s head with force.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Owe!” said Will, putting his hand to his head, “What was that for?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “I apologize, young Master William. I spied a small insect, and thought to escort it from the building.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Sure enough, there was a fly squirming in Wadsworth’s fingers. Will’s expression said that he didn’t know whether to be annoyed or in awe. I settled on both satisfaction and awe and said, “Take Will with you. When you’re done, come back and help me get rid of these things.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Very good, Sir,” said Wadsworth, but Will protested, “Hey! Who’s gonna watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">him</i>. We’re just going to leave him in here by himself with those?</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “THAT’S A VALID POINT. STUFF THE FILTH DOWN THE VENTS IN THE FLOOR, JUST TO BE CERTAIN.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Wadsworth scooped the magazines up and held them under his arm saying, “If you don’t mind, Sir, I shall remove you from suspicion.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Please,” I said, waving him away, “get them out of my study.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> He marched out with Will and I flopped back in my chair. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> “WHO KEEPS TABS ON THE BUTLER?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some</i> people don’t need to be watched, Beezle.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “NOT ACCORDING TO JUVENAL, OR ALAN MOORE FOR THAT MATTER.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> I glared at the vent and changed the topic, "How did you mange to pull this one off anyhow?"</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> “SURELY YOU DON'T SUSPECT TO PASS THE BLAME FOR THEFT FROM THE HOMELESS TO ME? PERHAPS YOU SHOULD TAKE A LITTLE BIT OF RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR ACTIONS. YOU MIGHT START WITH ADMITTING TO THE CHARACTER FLAWS AND JEALOUSIES THAT LED TO THE REVOCATION OF MY INTERNET PRIVILEGES.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> “<i>Jealousies?</i>”I roared, "What could I possibly be jealous of? Devious nature? Unabashed destruction of lives? Living damnation?"</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> “YES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, THOUGH I'M SURPRISED THAT YOU FORGOT TO MENTION RAW POWER, DEVILISH CHARM, AND IMPOSSIBLY GOOD LOOKS"</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> I stood, prepared to ream Beezle throughly, but at that moment Wadsworth returned, and said, "Arguing only tends to encourage him, Sir, I would advise against it." I wanted to ignore him, but I knew he was right, so I riped the cover off the vent and stuffed a jacket inside. I slumped back down in my chair and sighed before explaining the complexity of the situation to Wasdsworth. He listened carefully before saying, “Perhaps it would be best if I return these directly to Mr. Johnson, sparing your Lordship both an embarrassing encounter and the burden of storing these… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">distasteful</i> publications.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“How? He wouldn’t tell me where he lived.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I have seen his place of residence in my morning walks along the river.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“If you could do that, it would be fantastic, Wadsworth.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Then I shall deliver them shortly.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I can come with you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Alas, Sir, I regret that you may not accompany me. It would be dishonest for me to reveal the location of Mr. Johnson’s residence after he has purposfully withheld that knowledge from you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Right. Well then. Cary on Wadsworth, and be careful please. He has a sword that he claims is sharp enough to decapitate you half-way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I shall be cautious, Sir. Will that be all?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Before you go, I’d like you to tell me one thing. How did you get a fly to line up so well with Will’s head?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I regret to inform you sir, that the fly was a deception.” Wadsworth retrieved something small from his pocket and placed it in my hand. It was a rubber fly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“But it was wriggling and buzzing between your fingers.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“The ‘ACME Ninja Fly’ comes equipped with an electronic device that activates when the wings are pressed together.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I picked the fly up by the wings, holding them firmly together. It sprung to life, buzzing angrily and fighting to get away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I smiled and said, “This is great! Where did you get it?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“It was a gift from my niece.“</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">And so it was, that between light conversation and the ensuing light refreshments that Wadsworth again saved my bacon. If I had any money to spare I’d offer him a raise.</div></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-22149825418792138232010-08-23T18:11:00.000-07:002010-08-24T08:09:58.284-07:00Demonic Control Systems<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday was Sunday; so let’s review with a short pop quiz on the good book. No cheating now…</span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 1.) Complete this proverb: "It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a brawling _____ in a wide house." </span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">2.) The number of the beast is:</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">All right. Pencils down. You may grade your own work. The answers are “Beezle” and “404”. Don’t object, I can prove it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A few years ago, I worked at a place that helped Troubled Teens to work out their lives. (“Troubled Teens is capitalized because when teens are involved, everything gets emphasis). Specifically, I worked in the boys’ home. I loved it and I built some deep relationships with the guys. However, anytime the words Troubled and Testosterone can be put in the same sentence look out. Now, I’m a great guy (can I say that? I’m humble too..) and I’m easy to get along with, but sometimes I’m also a push over, and I was getting pushed over from time to time. I didn’t mind so much, but it wasn’t helping our clients to get to the places that they needed to go. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">What I lacked was better training. The company had some scheduled but it was weeks away. One of my coworkers, an ex-marine, noticed my severe need and pulled me aside for some one on one coaching in the art of De-escalation (military style). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I won’t go over every step of the De-escalation model, but I’ll give you the essence. In a tense situation people escalate. They back themselves into corners and don’t see any way out except for to fight out. De-escalation is the art and science of giving people a way to </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">choose</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> to walk out of their corners unharmed. Just as importantly, it is to be able to skillfully escalate your </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">response</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> without escalating the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">situation</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> when those people choose NOT to walk away. Fortunately, these concepts can also be applied to Demons. Take the following scenario:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a beautiful summer day; perfect for hiking. You happen to know that there are plenty of nasty bugs outside, so you smother yourself in your DEET packed death spray. You yourself will die a year earlier because of it, but for now you are safe from West Nile Virus and Malaria. At least, you think you are until you find yourself slapping yourself silly within moments of walking out side. Upon closer inspection you discover that you are drenched in sugar water. This is because Beezle has recently illegally downloaded and watched “The Parent Trap.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">You happen to be a pro at De-escalation, so you casually walk down to the basement and say, “Hey, Beezle, will you do me a favor and stop pirating shows? Particularly, will you experiment on me with the things you watch? Thanks. I appreciate it.” Here, you’ve given Beezle a chance to back down; a way to choose to behave. All you’ve done is make a polite request for compliance. The ball is in Beezle’s court.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That night, you have full feature nightmares about a dungeon and a cassette tape that delivers instructions to you. You must either crawl through burning coals or lose your leg. The dream doesn’t end until in a cruel twist of fate, both events occur. Surprise, surprise, Beezle pirated several seasons of “Saw.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">You collect yourself and walk calmly to the basement. “Beezle,” you say, as you admire the wing’s that he’s grown in tribute to Fantasia’s Bald Mountain, “If you ever do this kind of thing again, I’m taking your internet connection away.” Now, Beezle has a clear set of choices. He can escalate the situation, knowing the consequences, or he can choose to comply. If you’d just yanked the chord on the first or second offence, you have nothing left to leverage him with and he has fewer chances to comply. You win temporarily. He wins for the rest of the year while he puts dead mice in your light fixtures and partially developed eggs in your fridge. He doesn’t care. You’ve already taken the thing he loves most, and unlike Troubled Teens, you lack the power to restrain him. The key is to gradually escalate so that Beezle can choose to de-escalate the situation through compliance.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So, that’s what you do if you’re a pro. Unfortunately, I am not a pro. At least, not at the mansion I’m not. Granted, I was pretty ticked about the Swimming Pool Incident, but losing my cool won the battle, lost the war, and enraged the beast that lives in my basement.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The week that I cut the cord to the basement was a hard one for Beezle. It </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">started</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> hard for him. That Monday I woke to a blood curdling scream. I leapt from my bed with a start, gracefully bounded through my bedroom door and the hallway, hurdled over a couch, and skipped three steps at a time on the stairway to the basement. In my mind, there exactly one reason for a scream like that to emanate from Beezle’s domain. He must have successfully purchased, and be in the process of extracting, a soul. (I should mention, by the way, that there is a strict ban on human sacrifice in my home. If Beezle wants to do that kind of thing he’ll have to find another landlord.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">What I found shocked me beyond description. Beezle was curled in a corner of the room, cowering with an expression of horror on his face. He was pale, and his usually arrogant and condescending eyes betrayed fear. Confused, I looked frantically around the room. Nothing seemed out of place except for Beezle’s bone throne. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“What?” I asked, “What is it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Beezle’s voice was calm, contradicting his demeanor, “I have finally been found. It is only a matter of time, now, before terror rains down upon us.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Who?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Beezle looked at me meaningfully and his tone chilled my blood as he said, “the Four-Hundred-and-Four Terrors” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My breath caught in my throat, but I managed, “The what?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“The Void, The Darkness, Shorn. The deeper darker being which I once betrayed. I believe we have discussed him before.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll be frank. I nearly wet myself. Beezle is the most powerful, morbid, and frightening thing I’ve encountered; and he has been hiding like a small child from this other greater and fouler tempered entity for millennia. Over the beating of my heart I could barely hear myself ask, “What makes you think it’s coming?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Beezle gestured dejectedly toward his computer monitor and said, “He has discovered my activities, halted them, and marked me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I fearfully approached the screen and read, “404 – CONTENT NOT FOUND”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I laughed loudly in relief, causing Beezle to have an angry outburst wherein he described the numerous horrors that were about to befall my house and all within. None of them were family friendly, and I don’t dare attempt to describe them. In fact, I’m doing my best to suppress them. Until then I’ll be sleeping with the light on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It took most of the day to convince Beezle that four-O-four errors are a standard non threatening part of internet life. He spent the rest of the day grumbling about symbolism and signs and all sorts of apocalyptic things. I was just relieved that the apocalypse wasn’t happening actively in my basement.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He eventually regained composure, but he still had nervous energy built up and I think he resented that I had seen him in his moment of weakness. I assume that these were the factors that led to what Wadsworth is now calling the Swimming Pool Incident, which deserves (and will be given) its own post. I didn’t say a word. I just cut the cord and that was that. I let Wadsworth explain the new “server not found” errors. I waited for complaints and obnoxious magical retaliations to flood through the vents shortly thereafter. Normally, I would have braced myself, but on that day I truly I didn’t care. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Vengeance never came. Instead, Beezle gave me the cold shoulder. Everything has been silent and almost peaceful – almost, in that the silence is violently tense. For days I crept around corners, tortured by the thought that Beezle might finally vent his wrath with some fearfully murderous surprise. Nothing happened for a full week. Then, just as I was starting to relax, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">things</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> started happening. It’s like my Karma went bad or my Yin and Yang fell out of balance. I can’t pin anything directly on Beezle, but I know it’s him. He’s making surgical strikes against my peace of mind and well being. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My phone was the first thing to go. Will and I took a hike a few days ago with a friend of mine named <a href="http://burninglizardstudios.blogspot.com/">Derek</a>. We were fishing a stream that on one side had a quick current but that on the other had a few nice little pools. There was a nice little log spanning the length of one of the pools and we decided to go sit on it. We forded the stream, leaving most of our gear, backpacks included, sitting on the bank. Everything was fine and pleasant until a little snake poked it’s head out of a whole in the log, stuck out it’s tongue, and retreated. A fierce flash storm appeared out of nowhere. By the time we got back to the far bank, our backpacks were soaked, and my phone was fried. I’m on my parents’ family plan and my service provider is a small homegrown company that’s housed several hours away. Therefore, I’m phoneless for a while.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Shortly after my phone problem, Wadsworth got an urgent message from a friend or relative, calling him away for a few weeks. I can manage myself for a while, but I’m not good at taking random ingredients that happen to be lying about and making something edible out of them. My grocery budget is gone till the end of the month, so I’m scrambling to keep on top of things. I’m getting hungry and so is Will. I can tell, because he’s also getting extra attitude. I’m also suffering Wadswoth’s absence in other ways. He kept me organized. I’m starting to miss appointments and lose things.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Then there was today. I drove a few miles down the road to a church meeting, and when I was done the truck wouldn’t start. As luck would have it, everyone else had already gone. Also as luck would have it, a friend at church had asked me to deliver an important document to a neighbor before said neighbor left for the airport. I couldn’t call anybody – my phone is still dead and all of the numbers of people I would call are stored therein. I tried hitching a ride but only person who noticed my thumb was a teenage girl that looked at me like I was jack the ripper. After that, I just ran until I almost had a stroke. The neighbor was angry at the delay, but tried not to show it. Several hours later I caught <a href="http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/">Nathan</a> on G-Chat. He picked me up and let me call AAA roadside service on his phone. Triple A is magic, by the way. They have the power to counteract demonic curses – for how long I don’t know, but it was at least long enough to get home.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Something else is coming up. I can feel it. So, what do I do? How do I get Beezle to settle down without giving up my authority? I can’t just give him back the internet without telling him between the lines that he can make me bend to his will if he misbehaves badly enough. Any suggestions are welcome and wanted. I’m so desperate that I’m allowing anonymous comments. So, lay them on me…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">DIRECTORS CUT: I wrote a long explanation of the de-escalation model and axed it in favor of a more condensed version. However, de-escalation is pretty cool, so I'm dropping it in here. If you don't care, then just skip to the comments.</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">DISCLAIMER: I'M NOT A PRO, I'M NOT A SHRINK, I'M NOT A MILITARY MAN - I can barely remember what the military man said, so take the following with a grain of salt, and if you intend to ever ever ever apply it, be sure to consult someone who knows what they're talking about. I just think it's a cool approach to a situation where you have both the need and the authority to calm a situation down - like if Beezle breaks into your house and holds your kids hostage...</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The best way for me to explain this is with an example:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It’s 10:00 PM; time for bed. You make a loud announcement declaring that bedtime be observed. A TT (Troubled Teen) named Timmy is lingering on the sofa he shows no indication that he acknowledges the existence of either bedtime or you. He’s pushing the limits to see how far he can step out of line and be “OK.” A mental boxing match has just started and Timmy is testing your defenses with soft jabs. You quickly don your De-escalation Gloves and maneuver.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you’re a rooky you glare at Timmy, raise your voice and spit out, “Timmy, get your but in bed </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">now</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">.” (You probably wanted to say “ass” but you’re in my scenario; so you don’t get to.) What you’ve just said is, “I am your Lord and Master. Obey or die.” It’s a challenge and Timmy can’t back down now without losing face, or self respect, or cool points, or whatever happens to be in that day. Instead, he’ll try to make you feel stupid about being so intense. The situation will escalate and no matter how it ends, it won’t be pretty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you’re a pro, you glance up and casually state, “Hey Tim, it’s ten, will you go to bed please?” or maybe you verbally “presuppose” that he’s going to do what you asked and say, “Hey bud, on your way to bed will you ______”. Maybe you do something equally casual and non threatening that says, “Will you please make going to bed be your decision?” You’re giving control to him. He can either choose to escalate the situation further, or to back down without injury. If he continues to ignore you then you change the request for compliance to a firm, yet calm and non threatening, instruction: “Tim, go to bed.” If that is ignored then you make a statement of imminent consequence. “If you don’t go to bed, X consequences will be applied.” If Tim continues to choose to escalate the situation, you apply the consequences. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Here we can count and see that Timmy has had four chances to choose to comply without injury. Every time that he escalates he knows that he is making the situation worse for himself. In other words, it’s harder for him to resist authority than it is for him to comply with it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If Timmy is stubborn and keeps pushing you just calmly continue a two part cycle: make statements of imminent consequences. If he won’t comply apply the consequences. These consequences are always preplanned, immediate, and gradually intensified toward some ultimate consequence, depending on the situation.</span></div><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you started with “Tim, go to bed or you will be restrained and placed under constant surveillance,” then Tim get’s one chance to back down. If Tim repeats this kind of behavior often, then he becomes desensitized to the most intense consequences that you apply. He no longer cares if he escalates the situation because he’s been there before.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-37020620505705519162010-08-11T22:16:00.000-07:002010-08-12T00:19:18.460-07:00Dumpster Diving<div class="MsoNormal">From my first night in the mansion I have known that it has various secrets. Some I’ve discovered with little effort (Beezle made his presence known speedily), while I have probed at others with very little success. On rare occasions I stumble into something unexpected and surprising. Whether I am pleased by such surprises has been widely varied. For example, I recently stumbled upon a secret compartment containing a sum of money large enough for me to pay my tuition for one semester (have I mentioned that I’m a poor college student?). On another occasion, I discovered carnivorous toilet. I barely escaped with my life and gained a new resolve to pay better attention to phrases like, “Perhaps this restroom is best avoided, Sir.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This week I made an entirely new discovery, and I’m not certain what to make of it. It’s got to do with the dumpster. You see, I was thinking about my recent troubles with William. I chronicled them for you last week, but let me briefly refresh your memories.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I took issue with Will’s evening bathroom habits. He took issue with my existence as an authoritative figure in his life. Changing the topic, he requested that a door be added to the dumpster to improve his access. I suggested that he take a room in the mansion. He took offence and left me wondering what was so compelling about living in a dumpster. I ended my thoughts by asking you, my readers, for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> thoughts. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/">Nathan Major</a>, a good friend and associate suggested, “When life gives you a kid in a dumpster, buy a new dumpster.” Beezle heartily agreed and promoted swift action on my part. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I appreciated the humor from Nathan, and ignored the sincerity from Beezle, and went on with life a little less stressed for a few days. However, I kept thinking about the conversation and Will and the things he’s dealing with as a teenager. I was a teenager a short time ago… I’d never go back to it – not if you paid me, not for the world. I remember having some weird notions and strange feelings about things; and how nice it was when somebody who knew better would just nod their head and go along with me for a little while. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remembered Will’s birthday too, so I started making some phone calls to welders to see about getting a door on that dumpster. The first guy said, “you want what?” and wouldn’t quit laughing long enough to talk business. The next one was serious enough, but he also said that “it is a violation of state and federal law to modify a dumpster in a fashion inconsistent with its original design and/or intended purpose.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally I ran across Stan of “Stan’s Odd Jobs and Custom Welding.” I asked for an estimate on cutting a door into the side of a dumpster and braced myself for another disappointment. After a long silence he drawled, “Wellllll, I guess I’ve been asked to do stranger things. I’ll jus’ come down ‘n’ take a look right now, if that’s ok wi’choo” (“wi’choo” translates from redneck to “with you” in standardized English).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan’s base of operations is close and I had just enough time to shove Will out the door on a fake errand and wheel the dumpster into the garage before Stan knocked on the door. I let Wadsworth get it, but I stood back in the hallway and watched the exchange (I enjoy watching Wadsworth work, it’s inspiring.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan is average in height but stocky. He has a dark tan, a wind worn face, and sandy brown hair that usually stick out in every direction. He had it covered it with a well used cap, but it didn’t help much. </div><div class="MsoNormal">When Wadsworth answered the door I watched Stan remove his cap respectfully and say, “This the place that wants a door in the dumpster?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, Sir, Lord Secrest is expecting you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“And you don’t want me to do nothin’ in the basement, right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, Sir. That will not be necessary.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good, ‘cause I’ve been here before. You know you got a monster or somethin’ down there? ‘Boilzees’ or ‘Beezus’ or somethin’? Worst customer I ever had.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“IT’S BEEZLE, YOU TWIT, AND I DEMAND A REPLACEMENT OR A FULL REFUND FOR THE IRONWORKS YOU INSTALLED TWO YEARS AGO – YOUR ARTISTIC RENDERING OF ‘IMPALED SACRIFICES’ ISN’T NEARLY AS SATISFYING AS I ONCE FOUND IT.” boomed the vent in the great hall.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan jumped and his eyes widened. He whispered behind his hand, “Does he do that all the time?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wadsworth nodded and said, “Frequently, Sir, yes.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan licked his lips and raised his voice, “Now, Mr. Beezus, you agreed in writing that I don’t replace nothin’ ‘less I put it in wrong or it broke.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A loud snap cracked out from the vent, and Beezle said, “OH DEAR, SOMETHING SEEMS TO HAVE DETACHED FROM ‘IMPALED SACRIFICES.’ THE POORY INSTALLED IRONWORK HAS GONE AWRY.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan scowled. “Also, I inspect carefully for signs of intentional vandalism.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OH. DAMN.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After a short silence Wadsworth said, “I trust that your business with Bezel has concluded. May I show you to the garage.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan nodded, and I spoke up, “Thank you, Wadsworth, I can take it from here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Very good, Sir.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While I walked with Stan, his eyes wandered everywhere and he did a half turn every time he took a step. He caught sight of a particularly dazzling chandelier and let out a low whistle followed by, “What’s a place like this cost anyways?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Not much, surprisingly,” I said, “But that’s probably got something to do with the tenants.” I pointed to the basement. Stan nodded severely.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“YES,” Beezle piped up, “BETWEEN THE DUMPSTER-DIVER AND THE WOULD-BE SOCIALITE AUTHOR, THE ESTATE IS TRULY GOING DOWNHILL.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“The little son-of-a-gun’s got a mouth on him don’t he? He’s worse than my sister. ”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“YOU PROBABLY FORGET HER NAME TOO, DON’T YOU?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan shrugged, and we kept moving.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the garage he spied the the dumpster up and said, “Well, let’s see what we got here… looks pretty standard.” He opened the lid and peered inside, “Metal’s in good condition; don’t see any corrosion at all. Should make for a pretty clean job. I think I can get ‘er done pretty quick. I think I’d charge you, oh…” he named a price, and I frowned at it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Stan,” I said, “This may surprise you, considering that I’m living in a mansion, but I not so well to do. I was basically given the place. Can we work out something a little cheaper?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan scratched at the scruff on his chin and gazed at the dumpster. He folded his arms and worked his tongue around in his moth for a while. Finally, he looked back at me and asked, “You got yourself a Gardner?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I shook my head. “Had one for a while, but I could afford to keep him on. Will’s been mowing the grass and Wadsworth handles the flowers.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Well, I’ll tell you what: I’m lookin’ to pick up an extra job or two. You let me handle your grounds and call me first on any maintenance you need done an’ I’ll throw in the dumpster for free.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Stan,” I said, “but I doubt I can offer you enough money to make it worth your time.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan thought for a little longer and said,“Well, how about a cook? You got one of those?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wadsworth does most of the cooking around here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“He any good?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ve never eaten better.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan grinned widely, “Well I can’t cook to save my life. You have your Man rustle somethin’ up for me a couple time times a week and I’ll do your grounds for next to nothin’.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I grinned, “I think we’ve got a deal.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We shook on it, and he set up his equipment to work on the dumpster. Then he lifted the lid and said, “This’ll work best if I crawl inside. That way I can make the door flush with the edge of the floor.” He scrambled in. He let out a low whistle again and shouted, “Holy Moses! Wasn’t expecting that! This is some dumpster mister.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Puzzled, I looked inside the dumpster. Stan was looking around him with the same look of bedazzlement that he’d displayed inside the mansion, but I didn’t see anything special: there were a few old suits, old news papers, yesterdays light refreshments, and that was about it. Everything looked standard.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What’s so special about it?” I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well Gee Wilikers; you ever been in this thing?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Then I think maybe you should get in here. This thing’ll shock you better’n a cattle prod.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I heaved myself over the edge and in the process started saying, “Now, what’s so –,“ I had planned to say “special,” but I was stunned speechless. I found myself standing in a ten foot by ten foot by ten foot room. The décor was as just as grand as in the mansion. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. The walls and floors were polished, white, and sparkling. I wasn’t sure if they were stone or metal or some sort of wonderful mixture. The room was fully furnished with a large wardrobe, an unmade bed, a messy desk, several tables and stands of various types, and a set of ornate furniture. The newspapers that as viewed from above had been ripped and strewn about were now precisely folded, stacked, and organized by date on a short round end table in the corner. Yesterday’s refreshments sat invitingly on a silver platter on a cherry wood coffee table. I turned around in a daze to find that the wall behind only remained vertical till just below my shoulders, after that it took a sharp me angled upward until it met with the ceiling. A large window was set in at exactly the same height that the dumpster lid would be, in fact I could see the hinges on the upper sill. On exactly the opposite wall was a softly glowing silver door with an engraved golden handle. I walked to the door and reached out to finger the handle.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stan grabbed at my hand and growled, “You got bolts for brains? Who knows but that it opens into that monster's fireplace? When I installed that ironwork, I saw more’n one door just like it, an all of ‘em were in nasty places, so you just keep your hands to yourself until I’m out’a this dumpster.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stepped back quickly, thinking shakily of the twenty foot flames I’d seen in Beezle’s suite. I walked to the window, put my hands on the seal and looked out. Will was standing in the garage and he looked angry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To make a long story short, Will was fairly upset about the invasion of his privacy. The phrase that best sums up his side of the conversation was, “I asked you to put a door in, not have a party in my bedroom.” I however, am proud to say that I remained relatively calm, and after many apologies from both me and Stan he finally let it drop. He was also very pleased with the door. Stan welded installed in from the outside by cutting a hole and installing a latch. Will let us check it out from the inside. Inside the dumpster the door formed as intricately carved oak set into a crystalline archway. Stan kept walking inside the dumpster and back out again inspecting his work. He’d swing the door from side to side on other side and more than once I heard him mutter, “How the hell did I do that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Will still won't tell me what the silver door is for, but if I ever find out, I'll fill you in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">-Jason L. Secrest</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-87554821349659506742010-08-02T03:31:00.000-07:002010-08-02T03:31:17.879-07:00Starlight and DumpstersI've had an exceptional weekend. I couldn't have asked for better on my twenty-fifth birthday. I spent plenty of time with friends on during the week and went to my parents place for the weekend. There's been lots of food and games and companionship. There was also the boat.<br />
<br />
My dad has a sporty sleek red and white boat. He got it a few years ago so that he could share one of his favorite activities from when he was a kid with us. The first time couple times out, I hated waterskiing - I just couldn't get up. All water skiing did for me was to flush out my sinuses with copious volumes of water. However, now that I've got the technique down I love it. Dad knows that, and the morning after I got home, he had my siblings and I up at seven. By seven thirty we were on our way to the lake.<br />
<br />
I was groaning about the time - I'm not too much of a morning person, but my pops is wise about water. When we launched the boat the water was slightly rough, but not bad. By the time we propelled to the other side of the reservoir the water was a calm glassy mirror. I've never seen such perfect water before, and it stayed that way for as many hours as I had strength. We did everything - skiing, wakeboarding, slalom skiing, coasting around the lake soaking up the sun; everything.<br />
<br />
Well, I'm not in great physical condition and it wiped me out. We'd planned to go spelunking in the afternoon, but I was so exhausted that we changed our plan to accommodate naps and a movie. I slept well that night, but I was plenty sore the next day. The night after, when I arrived back at the mansion, I was even worse. I was stiff and walked with a strange kind of half limp. Everything hurt. My legs, my arms, my neck, my gluteous maximus, and everything else was screaming for a Tylenol.<br />
<br />
Wadsworth welcomed me home with warm yet stately salutations and promptly drew a bath for me. He suggested a cold one with ice as the "most effective remedy for the soreness of overtaxed muscles," but I'm too wimpy for that kind of thing so we went with a hot one. I napped for the rest of the afternoon. That turned out to be a poor choice, as I was exceptionally restless that night. Since I couldn't sleep I decided to go outside and enjoy the stars, and maybe stretch out my legs a little bit.<br />
<br />
I lingered in the garden for a while, breathing the fragrant air in deeply; but the trees obscure much of the night sky, so I ventured out a little further. The nearby mountain range cut a black jagged path through the stars at the horizon. There are very few lights in my neck of the woods aside from the ones in the mansion house, and it was a cloudless night, so the rest of the stars were perfect and brilliant. I stuffed my hands into my back pockets and leaned as far backwards as I could without falling over. My back objected stiffly, but the stretching helped. Finally I lay down on the perfectly manicured lawn and put my hands behind my head and contemplated the eternities.<br />
<br />
My meditations were interrupted shortly by a metallic banging sound from the back of the house. I figured it was Will, thrashing around in his "bedroom." Just like Beezle, he came with the house, and I've never quite understood why he sleeps in that thing. I don't challenge it though - he's an adolescent, and those can be wonderfully emotional, illogical, and unfathomable things.<br />
<br />
Things went quiet for a while. Then there was more banging, followed again by silence. After not too long the motion sensors on the back patio blinked on, hurting my eyes. I shield them, and listened quietly to the dumpster lid rising the rattling of the metal as Will climbed out and the slam of the lid falling back into position. Will yawned and padded toward me across the cement of the pool.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure how he didn't see me in the blinding 240 lumens of the floodlights, but he didn't. I was content to just lie in wait. I won't do that again. He walked within a foot of me, stopped, and started to relieve himself. I leaped up with a cry of surprise and alarm. He leaped to the side with the same frightened shout. Fortunately, I escaped the situation unsullied. <br />
<br />
We hurriedly turned away from each other. While he finished his business I asked, "Do you make it a habit to pee on my lawn?"<br />
<br />
"I guess."<br />
<br />
"You know there's a restroom in the house right?"<br />
<br />
"This is closer. Besides, it's nice out here at night. I like the feel of the grass on my feet."<br />
<br />
"Uh huh. Well, as nice as that is, I'm not so keen on the idea."<br />
<br />
"Why do you care?" Will's voice cracked. It's been doing that a lot recently, "You didn't even <i>know</i> about it till just now."<br />
<br />
"<i>Because,"</i> I said, doing my best to keep my cool, "I sometimes like to lie in this grass. I don't like the thought of putting my back into your personal cesspool. So please, empty your bladder inside from now on."<br />
<br />
"Fine. Whatever."<br />
<br />
Will padded angrily back to the dumpster and opened the lid. As the lid closed back down on him he said something but I didn't quite understand it between the muffled sound and the echoes. I wanted to tell him to come out if he wanted to talk to me, but thinking that it was better to pick my battles (like what was a restroom and what was not), I lifted the lid and poked my head inside.<br />
<br />
"What?" I said, "I couldn't hear you?"<br />
<br />
He glared at me with one of the special teenage faces. It's the one that silently says all of the above, "Why are you such an idot? Why can't you just leave me alone? Nobody understands me, because like you they are all stupid. I hate your guts." I thought about just slamming the lid on him and letting him come talk to me when he wasn't being melodramatic. Instead, I decided to cut him some slack. It was late, we were both tired, he sleeps in a dumpster, and he no longer had the privileged of wiggling his tows in the lawn while he watered it.<br />
<br />
"I <i>said,</i>" he drawled, "'can we put a door on here?' I hate crawling into and out of it."<br />
<br />
"I'm not sure. I'd have to call a welder about it. What if you just take one of the bedrooms? The mansion has plenty of them."<br />
<br />
"No," he muttered, "I like this better."<br />
<br />
"<i>Why?" </i>I'm afraid I let some frustration creep into my voice. He detected it, and read volumes into it.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"I just do! Never mind. Why did I even bother asking? Shut the lid please."<br />
<br />
I took a deep breath, said 'Goodnight' and shut it. I went back to my bedroom and fell asleep trying to figure out what was appealing about sleeping in trash. I haven't had a chance to talk to Will since. He's definitely avoiding me. I've decided to go ahead and call a welder, but in the meantime I'm still stumped. What's so great about the dumpster? Any thoughts? If you come up with something brilliant, plausible, or even ludicrous with merit comment below. I've got to figure out how this kid ticks.Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-41377822060380037512010-07-23T06:26:00.000-07:002010-07-23T06:26:18.527-07:00What 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...<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Anyways, I wanted to tell you about something else.<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
When I greeted Duncan in the main hallway I said, "You should have told me you were coming. I'd have invited Susan."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"Oh, and here I thought that maybe you'd come looking for a small hand to scratch behind your ear."<br />
<br />
"Pah!" Duncan said, and he eased down on to the shag carpet, "she's just a little snack waiting to happen."<br />
<br />
"You say that every time you see her, but I haven't seen any missing children reports yet."<br />
<br />
"I'm just waiting for her to fatten up a little bit. She's all ribs. Not even worth the trouble -<i> yet. </i>Maybe you had better call her over for cookies. Speed up the process."<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
He snorted and said, "Let me guess, 'you're stuck?'"<br />
<br />
I grinned sheepishly and said, "Yeah, I've got this other idea that's really nagging at me and -"<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, Susan?"<br />
<br />
"Did you know that Mr. Duncan can talk?"<br />
<br />
"Oh?" I said. The surprise and interest in my voice were very real.<br />
<br />
"Yes. He talks when nobody is here."<br />
<br />
"And what does he say when he talks?"<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
"You know," I said, "You're absolutely right."Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-57149933022983353312010-07-13T07:36:00.000-07:002010-07-13T07:36:30.380-07:00Carry OnI'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.<br />
<br />
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 href="http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/2010/07/book-covers-some-favorites-and-not-so.html"> a post in a good friend's blog</a> wherein he discusses book covers. (By the way, Nathan's always got something interesting to say. Check out <a href="http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/">http://nathanmajor.blogspot.com/</a>)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
One day I'll write something like that. First I have to learn to get to the point. Good luck me.<br />
<br />
I think I'll go see what Wadsworth is whipping up in the kitchen. All this inspiration is making me hungry.<br />
<br />
-JasonJason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-34521996519372857412010-07-07T13:55:00.000-07:002010-07-09T14:50:26.641-07:00Advertising and Anthropomorphic Personifications<div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Yes, Will," I said, doing my best display my annoyance at being interrupted, "what do you need?"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"No, not particularly,” I said, “Should I be?"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Well... I was just thinking about how much you probably want to go buy a BigMac or something.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Will bit his lip, "Yeah, he said, I know."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Then why are you in here bothering me?"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"I thought that after you bought it you might decide to throw it away."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Why would I buy a burger just so that I can throw it away?"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Will cast his eyes to the floor and mumbled, "I don't know… just 'cause."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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?"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He smiled hopefully, "Yeah."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"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."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A whine started creeping in at the edges of Will's voice. "It's not the same."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Yes, we just established that. It's better. Now please, I have worked to do."</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"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.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.")</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Pleasure</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">," 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.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I've been working hard this afternoon,” </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Death began, “</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">and would enjoy resting and sharing conversation for a short time.” </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He hesitated before adding,</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> “I would find one of Wadsworth’s rolls most invigorating, if they are available.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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,”</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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?</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“This seems like a bad time,” </span></span></i></b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">he said,</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> “I will harvest more souls and come back later.”</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“No. I said, now is just peachy. We are going to McDonalds and we are going to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">like </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">it. WILL, get out here! We’re going to the magically toxic land of the golden arches.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Wouldn’t you rather eat a roll? It would taste better and contribute to, rather than detract from, your overall health.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Don’t you know,” I said, “ ‘</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It’s just not the same.’ ”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you say so. It will be your funeral.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And yours. Get in the truck.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-44241022496381527622010-06-28T23:11:00.000-07:002010-06-28T23:16:46.819-07:00Back and There AgainI've been back from vacation for a week now, but I wonder if I'm really back or not. I haven't been able to really focus on anything important - no writing, no blogging, nothing really important has been able to penetrate the thick fog of my brain. I must be pining for the mountains. Something about the beauty of a mountain lake really gets to me. The air was nice - and i can breath it because there are no lawns being mowed out in the pines and quakies - the beach was pleasent, the hikes were breathtaking (not just in that I breathed harder), and the company was relaxing.<br />
<br />
Now that the break is over it's hard to get back to responsibility. Thus, last Monday I was browsing YouTube instead of working on my writing. I think I was feeling guilty about it because I jumped a little higher than usual when I heard Beezle's voice booming behind my shoulder.<br />
<br />
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE?"<br />
<br />
"Nothing really," I said, "just messing around."<br />
<br />
"I THOUGHT I HEARD A SMALL CHILD COMPLAINING THAT HE'D BEEN BITTEN BY A CREATURE CALLED CHARLIE."<br />
<br />
I chuckled, "Yeah, I'm watching YouTube"<br />
<br />
"YOU-TUBE?"<br />
<br />
"It's a place on the internet where people can post videos."<br />
<br />
"WHAT? THE INTERNETS HAVE BEEN INVENTED? WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED OF THIS? I HAVE BEEN WAITING PATIENTLY FOR THE LAST SEVERAL THOUSAND YEARS."<br />
<br />
"You knew that the internet was coming?"<br />
<br />
"OF COURSE. THE INTERNETS HAVE A PROMINENT PLACE IN DEMONIC PROPHECY. THEY WERE TO COME FORTH AS A TOOL OF MASS DESTRUCTION AND SOUL HARVESTING, USHERED IN BY THE GREAT BLOODY ONE: ALL GORE"<br />
<br />
"Do you mean Al Gore? I hate to break it to you, but he didn't invent the internet. And though I'm not a fan, I doubt he's ever done anything particularly bloody in his life."<br />
<br />
"FOOLISH MORTAL. OF COURSE <i>ALL </i>GORE INVENTED THE INTERNETS. AND IF HE HAS NOT YET FILLED MANY GRAVES, HE SOON WILL. WHY ELSE WOULD WE CALL HIM ALL GORE? HAS HE UNLEASHED THE LOL-CATS YET?"<br />
<br />
My interchange with Beezle on the topic of the "internets" went for quite a while, so I'll sum up for you. Beezle is convinced, that All Gore, the most grotesque soon-to-be-mass-murderer of our time, is in league with all the forces of darkness. Though that's a little far fetched I think he's not too far off about the soul harvesting. If what he told me is accurate, the lol cats are just the beginning. You'd best hunker down and limit your YouTube hours or your body, mind, and soul is destined for a demon's pantry.<br />
<br />
Beezle's enthusiasm for the internet was so great that I've been able to capitalize on it. In exchange for a wall plug in the basement I he signed a billing contract with me: questions for service. Getting everything set up was fairly exciting. Beezle somehow came up with a bag of money for me, and with it I purchased him a top of the line computer and upgraded to a cat5 connection. When the serviceman, Bill, came to install the wall plug and upgrade our wiring the deal was that I would go with him to the basement and that Beezle would stay out of sight. Beezle was a little upset. He wanted to greet the bearer of the internets with a gift or two. The way things went, I wish I would have let him - the poor fellow would have thought he'd gone nuts, but I'd have been spared a lot of embarrassment.<br />
<br />
When we went downstairs to set things up, we found a small shrine in the middle of the room. At the center of the room, amid archaic symbols and pools of blood stood a polished onix dias. The new computer sat on a spacious alter-like desk in the center of the dais. An enormous throne made completely of bones sat behind it. <br />
<br />
I tried to tell Bill that I was a Halloween enthusiast, but when I opened my mouth I learned that Beezle is an accomplished ventriloquist.<br />
<br />
"YOU ARE TOO PUNY TO BEAR THE GREAT DARKNESS OF THE INTERNETS ALONE. WHAT DARK MASTER DO YOU SERVE?"<br />
<br />
I snapped my mouth shut. Bill laughed nervously and said, "Comcast?"<br />
<br />
I wanted to tell him that the voice was a party trick I was working on, but I didn't dare. Instead I just clenched my mouth and smiled. I think Bill was unnerved. He did his best to keep his back away from me until the moment he left and any time I moved at all he jumped. When he left I should have just waved. Without thinking I shook his hand and opened my mouth to say, "Thanks." <br />
<br />
Instead I said, "IF THESE INTERNETS DO NOT MEET WITH MY APPROVAL I SHALL CONSTRUCT A FOOTSTOOL FROM YOUR BONES AND ADORN IT WITH YOUR EVER-BURNING ORGANS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"<br />
<br />
I was still grasping Bill's hand at the time. He yanked it back, stuttered an affirmation, and backed up the stairs. I dove for my wallet to pull out a twenty, but he turned and dashed up to the main floor, leaving me with the bill hanging limply from my fingers.<br />
<br />
"HE DID NOT LINGER. THIS IS FORTNATE, AS YOU ARE THEREFORE MORE READILY AVAILABLE TO ATTEND TO ME."<br />
<br />
I whirled to find Beezle already sitting on his throne, caressing the computer tower. <br />
<br />
"NOW, COME," he continued, "AND TEACH ME THE SECRETS OF COMMUNING WITH THE INTERNETS."<br />
<br />
I could feel the heat rising to my head. I threw my hands in the air and said, "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."<br />
<br />
"IS IT THAT MY IMPRESSIVE VOICE GRACED YOUR LIPS, OR THE FACT THAT I WAS ABLE TO SO EASILY SAVE YOU A TWENTY DOLLAR TIP?"<br />
<br />
I didn't say anything in response, I just stormed up the stairs. Beezle called after me to tell me that it was just as well that I was leaving, as he'd rather not have an assistant lacking in gratitude. His smugness wore off after a while, and the house was awash with either calls for help, or bitter statements that he didn't need help. These were generally followed by strange incantations and/or multicolored lights and flames spouting from the vents. Finally, after a explosive blast that rocked the mansion, he apologized and bribed me with just enough money for a Kindle. I took great satisfaction from the look on his face when I pressed the power button. I take even greater satisfaction in the wonderful silence that has filled the mansion for the last few days. Maybe I'll get some work done now.<br />
<br />
-JasonJason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-17983570390918985082010-06-12T23:49:00.000-07:002012-01-23T11:27:10.488-08:00An Interview<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I've finally got my backbone in working order, and I am posting from my study again. Then I'm off on a camping trip with my family, and won't be posting for a week. This is therefor a longer post to tide you over.<br />
<br />
My basement, and Beezle's home, is separated from the rest of the mansion by a set of stairs and two doors, one on either end of the staircase. Tt's little wonder that knowing what inhabits my basement, I had never been down to it before Wadsworth and I went down to interview Beezle. I was expecting a dark dank pit with dripping stalactites above, or at least an unfinished basement full of spider webs and large rodents. I was totally unprepared for what what I found on the other side of the lower door. <br />
<br />
Beezles living space is stunning and shockingly tasteful (all things considered). The floor and walls are lined with black rough cut stone. The ceiling is sixty feet high at it's pinnacle. (I know that you, dear reader, are smugly saying that this cannot possibly be true because beezle lives in my basement. That shows just how much you know about multiplainer physics.) The room is long and rectangular; the door we entered from is on one end wall and at the other there is a twenty foot fireplace, shaped like one of those rounded triangular alcoves found in ancient cathedrals. Along it's sides are larger than life statues of wreathing human forms, and grate within it resembles the burning skeleton of an enormous man. The bonfire held inside rages like a furnace, though the air in the room is unnaturally chill.<br />
<br />
Beezle sat, smiling politely, in a plush overstuffed chair in front of the fire. Beezle too, was far different from what I imagined. In my mind I had conjured up a multi-headed dragon with at least two heads reserved solely for poking into the vents to annoy me. Instead, Beezle is almost human in form. His appearance is elegant, powerful, and morbidly fascinating. He has oily jet black skin and thick short black spines that run from the base of his scull to the tip of his tail. At the tip of his tail, three jagged pearly white spines jut straight out. The claws on his hands and feet, as well as his jagged teeth, share the same pure color. The color contrast makes him look bizarre and frightening. Beezle has no gender defining features, though his a deep resonating voice suggests that he is male.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">As intriguing as I find Beezle's form, he has one physical feature that keeps my attention: his eyes. They are as dark and deep as the night sky and perfectly round. Golden flecks float through the eternal darkness within. They are hypnotic and captivating. <br />
<br />
As we got closer to Beezle, my thinking became foggy. By the time we stood before him I couldn't remember why I was there or what I was doing. I was alright with that though. All I thought I needed or wanted was to continue to look into the deepness of his eyes.<br />
<br />
"WELCOME TO MY LAIR," said Beezle, standing up and gesturing.<br />
<br />
"Thank you," I said, "what can I do to make your life more comfortable?" The worst part is that I ment it.<br />
<br />
"I CANNOT THINK OF ANYTHING AT THE MOMENT, THOUGH I WILL BE SURE TO LET YOU KNOW. FOR THE MEANWHILE YOU MAY CONTINUE TO ADMIRE ME."<br />
<br />
There was silence for a space of time until Wasdworth coughed loudly.<br />
<br />
I turned startled to face him.<br />
<br />
"If you will excuse me, Sir. I suggest that it would be wise to look anywhere other than directly into Beezle's eyes."<br />
<br />
"YES, THEY DO SEEM TO HAVE THAT STUPEFYING EFFECT ON PEOPLE DON'T THEY? I CAN ONLY ASSUME THAT IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH MY DEVILISHLY GOOD LOOKS."<br />
<br />
I frowned and said, "Wadsworth," I said, "if I start doing anything rash, you have my full permission to strike me."<br />
<br />
"Noted, Sir."<br />
<br />
"And by the way Beezle," I added, turning back to look at his chin, "Isn't the vacant space above us right about where my study should be?"<br />
<br />
Beezle looked anoyed, "THAT GOES TO SHOW JUST HOW MUCH YOU KNOW ABOUT MULTIPLAINER PHYSICS. I WON'T TAKE THE TIME TO EXPLAIN IT TO YOU. I HAVE SOME DREAM PLAYING I'D LIKE TO GET TOO SHORTLY. NOW, YOU SAID SOMETHING ABOUT A SACRIFICE?" Beezle looked at me greedily.<br />
<br />
"Yes, right." I gestured to Wadsworth, who lifted the lid on his tray, displaying the contents.<br />
<br />
"This sir," he said, "is Cognac dated to the year fifteen thirty-seven, sir. And this," he continued, "is goat blood."<br />
<br />
"HOW OLD WAS THE GOAT?"<br />
<br />
"Three hours old, sir."<br />
<br />
Beezle grinned widely and rubbed his hands, "I THINK WE CAN DO BUSINESS THEN. FOR EVERYTHING ON THAT TRAY I WILL VOW TO ANSWER ONE QUESTION TRUTHFULLY."<br />
<br />
"One question?" I asked incredulously, "That's not even worth our time!"<br />
<br />
Beezle scowled, "I WAS BEING GENEROUS. I REQUIRED THE WIFE OF THE LAST PERSON WHO ASKED ME FOR THE TRUTHFUL ANSWER TO A QUESTION."<br />
<br />
"Then I'm sure you won't have any problem finding blood somewhere else."<br />
<br />
Beezle squinted at me, "TWO QUESTIONS, BUT THAT'S ALL"<br />
<br />
"Wadsworth," I said flatly, "we're done here. Let's go."<br />
<br />
I could feel Beezles eyes drilling holes into my back, and it was unnerving. it was the best I could do not to flinch. When we were half way to the door, Beezle called out after us. I was suprised to here a hint of desperation in his voice.<br />
<br />
"I CAN GIVE YOU THREE. THAT'S MY FINAL OFFER."<br />
<br />
I looked to Wadsworth for approval. I'm not up to date on the street value of goat blood. He nodded, so I turned and said, "Then i think we can do business."<br />
<br />
Wadsworth and I returned to the fireplace and Wadsworth rested the tray on an end table next to Beezle's chair. It was dark granite with a polished black marble inlay. Beelze immediately poured himself a glass of Cognac and splashed some goat blood into it. He drank deeply before sighing with satisfaction. Then he eyed me and said, "YOU'RE TAKING ADVANTAGE, YOU KNOW."<br />
<br />
"And you're congesting my basement."<br />
<br />
Beezle sat down and crossed his legs "POINT TAKEN."<br />
<br />
"By the way," I asked, "How do you keep from poking holes in your chair."<br />
<br />
Beezle shrugged, "KEVLAR UPHOLSTERY. SHALL WE BEGIN?" Beezle cleared his throat and said,"I SWEAR BY THIS ALCOHOLIC GOAT'S BLOOD THAT I WILL ANSWER THREE QUESTIONS TRUTHFULLY." He raised the glass like he was making a toast, then took a sip.<br />
<br />
I was suprised, I'd expected something a little more archaic, so I asked "That's it?"<br />
<br />
Wadsworth winced.<br />
<br />
"I'M ALL OUT OF CEREMONY. WHAT'S QUESTION NUMBER TWO?'<br />
<br />
"You mean question one."<br />
<br />
"I MEAN QUESTION TWO." Beezle perfectly imiated my voice and said, "That's it?"<br />
<br />
"That wasn't a question! It was a statement of disbelief!"<br />
<br />
"YOUR INTONATION CLEARLY IMPLIED A QUESTION."<br />
<br />
"Perhaps sir, it would be wise to instruct him not to answer questions that you haven't specifically made official.", said Wadsworth.<br />
<br />
I glared at Beezle,"Right. Those are the new rules. Now, <i>officially </i>tell me about that evil entity that you're so afraid of."<br />
<br />
"THAT'S A NON SPECIFIC STATEMENT. I NEED A QUESTION."<br />
<br />
I sighed. What did I really need to know for the book?<br />
<br />
"First of all, what is it's name?" I paused and thought carefully then added, "offically - and I want the answer to include the reason for it's name"<br />
<br />
"IT HAS NO NAME. THIS IS SIMPLY BECAUSE IT PREFERS THINGS THAT WAY. THEREFORE IT HAS BEEN CALLED MANY THINGS, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO: THE VOID, THE DARKNESS, THE DARK ONE, AND SHORN - THAT LAST ENTRY WAS WHAT THE LAST SOLAR HIGH PRIEST USED TO CALL HIM. HIS FOLLOWERS THOUGHT IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS SHORN, AS IN CUT OFF, FROM THE LIGHT, THOUGH I HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THAT SHORN WAS EXTRAPOLATED FROM SHARON - THE NAME OF THE HIGH PRIEST'S EX-WIFE."<br />
<br />
Somehow I didn't feel as dissapointed as I should have. I can work with something nameless. Something without a name can't protest when I give it one of my own.<br />
<br />
"Alright, official question number two: <i>Why </i>are you so afraid of him?"<br />
<br />
Beezle took another casual sip from his glass and said, "IT IS BECAUSE HE IS FAR MORE POWERFUL THAN I, AND I BETRAYED HIM."<br />
<br />
"Why?"<br />
<br />
Beezle smiled smugly, "I'M AFRAID YOU'RE OUT OF QUESTIONS. IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME, IT IS TIME FOR MY DREAM PLAYING." He snapped his fingers and the door to the mansion flew open.<br />
<br />
I sighed, frustrated, though I tried to be optimistic. I had something new to work with for a little while. Maybe after writing more I'd come up with better questions and a better way to ask them.<br />
<br />
And there you have it, my interview with Beezle in full. I'll see you again in a week.<br />
<br />
-J. L. Secrest<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-34545160775244755302010-06-10T23:42:00.000-07:002010-06-11T01:06:14.981-07:00Things that speak through vents in the night:I'd like to apologize. I know that there are many of you who are upset that I didn't post yesterday about my interview with Beezle. It's because I've been a little shaken. I signed off after my last post so disturbed about the interview that I couldn't quiet fall asleep. When I did, my dreams were dark. As I slept, they became increasingly frightening. Among other things, I dreamed that I was on fire, drowning, about to be hung, and being chased by rabid wolves. Finally I woke screaming, when I dreamed that all of the editors and publishing houses world wide had blackballed me.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>When I stopped screaming and calmed myself down Beezle's voice boomed down at me,"I WISH THAT YOU HADN'T WOKEN UP YET. I WAS GOING TO MAKE YOU DREAM THAT BRANDON SANDERSON EMBARRASSED YOU ON HIS PODCAST WHILE DANGLING YOU OVER A PIT OF VIPERS. I WAS ALSO TRYING TO WORK IN AN IRON MAIDEN."</div><div><br />
</div><div>I wasn't mentally ready to comprehend that Beezle was admitting to something. Therefor I made an accusation, "Beezle! You were messing with my dreams, weren't you!"</div><div><br />
</div><div>"WHY YES. HOW DID YOU GUESS? UNFORTUNATELY, BECAUSE I WAS WORKING THROUGH HYPNOTIC SUGGESTIONS, I WAS UNABLE TO EXPERIENCE THE FULL MAGNITUDE OF YOUR DREAMS. PLEASE TELL ME, WERE THEY HORRIFYING?"</div><div><br />
</div><div>"What's wrong with you," I bellowed, "Why would you do that?"</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I WAS BORED."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"What do you mean you were bored? You said you were bored when you hustled us out of the basment this morning! You said that you wanted to dream play! How can you be bored already?"</div><div><br />
</div><div>Beezle does something that he calls "dream playing." It lets his consciousness enter "the revelry" and and take an active part in peoples' dreams. Apparently he can't control who's dreams he arrives in, but when he does, he enjoys himself thoroughly.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"YOUR SNORING INTERRUPTED MY CONNECTION TO THE REVELRY. IT COULDN'T HAVE COME AT A WORSE TIME. I WAS ABOUT TO SCORE THE WINNING GOAL AGAINST BRAZIL IN A BOOKIE'S NIGHTMARE. BECAUSE OF THE TERRIBLE NOISES YOU KEPT MAKING, I COULDN'T GET BACK IN. THEREFOR I MADE DUE WITH WHAT I HAD AVAILABLE TO ME."</div><div><br />
</div><div>I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, so I stormed from my room, made some hot chocolate, and sipped on it by the fireplace. My hope was to calm down so I could sleep again. To my great anoyance, beezle followed me from room to room, and I did my best to keep my cool. The last thing I wanted was to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.<br />
<br />
From the ensuing conversation, I've come to the conclusion that Beezle sufferes from Attention Deficit Disorder. He kept changing the subject rapidly. He told rude jokes, told bone-chilling stories about his favorite evil dictators, made the worst puns I've ever heard, asked inappropriate questions, told me about people he'd driven to suicide and gave all gory details about how they did it. Finally, I was so sick of him that I resolved not to respond any more. That didn't phase him in the least. I remember the end of that one-sided conversation. After a long bout of silence he started asking me questions. I never caved. Finally he said,"ARE YOU SILENT BECAUSE YOU ARE CONTEMPLATING, OR BECAUSE YOU FEEL INFERIOR AND DON'T WANT TO EMBARRASS YOURSELF?</div><div><br />
</div><div>JUST A FEW HOURS AGO YOU WERE FULL OF QUESTIONS. UNLIKE NOW, YOU SEEMED TO <i>WANT </i>TO TALK TO ME THEN.</div><div><br />
</div><div> I THOUGHT YOU LIKED ME, MAYBE EVEN LOVED ME. WHAT WOULD IT BE LIKE, TO BE LOVED, I WONDER.</div><div><br />
</div><div>MAYBE TO BE LOVED, ONE MUST FIRST LOVE. MAYBE I SHOULD GIVE LOVE A CHANCE. LET ME SEE NOW... A LOVING ENTITY OF EVIL WOULD BE KIND AND THOUGHTFUL. A LOVING ENTITY OF EVIL WOUD CONSIDER YOUR FEELINGS.</div><div><br />
</div><div>ALRIGHT, I SUSPECT THAT YOU, PANSY THAT YOU ARE, ARE TERRIBLY SHAKEN BY THE HORRIBLE DREAMS THAT YOU JUST HAD. I SHOULD MENTION THAT IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU SCARE SO EASILY. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, I WILL CALM YOUR NERVES WITH A HEARTWARMING ANECDOTE FROM MY PERSONAL LIFE. I WILL CHOOSE ONE THAT IS INSPIRING, YET REVEALING, THAT I MIGHT ENDEAR YOU TO ME BY MAKING MYSELF VULNERABLE. LET ME SEE NOW, AH! YES, I'VE GOT JUST THE THING:</div><div><br />
</div><div>WHEN WAS COMPLETING MY FOURTH YEAR AS AN UNDER-DEMON THERE WAS A DAY THAT, FOR ME AT LEAST, WAS BOTH AWKWARD AND EMBARRASSING. WHEN I LOOK BACK ON IT NOW, I JUST CAN'T HELP BUT LAUGH AT MYSELF. I WAS PRESENTED WITH A HUMAN PAWN THAT HAD SOMEHOW DISPLEASED THE DEMON I WAS APPRENTICED TO. I WAS TOLD TO SKIN THE CREATURE ALIVE, BUT NOT TO DAMAGE THE HIDE. I WASN'T QUITE SURE HOW TO START, SO I EXAMINED HIM CAREFULLY, WHICH WAS DIFFICULT BECAUSE HE WAS KICKING AND SCREAMING THE WHOLE TIME. FINALLY, I DECIDED THAT THE BEST ENTRY POINT WOULD BE -"</div><div><br />
</div><div>That was when I finally made it to the back door and shut it behind me. A few hours later Wadsworth came out and found me in the garden. I was hungry, due-covered, and shivering; but I try to be an optimist and I was pretending to enjoy the sunrise.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Good morning, Sir," he said, "I have brought breakfast, if you are hungry."</div><div><br />
</div><div>I was. When he lifted domed the lid from the silver plater, and I saw the steam rising and smelled the subtle spices, I almost passed out from desire. I tried not to look like a ravening wolf when I took the tray."Thank you Wadsworth," I said,"How did you know I was up? I'm usually not awake for another two hours."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I have been subjugated to the laments of a bereft and broken hearted demon since rising this morning, Sir. Apparently you spurned his tender advances, and threw his metaphorical arm of comfort and support from your shoulders. He is quite bitter, and has sworn off love forever."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"He knows that things would never have worked out between us," I smiled, "On a completely unrelated note, I would like you to stuff the ventilation shaft in my bedroom."</div><div><br />
</div><div>Wadsworth smiled slightly, "I have already taken the liberty, Sir. I have also turned down your bed and drawn a hot bath for you."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Thank you Wadsworth," I replied,"I don't know what I'd do without you."</div><div><br />
</div><div>Wadsworth nodded in acknowledgement and returned to his duties in the house. I finished my breakfast and truly did enjoy the sunrise for a few minutes. When I entered the house again things were blissfully quiet. I relaxed in the bath and slept for the rest of the day and through last night. Now I'm posting from the kitchen. Between the interview, the dreams, and the way I keep thinking about how Beezle's "heartwarming anecdote" might have ended, I'm still fairly jumpy. I'd rather not be alone right now if I can help it. Therefore I am posting from the safety of the kitchen table. I told Wadsworth that it's because I want to see how he runs his kitchen. He has had the decency not to expose the obvious. Thankfully, Beezle isn't so chatty today - either I've offended him and he's not talking to me anymore, or hes taken advantage my newly muffled snoring to get some good dream playing in.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I know I still need to post about the interview, but I can't quite handle that just yet. Give me another day, and I swear that I'll satiate your desire to know what happened.</div><div><br />
</div><div>-Jason</div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-39426650871723170962010-06-08T14:54:00.000-07:002010-06-08T14:54:10.092-07:00There's a Beezle in my BasementToday was fairly uneventful until about 11:30 pm. That was when Wadsworth entered my study carrying a silver tray. On the tray were a corked bottle and a small glass stoppered vile.<br />
<br />
"What's on the tray?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Five hundred year old Cognac, Sir."<br />
<br />
"Wadsworth," I chastised, "You know I don't drink."<br />
<br />
"Yes, sir. The alcohol is not for you, sir. It is for Beezle."<br />
<br />
"I LIKE YOUR BUTLER. HE CAN STAY. YOU ON THE OTHERHAND..."<br />
<br />
"What's wrong with me?"<br />
<br />
"YOU DON'T DRINK."<br />
<br />
"That means more for you."<br />
<br />
"A VALID POINT. YOU MAY STAY IF YOU STOP SNORING. AT THE VERY LEAST, STUFF THE VENT IN YOUR BEDROOM."<br />
<br />
Deciding to ignore the last comment, I turned to Wadsworth and said, "Wadsworth, I've been meaning to ask you something about the pool. Will you please follow me?"<br />
<br />
"Of course, sir."<br />
<br />
"DON'T FORGET, YOU'RE DUE TO OFFER SACRIFICES TO ME IN TWENTY MINUTES. DON'T BE LATE. I HAVE A VERY TIGHT SCHEDULE."<br />
<br />
I guffawed. "Filled with what?"<br />
<br />
"BEETLE FIGHTING. THE FINAL ROUND IS TONIGHT AND I ANTICIPATE WINNING LARGE QUANTITIES OF BEETLE BLOOD."<br />
<br />
Outside, I spoke very quietly, "Wadsworth, is there any way that Beezle can hear us out here?"<br />
<br />
"There is a possibility, Sir, though it is unlikely. If you wish to speak unheard, I suspect that the garden would be a more private location."<br />
<br />
I nodded, and we quietly changed venues. When I was satisfied that there was no possibility of being overheard I said, "Wadsworth. I'm not so comfortable offering a scarifies to an unholy being. It goes completely against my grain."<br />
<br />
"If it will ease your conscious sir, you may think of the offering as dinner by another name."<br />
<br />
"A thorn by any other name is just as sharp, Wadsworth."<br />
<br />
"Please sir, allow me to explain the nature of the offering. Beezle thirsts for blood. It need not always be human blood, though he would prefer it. Like a wolf or a vulture, he is merely hungry. I assure you sir, that by slacking his thirst with a small quantity of goat blood, we shall not in any way worship him, or enter any unholy contracts. We merely offer him a highly desirable snack, for which he will make a temporarily unbreakable vow of honesty."<br />
<br />
I still felt uneasy about it, but I said, "Well, alright, if you're willing, I guess I am too. At any rate, I've always heard that you have to sell your soul to make a living as an author."<br />
<br />
"Quite so, Sir. Shall we proceed?"<br />
<br />
"After you Wadsworth."<br />
<br />
"Very good sir."<br />
<br />
And so it was, that at midnight last night I found myself in my basement, face to face with one of the most frightening things I've ever seen. I'll fill you in on a the details of the interview tomorrow.<br />
<br />
-J. L. SecrestJason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-59373055916015813292010-06-07T16:48:00.000-07:002010-06-07T18:45:10.603-07:00Me VS WadsworthThis morning was good one. I got up at a decent hour feeling well rested. Wadsworth made a fantastic omelet for me and at my request drizzled Hollandaise sauce over it. It's so hard to find good Hollandaise sauce these days, but Wadsdworth's could kill you by sheer force of it's unadulterated goodness. After breakfast he also called in a master masseuse at his own expense. It's worth mentioning that Wadsworth is beyond a master in the art of massage, but he's also not a pretty girl, and for unexplained reasons he seemed to think I was deserving of one of those today. Between her pretty face and how relaxed I felt after she worked the knots out of my shoulders I fell into a really wonderful mood. After she left, I gave Wadsworth the rest of the day off. Now I'm starting to wonder if he planned it that way. I think he remembered that this was the day that I'd planned to go through my notes for Solar Flare.<br /><br />Solar Flare is a fantasy novel I'm writing. Beezle is in it and so is Wadsworth. Infact, the novel is loosely based on true events involving both of them. Despite having a basis to work from, the plot became so convoluted and tangled that I got frustrated and put the manuscript down for about a year. I'm starting it up again and trying to remember where I left off, what to add, and where to slash. It has been a painful process. I think Wadsworth doesn't think it's redeemable. Yesterday he was strongly urging me to let the project die peacefully.<br /><br />Well, one can't be a slave to their valet. I'm not that type. While he may make recommendations on the right business suit to wear to a meeting, or suggest the kind of beverage that would best compliment my dinner, it's not his place to go killing off my novels before they ever see the light of day. I told him as much and made it very clear that he would be helping me organize my notes today. I'd also hoped to get him to write a few autobiographical chapters that I could include at the end of the book. Unfortunately, a pair of soft feminine hands on the back of my neck made me forget about all of that.<br /><br />The rest of the day has been a mess. I spent most of it just trying to <span style="font-style:italic;">find<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> my notes and previous chapters. Now that I'm sorting through the mess I can't make heads or tails out of anything. Besides that, Beezle has been singing songs that are so graphically violent, they make "Saving Private Ryan" look like an episode of scrubs. Besides being disturbing, it makes it hard to concentrate.<br /><br />It's a beautiful day outside, and the pool is calling to me. Maybe things will make more sense after a dip.<br /><br />~<br /><br />I'm ashamed to say that a dip led to sunbathing and sunbathing let to a nap. My pasty white skin is a touch burned, and I'm congested because the Gardner cut the grass while I was sleeping. (I've got mild hayfever). By the time I got back to writing again, I'd lost all my energy and the desire to do anything. On the upside, Wadsworth got back from wherever he goes on his days off, and we reached a compromise. He agrees to keep his opinions about whether or I'll ever get published to himself and help me keep myself organized. I promise to limit his involvement in the project to a bare minimum, though I may ask him a few questions about the events that took place.<div><br /></div><div>With Wadsworth's help things sped along quickly. When he had me in working order he promptly left for the kitchen to start work on dinner. As I worked through the material, I found some places where I was lacking large pieces of information, some of them vital to the area of the book I was currently plotting. I tried to move on, but was so bothered that I couldn't think to write anything else.</div><div><br /></div><div>In my study there is a long chord that I can yank on to call Wadsworth. I think it rings a bell or something. I gave it a few tugs and drummed my fingers on my desk while I waited. I also watched the second hand on the clock. Wadsworth walked in exactly thirty seconds later. That was ten seconds slower than usual. He must of had his hands in something.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wadsworth bowed slightly and asked, "Yes, Sir?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Wadsworth," I said, "What do you know about that evil entity that Beezle's so terrified of?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I FEAR NOTHING!" said the ventilation shaft above my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wadsworth glanced at the ventilation shaft. His expression said nothing, but I could tell he was annoyed. I've been around him for so long that I can just tell.</div><div><br /></div><div>"If you don't mind me asking, Sir, is there any particular reason that you called me from my duties rather than asking the resident poltergeist?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"IT IS BECAUSE HE FEARS ME."</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's because I want true information."</div><div><br /></div><div>"ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Only in the narrowest interpretation of the word."</div><div><br /></div><div>"THANK YOU, I'M FLATTERED."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Despite the untrustworthy nature of the entity in question, it is likely that he will be able to shed more light - "</div><div><br /></div><div>"DARKNESS"</div><div><br /></div><div> "-on the subject than I can, Sir."</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, but I got the distinct impression that the vent was grinning at me.</div><div><br /></div><div>"So, just how do you propose I separate the fact from the fiction?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"AREN'T YOU <i>WRITING </i>FICTION? I'LL WAGER THAT THE LIES THAT <i>I</i> TELL WILL SELL BETTER THAN THE LIES THAT <i>YOU</i> TELL"</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope that facial expressions transfer both ways through the vent, because I scowled heartily at it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wadsworth cleared his throat to regain my attention. "Demons, like most multiplanear apparitions must abide by certain rules sir. There is a kind of oath that Beezle can make that will force him to speek truth."</div><div><br /></div><div>The vent boomed with deep laughter.</div><div><br /></div><div>"AND WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I WOULD MAKE THAT VOW TO 'LORD' SECREST?"</div><div><br /></div><div>That was my question too. I thought Wadsworth had finally lost his marbles. I was convinced when I heard him say,"He will bring a sacrifice."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I CAN PENCIL YOU IN FOR TOMORROW AT MIDNIGHT."</div><div><br /></div><div>Wadsworth looked pointedly back at me and said, "Will that be all, sir?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I was still fairly stunned to have heard Wadsworth proclaim that I would be offering a sacrifice to an entity of darkness, but I decided that it would be best to talk to him later out of the earshot of Beezle.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, Wadsworth. That's all."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Very good sir. Dinner will be served shortly."</div><div><br /></div><div>That was half an hour ago. The smells wafting in my direction are overpowering every other sense I have, so I bid you ado. </div><div><br /></div><div>-J.L.Secrest</div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3809641874954818361.post-40159701350226617552010-06-07T14:45:00.000-07:002010-06-07T19:48:23.585-07:00What ho! (That is to say, welcome.)What ho!<br /><br />I'm no Englishman, and I have no British accent. However, this is my first blog entry from my study of The Mansion House, and I'm doing my best to do my part as the Lord of the Manor. Hence the "What ho." That's what a youthful, with the times, and jovial estate owner would say, right?<br /><br />I employ a valet names Wadsworth who also doubles as my butler. He's a real gentleman's gentleman. Besides that he has a natural aptitude for everything. I also keep a man at arms around, Captain Cole. He used to be a captain in an imperial army, but now he rally's the troops around here. At least, I think that's what he does. If the truth be told, I haven't seen any troops here besides him.<br /><br />Unfortunately, there is a tenant living in the basement - a demon named Beezle. He's flippant, evil, and unruly. He also has a morbid sense of humor. I think that's why the place was so cheep. The last owner of The Mansion House, Lord Goldermint, couldn't figure out how to evict the demon. His pocket book overfloweth, so his solution was to practically <span style="font-style:italic;">give </span>the house away (fully furnished, might I add) and move to a penthouse flat somewhere with lots of sun and beaches. For the kind of deal he was offering, I thought I could put up with a resident bastion of evil.<br /><br />Beezle's not so bad, actually. Generally he keeps to himself unless he's bored (which is most of the time). When he does manifest himself, it's through obnoxious and/or amusing magical antics or annoying comments through the ventilation system. He won't admit it, but I think he got himself trapped down there, and now he can't get out. Otherwise, he'd be off somewhere in the world eating human scarifies and making goats explode. Whether that's true or not, he makes for interesting company.<br /><br />There are others who stop by occasionally. Inspector Fibs, a large bear named Duncan, a witch, and several others tend to visit occasionally. Even Death drops by for brunch every now and again. I think it's because he's in love with Wadsworth's rolls.<br /><br />Finally there's me. I'm Jason Secrest. As the Lord of the Manor I'm going by J. L. Secrest. It sounds more official. I'm a poor college student who aspires to one day be a full time author. My major has nothing to do with writing, but that's just the way I roll. I take inspiration for my writing from my employees and resident demon and I even use their names for my characters. Beezle wants a cut of the royalties. He doesn't grasp the fact that I've got to get published first. Besides that, if his name ever does bring in royalties, I feel comfortable considering it his rent. I haven't told him that yet though.<br /><br />Well, that's the gang. Feel free to drop by and read about life at The Mansion House. If I'm not a dweeb I'll update regularly. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll be able to snag a page out of Wadsworth's journal and post it. I assure you that what he has to say makes much more interesting reading than anything I can come up with.<br /><br />-J.L.Secrest<div><br /></div><div>*EDIT:</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought I'd better make this change here rather than in the comments section, lest a reader miss it, or think I'm joking. There is, of a truth, a "dumpster out back, which contains, amid the leftover light refreshments and old suits, a young boy." I'm not sure how I neglected to mention this. Perhaps it was for fear that the police might take exception to me keeping a young boy in my dumpster in the back. Whatever the case, he is there, his name is Will, and he can be a whiny royal pain. Duncan can attest to this. Do not fear for him, he enjoys the light refreshments very much, and when his cloths get old he wears the suits. He also never has to clean his room. The garbage man takes care of that once a week. His is a sheltered life, yet a good one. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(41, 48, 59); line-height: 19px; "></span></div>Jason L Secresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16149094769566786991noreply@blogger.com5