Are we golems? Do we following the coding in our heads (or the genetic codes in our bodies) exactly? What happens when the lines crash in our heads and we have to rewrite?
Sarah Hoyt has compared us with Terry Pratchett’s golems in that we have certain lines in our heads and in our bodies that we “must not cross.” Plus when we go through extreme physical, mental, and/or spiritual trauma, we have the chance to rewrite our lines, whether for good or ill.
It is a rare person who doesn’t go through some trauma. But, I had a small epiphany– To completely change my life track in my twenties, I had to be broken and then I had to pick up the pieces and glue myself together. It wasn’t easy. I needed help. My life view completely changed. I knew that if I wanted any bit of happiness in my life, I would have to take charge of it. I would have to be so independent that I didn’t need anyone. Glad to say that when I met my late-hubby, he caught me before the “I don’t need anyone” had completely solidified. We needed each other, but we were a complete unit.
Now I am back under the blood sun and my lines need to be re-written again. I know that I am broken because I can feel where I cracked the first time. I went to one grief group and found that the break is pretty common with those folks who have lost a vital portion of their life. (I lost a vital portion from disease and now from losing him.)
Every one knows the five stages of grief. What they don’t tell you is that you cycle through it over and over – sometimes several times a day. And that when the grief becomes easier to bear, you wonder why you were left without him. Then comes the despair.
Words are inadequate to explain how there is a real hole in your being in the center of your chest, how the pain radiates out and taints your perspective, and how the blood sun sits in your head and asks you “why are you still here? Why haven’t you committed Sati?”
Otto wouldn’t leave until I promised him that I wouldn’t follow him. I am holding on with all ten fingers–scratched, bleeding, and fighting. Without that promise, I would not have my Foxy. Without that promise, I might have walked into the blood sun.
One of the lines in my head is that I am loyal and that I would follow him and stand with him forever. That line has been obliterated.
One of the lines in my head was that I would do anything to save him and heal him. That line is obliterated.
One line that is thin and fraying is that I am a protector. I keep that one by caring for Foxy. She has saved me when the blood sun’s voice was strong.
There are other lines that are so deep that they can’t be broken even though I have done my best to bend them. Always care for your family was beaten in my head. I was able to change the meaning of family to mean those that were made-family.
There are only two roads for me… Despair and die, or live and one day be happy. Foxy makes me happy.
Today I took a shower and walked Foxy, the little chihuahua. I am only mentioning these two things because I usually need an hour rest between these two actions. Even so I am a little out of breath and my heart is beating faster than usual.
It is hard to be alone. I envy the chronic illness patients who are able to survive without a companion. Part of the reasons I need someone is that much of my mind is occupied with other things. I am not happy unless I am creating. It has been hard to create when I am grieving, which brings me to my real post of honor, duty, and promises.
My late-hubby did not die on the battlefield of Vietnam. Plus he was very aware of the capriciousness of life. Even though I know in my heart that Agent Orange from his tours in Vietnam caused his early death (67), I have been unable to get anyone else to agree. In his own words he said that “we drank it, ate it, and bathed in it. Agent Orange was in everything.” He didn’t die on the battlefield, but he and many Vietnam Vets are dying from the battlefield.
I honor those who fought and gave the ultimate sacrifice. I honor those who fought and gave their health. I honor all those who now pay the price everyday in cancers, fatigue, and chronic illnesses. They gave all.
Every generation my family gives one or two family members to the military. My great uncle died in WWII and is buried in Belgium. My grandfather lost a lot of friends in WWII when his ship sunk in Leyte Gulf. He is gone now.
If I go back far enough, we have family members who fought in the Revolutionary War. My late-hubby’s family had a patriarch that died in the Civil War. Some families gave more than others.
I remember. I hope to instill this pride to my nieces and nephews and now my great-nieces and nephews.
There are no guarantees in life and war. There are no guarantees in death. Remember our dead and know that this sacrifice was to allow the Great Experiment to continue– freedom and justice.
I enjoyed this article. There are a lot of beliefs and I am of the opinion that religion is the human way to make sense of the world around us and whatever is beyond this life.
Originally posted on Otherwhere Gazette:
Geekdom has the widest range of religious beliefs of any group in the world I think. I’m somewhere on the agnostic/atheist scale, depending on exactly how you define the words. My friends in Fandom include at least the following: Wiccans, Pagans, Neo-Pagans, Asatru, Atheists, Agnostics, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Mormons, and a host of others maybe. I don’t know mostly because I don’t generally care. If your belief works for you that is all that matters to me in general.
I do know I have an unusually large percentage of Mormons in my group, I have no idea why. I have a couple of very hard core Christians, one or two militant Atheists but, for the most part, most of them are very laid back about their beliefs. Even the ones who aren’t laid back are also not in your face most of the time. What I am going to…
View original 564 more words
Some interesting writers and their work–
Originally posted on According To Hoyt:
The promo is by Free Range Oyster, the resident ambulatory mollusc. The musings are mine. And since this is my blog and I muse if I want to: musings first.
My main musing is on the subject of work. Yesterday on Facebook someone told me I do two daily blogs and all the rest. This is, of course, not true. I barely do this blog daily, if I can con one or two of you into doing guest posts a week. (Actually I’ve found the ideal number of weekly posts is three. After that it starts eating into the fiction brain. Yes, I could cut down to posting on designated days, or I can let some of my friends talk too. I like the second better. Now that younger son is taking (only) a couple/three summer classes — needed when you’re taking two and three half degrees in six years…
View original 2,028 more words
So last night, I was reading in my bed to relax a little for sleep. My chihuahua, Foxy, was fast asleep and having no problems with the sleep gremlins. I put down my book (well, kindle exactly) and closed my eyes.
My eyes popped open, all by themselves, and I reached for the kindle again and read until the last word. I am not telling you the title… just go to Simon R Green and read a bit.
The point is there are books that the characters are so real that they catch our imagination and drag us back into that world. Now for a mini-rant. I tried to watch a bit of TV this last week. My sweet pup hurt her paw and needed cuddles to feel better so I watched what was on the tube. I am not too impressed. One of my favorite shows has taken the main character and twisted her into this person who doesn’t take orders, who doesn’t listen to advice, and screws up all her personal relationships. It doesn’t matter to me that she was raised as an adopted daughter in a loving home. Some of us have had worse beginnings. *rant over.
So I am finding that I really dislike most of the comedy TV shows and now some of the crime shows that used to be my staple when I was watching TV. So what has happened?
I like story. I like to get involved in a story that grips me and won’t let go. The Brits have some really good shows that have gripped me to the point that I took three days out of my life to just watch them. (Berkley Circle).
So what is the difference? When I am in the middle of the story, I don’t want to be bothered with overt messages. Let me mention one: Gamergate. So what, I enjoy the occasional game. I have been to tournaments and watched the guys (and a couple of girls) play. I have never been treated as an object. So that little episode was enough to take me away from a show that I had watched for years.
I also notice that military men are the target of shows now. That hits a real hot button for me because both my late-husband and I served in the Navy. My late-hubby was a Vietnam combat vet. May he rest in peace. Isn’t it enough that so many of these men and women are coming home broken? Do we need to turn them into the bad guys as well?
So messages– should be kept in the background and should be in service to the story… never the story.
Gray slush… I don’t like stories that have no plot. No clear hero. Yes, a hero will have some weaknesses… but to make them an anti-hero over and over? The only group I know that has made successful anti-heroes lately is Marvel– Constantine, Daredevil, etc.
This also includes angst. When there is too much, I refuse to finish the movie or show. Plus no plot or story… There is no point in watching.
I find books are the same. Give me story, give me plot, and give me a hero that will overcome and make the world better in some way even if it is his own family, lawn, or corner of the coffee shop.
(I used his as a universal pronoun as it has been used since language– no genderless pronouns here as well.)
If you write a transgender who is more interested in being a good guy and girl, in a good story, heck yes, I would read that. If it is another woe is me story… it get’s thrown through the TV.
So get writing boys and girls. I’ll be doing my best to write a good story as well.
I have been shocked to tears. This is an EXCELLENT answer.
Originally posted on Mars Is:
Mea culpa. Its nearly midnight, I’m more than a bit tipsy, and I made the “mistake” of reading one of Sarah’s posts. All was well and good until I read that line. And then my deluded, alcohol soaked brain was inspired to attempt to think. The rusty gears of my logical forebrain began grinding against the drive train of my reptilian hindbrain and produced a spark which sent my neurons to a firing.
From the beginning the Puppies have been asked “what is it you are so against?” and despite valiant attempts from all concerned none have yet to elucidate a definitive answer. And now, perhaps because I am in fact drunk as a skunk, perhaps because Sarah has manged to jostle my grey matter in just the right way to jump-start my…
View original 306 more words
On the Mystery Train
The black train chugged to the station; its smoke curled and settled on the small Kansas town. There was no one waiting for passengers or luggage on the platform. The station house was dark and cold. The cry of the train as it pulled away woke a few of the lighter sleepers. They grumbled and went back to sleep.
There were no more trains and there were definitely no more steam engines running through this small town. The last one they had seen was in the late 1980s, pulling the last load and the last passengers. All of their food, clothing, and essentials came by trucks nowadays.
There were no more trains.
The train hissed and fussed like an old horse as Cathy had boarded that train. Cathy was smiled as the porter, an old black man, gave her a lift up the stairs. Her arthritis pain ached and she was grateful for the help. He put the her bag in a bin above her head and then tucked her blanket around her. The porter had a light scent of aftershave, which wafted to her nose. She let out a sigh and then turned her eyes back to the silent station.
She had wanted to leave her life behind. She had spent her life being a daughter, mother, and then caretaker. It had been too much when her husband had become a vegetable. When she had decided to allow the doctors to end his life, she felt that her life had ended too.
Her children, ungrateful brats, wanted the house. They wanted to put her in a nursing home. She had seen what happened to the old folks who lived in nursing homes. It was a mind and body killer. She wanted much more than that. It was her time to run away. So when the train pulled up to the old tracks at the back of the house, she grabbed her coat, a flashlight, and a bag.
The porter pulled a watch out of his waistcoat and checked the time.
“Where are we going?” she asked him.
“Ma’am,” he said. “To your destination.” Then he took a deep breath and yelled, “All aboard.” The train slid away from the station, slipped through the night sky, and vanished.
He tucked the blanket around her and she snuggled into it as her eyes drooped. Yes, her destination. She hoped it was better than the last one. She fell asleep listening to the clickety-clack of the train.
The next morning her children found her cold body tucked into her blankets with a smile on her face. Instead of wondering, they spent the rest of the day arguing over the estate. Not one of them noticed the slight smell of coal in the air.