Those Damn Crooks Down By The Bridge (original) (raw)

X-Posted from Myspace Blog

Writing lately has been very frustrating, as I've whined about for quite a while. Everytime I sat down at my computer to type up a little on a prior work I've not finished, I've lost focus and end up watching tv, or playing a game, surfing the net, or reading some book. Part of it is a conscious choice. I'm not sure where I want the story to go, so I've not continued the writing on it until I've got that direction.

The past week, writing has been going very well. I've not written thousands upon thousands of words, I haven't gotten too much accomplished, but when I can sit down for a couple of hours and churn out some pretty good writing that only will need a little editing, I feel pretty good.

Anstice, the work I've been spending a lot of time and energy on, has really been something I've yearned to work on since high school. That seems odd since I've devoted so much time to both my Pharaoh trilogy and my Travelers trilogy, and not just in the writing. I've mapped out histories, key scenes, where they're going to go, where they've been, who'll end up dead and alive, and all the details needed to actually finish the story. It's the actual writing on those that I'm hung up. I think I'm burned out with the stories. I am still interested. I'm just not in them as I should be.

That's why I'm anxious to spend some time just working on Anstice. I've loved this story since I first got "into" mythology. For those that don't know or were never aware, when we started studying mythology in high school English in good ole Marathon Central School (my hometown), I started gaining a real interest in it. It was more than just the things they taught. It was more than just Greek and Norse mythology (the two we studied). I began looking into the differences and similarities between the Greek and Roman mythos, the Norse mythos, the Egyptian, Babylonian, Indian, a little of the Chinese. I started into the Latin American mythos, and I studied up a little on the Celtic mythos. I haven't done as much research as I'd like into each of those things. When I started my interest, I was stuck with really old encyclopedias, a few books my father had, what I could borrow from our library, and what little I could find in other places.

I didn't have internet until I hit college, and even then, for the first two years, I was only on when I had time at school. For those years, I was able to walk to campus easily, so I could spend a few extra hours at one of the computer labs, looking stuff up. At the time, I used the internet for email and research only. I didn't really explore chat programs and the like as much as I do now. Probably why I was less cranky.

In any case, the more I went looking into all the specifics of Greek mythology, the more I fell in love with the story of Loriana, which was just recently switched to be titled Anstice. I didn't want people to think that Loriana was based upon me because she was the first of my characters that didn't have an intimate connection to something I felt or liked. That fact always amuses me because she wasn't ever really written, whereas the other characters are.

I have a lot more research to do, especially on the topic of archaeology. I know enough to not be totally ignorant, but when you're writing about characters on a dig, you have to know what typically happens on a dig. It's also essential that I know the ground of where the dig is taking place as much as possible. That means typical weather, typical local customs, the entire area. I have saved pictures of the site on my hard drive off of websites. By the time I'm done, I'm going to spend over a hundred hours or more on research for things that most likely won't end up in the novel.

It's not unsual for a writer to have that happen. Most see writing as fairly easy. You get the idea in the head and then you've just translate it to the page. That's laughably easy way of thinking of it. Perhaps it could be said to be true in the areas of poetry, you are just translating the idea from your head, but even that is not easy. I know. I've written hundreds of poems, some complex, some not. Writing isn't the same every time. If you're writing on anything that truly exists in this world and people are and can be familiar with, then you better have some knowledge of what you're writing about.

I have found, sadly, that most authors do one of two things. They either do not research enough or they research too much. You can research too much. If all you have left in your brain is a continuous lecture of what you've just learned, and all you write is that same lecture, you have a real chance of alienating readers and ruining your story.

Writers have to walk a fine line in this. Research has to be enough to add the flavor and propriety to the referenced part of the plot, but it shouldn't overwhelm. I shouldn't read a book based upon something in Ancient Egypt and be overwhelmed with technical specifcations of Temple A in Memphis, compared to Temple B elsewhere. Details=good. Lecture notes=bad. Never overwhelm the reader with too many specifics. I should not have to spend my reading time with your novel with a dictionary in hand. I shouldn't have to study a subject before reading your fiction novel. I should be able to take enough of the life and culture away with me that I can see it in my mind (and see it correctly), but still have the story.

The story, to me, is paramount to the technical details. I don't want to read what I would learn in a textbook in a fiction novel, and I don't know many others who will. Most readers don't have that patience.

Because I haven't finished with my research, I have spending my time writing on what I do know, which is the mythology. I have huge binders full of my notes about the Gods and the underlying dieties, the heroes, everything. For several cultures. I have quite a few books on mythology, though I have seen about four more I want to acquire eventually. I'm fond of subject reference books that help my writing, not writing-help books. So, I acquire as many as I can. Plus, being a member of the History Book Club has also allowed me access into getting books about specific areas of interest. I think their selection on a few topics, however, has sucked lately.

The mythos parts are interesting. In my mind, I have always seen the gods as more lively than even the mythos portrayed. I also saw through the common perceptions people and researches had on the gods. It doesn't make me smarter, and I'm not trying to give the impression, but there's a difference between the Zeus I see in mythos and how he's described and the Zeus I see in my mind. It's not just in looks, either. His motivations are loosely considered in myth. He rapes a maiden, she becomes pregnant, he has little god babies or hero babies with her. We see him as just lustful and stupid. He never grows, he never has depth.

And, we never see him in the "fading" of the Gods, where the mythology gave way to Christianity and other religions.

That's what I'm exploring in the novel. I'm taking the myths we know and love and am bringing them to life in a new way. I'm not altering what happened (with the exception of a new goddess, and a new string of events that lead up to something that even the myths mention). Zeus, Hera, Apollo, Poseidon, Eris, Athena...they all have a part to play and a life to lead. They are gods, and thus immortal, but are subject to the Fates, same as humans. They can feel, they can hurt, be wounded. They can suffer loss and be lost to the minds of humans. They may not die, but they can change. They're not just stuck in what we have been taught they were. They were never stuck there.

I guess that's why I've loved this story. I'm a changeable personality. I've always been the type where I change my mind as more fact present themselves. I've also always been a dreamer. The what ifs, the possibilities are great. I love them. I enjoy them. It brings me to life to think on them and talk on them.

That is why I love talking about writing with people face to face. I have a lot of problems doing it online now because I don't see the passion or the interest in the person on the other side of the screen that I can see in person. Writing communities haven't provided that for me in a long time, and I'm a little scared to join a few I've come across on in internet searches because I don't want to seem like I'm stalking someone. But, what I had envisioned for The Writers' Cove (and Writers' Block when it was around) was a place where people would actually talk about writing in more terms than just, "How can I get published?,"which while important and interesting, is found in every other website on writing out there. I didn't want a community full of people just looking for kudos on their work and not interested in all about writing itself.

I guess I'm too intellectual when I think on writing, and perhaps that is my downfall. I think I have internalized not only the act of writing, but all the history and my opinions on it and have made the study of writing almost as interesting as the act. I understand some of my writing peers (especially the one whose work I admire most) find this a little too creepy or weird and aren't interested in discussing it. That is why I get frustrated and annoyed at my own websites and uninterested in maintaining conversation that I only seem to be a part of.

I'm just different, I guess. Nothing wrong with it, as I like being different. It just means you end up pretty lonely, too.

I better finish this entry before it gets too long for me to even keep my focus. I've been anxious to let my thoughts simmer on Anstice, so I will end it now.

I guess if you take anything from this entry, it is that writing, when it goes well, is very much like a tempestuous full-time job that can drain you as much as any 9-5er. It's also as frustrating as any bad boss or coworker, and can, at times, make you more irritable as any of them. If anything, you can think of most writers as eternal readers because I doubt, nowadays, there are many stories that do not force a writer to do research and gain knowledge on new areas.

So, please, do not mind me if I get a little self-congratulatory on my writing. It's only because I have no where else to discuss any of this.

Posted by sharasegypt on 2006.01.01 at 02:22
Feeling: contemplative
Listening to: Drink The Night Away--Gaelic Storm
Tags: happy, love, recap of 2005, those damn crooks

Note: I apologize to any readers. This article will be written as I'm typing it, and with as much thought as someone who has been celebrating the New Year can muster. I hope you all forgive, and I'll be sure to reread this later today, when I've slept and lost the whiskey in my system, and am better able to appreciate it.

I really hated 2005. I think I hated it because it revealed something about me that few people have ever been daring enough to push on me and make me see. I have learned the art of self-loathing and I'm very good at it. I'm very good at finding loopholes and exposing them in all of my relationships. I'm good at turning those loopholes into ways of "proving" that I'm not good enough, that I'm not wanted, loved, or otherwise make myself seem desperate and insecure.

I realized this about October of 2005. Just a few months ago. I learned it when I sat up one night, probably drinking myself into a stupor, as it seems my family's weakness to do. I sat there, missing the hell out of someone I had learned to make a part of myself, and I just began to read old things I had kept regarding that person. Reading through some of them, I saw my mistakes. I saw it in the eyes of someone finally willing to open up and realize the flaws there. I wanted to know what I did wrong. See it, feel it, and learn from it.

Come Thanksgiving, I wanted forgiveness. I yearned for contact again. But, I was too proud. Proud, and terrified. This was a person, like I said, I had made a part of me. It was someone I respected far more than myself, and a person that I needed in ways I was ashamed to admit to. Not just because I'm a shy girl, but also because I crave independence and love being "me," the indefinable spark of being that no one else is. I needed him as much as I needed to breathe, and to admit that and ackno wledge it was rough.

I saw my mistakes and flaws, admitted to the need, and sank into depression. He wouldn't ever forgive me. He wouldn't ever open the lines of communication. Things were lost and done. He left. He didn't want me around.

Turns out, yet again, I was wrong. This year was comprised of a few times where I was happy to be wrong. December was one of those. I got a second chance. I got a chance to be ME. I got the chance to forget all those insecurities and to grow, to return to the person that most loved and adored. It's not as obvious as it was years ago. I have a full time job that comprises much of my time and energy. I have two children (niece and nephew) who comprise most of my attention and love. I feel tired when I'm not at work, and my days off are more like days away from the world. I have a long way to come before I'm that energetic soul. But, I've taken baby steps and I'm mostly there.

My lesson from 2005 was to accept and embrace. I accepted the bad in me. I embraced it, and then changed it. My outlook has been much better. I haven't laughed so much in years as I did the last month. I haven't enjoyed the company of family and coworkers as much as I did in the last four weeks.

It's most likely futile, and most likely not to be read, but I don't care. It'll be said.

To the person who I learned the most about:

We fight worse than a married couple, and probably have as much not in common as what we do. Most of 2005 was us fighting and finding our indepenedence from each other, as if some test to prove we didn't "need" the other, or in the least sense, to say we could do it. We spent the year at each other's necks, and then spent the rest of it in silence. Until you gave me the second chance. Until, like always, you and I gravitated back to each other.

You hurt me. I hurt you. There's still a ton of stuff in the middle that will be there forever and needs to be worked out. I spent most of my year hurt, scared, and terrified that I would spend the rest of my life not able to speak with you, at the very least.

I spent most of my year frightened that I would be alone. That I would be unloved. That I would be unforgiven.

But, you showed me something I thought was lost in most of humanity. Forgiveness. You also proved to me what I always suspected. No matter how much we fight. No matter how much we're at each other's neck, we always come back to each other. We can't resist it. We think it's done, and bam, it's not.

I am, at the beginning of 2006, desperately overcome by an emotion, readers, and it's more than love.

It's hope. It's faith. It's knowing that things will work out, even when I have given up all hope.

So, to all of you, I have faith in a good year for 2006. For you and me both.

Goodbyes

Posted by sharasegypt on 2005.12.04 at 00:14
Feeling: lonely

Writer's note: This was written around Halloween, or just before. I cannot say my thoughts have changed much between then and now. One of these days, I'll find the time to write a lighter column. Until then, a short, few thoughts on goodbyes.

I find that I write entirely too many goodbyes. It’s fairly depressing if you think of it; you leave pets, family members, children, lovers and friends behind when you say it. Whether you’re in the process of passing on, or simply ending a relationship, the word goodbye signifies much and hurts so much that there may be times when you will do anything to not have to say it.

However, a goodbye with all of is pain, frustration, and sadness, is much preferred to silence and a lack of closure.

I have been a very thoughtful soul as of late. Many of these contemplations involve my occupational choices, but they do not, by far, consume all of my personal meanderings of the mind. I find myself, many a day, looking on life in a sort of silent melancholy, mourning the past, mourning the dead relationships, and now, as the holiday season approaches (which I qualify is that following Halloween), finding myself terribly sad that what days I had looked forward to for three years past now find my heart cold and haunted.

Particularly fitting,no? That on a day where the spirits are said to walk the earth and create havoc, I find myself walked upon, haunted, stirred up. I miss the spirit of the memories, of what they used to be, and fall silent when I think of how they will not be made anew as each year passes. Unfortunately, love and life does not always run as constant as Mother Nature. Just because the seasons pass from birth, to plenty, to death, and finally slumbering wait does not mean that life and the human relationship will also go through such things. Instead, when most things end between two people, it ends for good. It is effectively dead.

Or is it?

How does one finally stop loving? How do you know when you start? Is there a way to determine, based upon the pain, whether or not the love felt was true and that of soul mates? Or, are those certainties only applied in the good emotions of human interaction, and not felt during the breakup and end?

There are too many questions to existence to be answered. We are not meant to know everything. For the moment that is to happen, life will cease to exist. There would be no challenge left to overcome. There would be no love to be had. There would be nothing left to aspire to. It would be done. Things would have served their purpose and be over.

For every pain I have felt in relation to love, I have usually had an optimism that far outweighed whatever pessimism lied within. To say that I was always cheerful after a break up would be false, however, to say I lived in never ending mourning would also be a lie. But now, I still struggle to smile and find hope in the thought that my heart will feel again, that it will accept another into it, and adore them as much as I adored the last. To me, this depth of pain, this depth of understanding of not only my heart, but also my soul, has led me to answers I never thought would be answered, and even if they were to be revealed, I assumed it would come at a later time. Instead, I have sense that what I felt was what I was to feel for the rest of my life. I was to love that person and that person alone. And, now, with it over, my heart broken, but my soul still aching for answers, I come to a confusing point.

I have always dreamed of true love. I have always been the romantic at heart, the person who believed there would be one true love out there for me, one true match. I believed that this person would save me, not from peril at the hands of some evil, but from a life without love, a life alone.

These things I felt impossible for me, but I still gave hope. The glimpses of the future I saw through my own introspection led to me to think I would be absent from the feelings, both positive and negative, of love. I would be alone. That is what I saw.

Then, as if it were delivered by a hand set to prove me wrong, I found myself in love and madly so. My entire heart yearned and adored him. I felt he felt the same. It was wonderful. It is gone.

For such things, I type and find myself speaking too many goodbyes. I have had to say good bye too many times.

And, the last love lost? Unfortunately, this time, there was no goodbye. And, just as unfortunate, there probably never will be.

Those Damn Crooks--Alone Time

Posted by sharasegypt on 2005.11.07 at 15:53
Feeling: sad

Writer's comments: I wrote this sometime within the last year, but I don't recall the date or what thoughts, exactly inspired it. But, reading through it this afternoon, I saw that it's worth posting, regardless of whether or not my mind remembers the cause. A lot of my thoughts have been consistent lately. The topic of love, pain, and ended relationships has been central to what I delve deep inside for, and I, unfortunately, haven't been quite able to compose my thoughts to write a column, and maybe, by doing so, break through that little trouble it's been giving me.

I have been thinking lately, which is a dangerous task for me. Most of the reason for this is that I tend to obsess over what I am thinking about. It becomes somewhat of a quest to discover the reasoning and purpose behind each and every thought, and sometimes, all that is there is the thought itself; no deeper meaning or reasoning can be found.

Is there a degree to which you can tolerate others? I do not mean this in a racial or religious sense; in fact, in a more societal sense, this tolerance is only enhanced and made part of the bigger picture. No, I am talking about the level of toleration one comes across in day-to-day, person-to-person relationships. And, I think I have found an answer in my many thoughts.

Humans are dependent creatures. Yes, we have a lot of independent qualities. Most can forage for food themselves; most can find shelter. Most of humanity has survival instincts. But, we are a social animal, as well. We seek out companionship. We seek out mates that complement us and give us the best possible future. As the line evolved, these relationships grew more and more complex. Emotions entered more rapidly into the equations; the entire technological advancement of our species made us more and more dependent on another providing to the whole. We are a society comprised of individuals that need each other to survive.

But, what strikes me is the varying degrees of societal impulse; some require little contact, content to live on their own. Others need contact daily, sometimes hourly. They need and seek out attention, comfort, reassurance in those around them. The majority sit in the middle. They need time for themselves, but time for others.

Where do I sit? I swing to the individual that’s hermit-like, but I do require a social life. I like having friends, communicating with them, sharing thoughts, dreams, ideas, and the fun and strange aspects of life. I also enjoy, however, my time alone. Very few things are better to me than sitting down and reading a book (or, writing one for that matter). Sometimes, I like to just sit by myself, listen to music, and think, dream, discover new worlds, right outside, watching people walk by.

A lot of people I meet are needier when it comes to social interaction. They need to know that someone cares; they need to feel it. They need it spoken. They cannot stand to be alone. Being alone is bad; it is dangerous. It makes them think. And, I cannot relate to such people. My degree of alone time is greater than another. Crowds disturb me. They irritate me. They make me feel small, and lost, and part of a chaotic world.

Now, do not get me wrong. I love having friends, and I do not mind sharing my day-to-day life with someone. But, even with living with someone, you need your alone time. You need to be free to walk away without anyone’s feelings being hurt. You need to be able to just collapse in a chair and read, without disturbance. It is necessary for sanity, and this is how I am.

So, readers, the next time you take offense at someone who needs their time, think for a moment how you would feel if you were them. Privacy is something rarely found nowadays. Respect another’s and let them be.

Another column (or two!) will be posted within the next 48 hours. Be watching!

I didn't get it up before the end of the 25th, but I managed to get whatever is going to come typed to you out before I go to bed.

From my thoughts Saturday, I was going to write a little topic of positive, constructive criticism and how it's rare to find that nowadays with employers, but then it fizzled out as I tried to relax after last night's work, and then my day off on Sunday. Instead, I read over a blog I keep in an entirely different location, and thought a little about what I believe. I'll try to not ramble too dman much, but we'll see how it goes.

Everytime I go to speak on my spiritual beliefs, I get very self-conscious and try to decide whether or not I dare actually speaking about it. My beliefs, compared to others I've met, aren't that far out, but rather, something that, like most religions, you must take on faith. Do you have to believe in it? No. But, you must take on faith that I am not making it up, that I am not lying, and instead, that it is something that I came to a conclusion to due to my life's experiences.

I grew up Catholic. It was the faith of my mother, and when my parents married, my father converted for her. He later left the Church for personal reasons, so I never really saw him involved in any type of faith when I was young. Instead, the faith I knew was from my mother and her side of the family, all Catholic. There's nothing wrong with Catholicism, in general. It is, again, a form of faith formally accepted by the world as an established religion. It has a code, a creed, the stuff known as Dogma, and an entire history not related to it's own basis in the story of Christianity.

I was Confirmed Catholic when I was 17, and at the time, I had wholeheartedly meant it. It was an important thing for me to go through the motions and become an adult in the church. My faith in a God was strong, and I truly did appeal to him when things seemed to go really wrong in my life. Though I did not see a direct answer to anything I asked of him, I did still believe and love him.

When I was twenty, I started questioning my belief in Christianity. I started to read the Bible, the actual text, and meet people online of different faiths and thoughts. They made me think, something I never think is wrong. They made me wonder. I questioned my faith within normal guidelines, and for a while, believed in and trusted in a God. It wasn't until a lot of what I began to experience and see was considered "Not real" in the Catholic religion (yet, was real to me through the experiences) and I began to wonder at the contradiction.

I began to sense, hear, and see spirits and other beings. I now call them souls as to differentiate them from the common accepted thought of "Ghosts" as the word and meaning behind ghost has negative connotations. I began to have visions that spoke of prior lifetimes, of different times where I felt wholly alive and wholly singular as a different being, and not just Lauren in a different time. I began to sense that there was something askew with my thoughts, and through a lot of investigation, I began to find methods that allowed me to research, and inventually find, reasons for what I was experiencing.

A good deal of the human population has the goods, so to speak, to be psychic. We have intuition, which gives us the thumbs up/thumbs down reaction to many things. We sense when we'll like someone upon meeting them, we sense when there is something bad around. It's innate; it's animal nature. However, the true psychic is someone who has an upper level of intuition, or advanced levels of reception. They can form very detailed, very specific thought out of what normally is just a gut feeling. It is a very unique ability, but it is an ability that can be learned.

I was born with it, I believe. I never really had to try, and I always had a sense of other beings, other souls out there trying to communicate with us. I was always attracted to the occult, to the positive nature of spellcraft, and to the aspects of seances, Ouija boards, candle magick, and aromatherapy. I yearned to learn more about meditation, astral travel, and learning to communicate with the spirits that I knew were around me. I wanted to understand them. More than that, I wanted to understand myself.

It takes a lifetime to ever fully get to know oneself, but I had felt, for most of my life, that something was missing. I felt like I needed to know something that was being held back. Within my grasp if I knew where to look. Meditation and astral travel gave me the key to get where I needed to go.

What exactly am I? I'm no longer a Catholic by belief. By blood and birth, yes, but not by belief. I'm what they call a neo-pagan. Most pagans, however, believe in multiple gods and goddessses, whereas I only believe in one thing, one entity, of which I call Mena. It's not a god, per se, but a being that fostered all life, all energy. We are Mena and Mena is us. We can communicate in many forms through him, and will return to Mena when our souls finally pass their time as distinct beings. I do not believe in a rigid set of rules for there are none. Life is led much like the Wiccan Rede. Harm ye none, do what ye will. I do not have to have a ritual at set times of day. I perform one whenever I like, through whatever means I feel necessary. There are no holy days, but those which I set for myself (days of anniversary of some recollection). I honor the Wiccan calendar at times, but do not perform by their codes.

I believe in souls. I believe in every being having one. I believe in treating the earth well, as well as each other. I believe in love, in faith, in strength, and the good of all. I do not believe bad things happen because some God decided we must be punished, nor do I believe that people are bad because the Devil has influenced them. I believe that souls make their own choice to do harm or to heal, and it is in their lives that they exhibit what choice they made.

This faith has brought comfort to me when my heart has been broken, when my family fractured, and when I felt lost and alone. Times when I felt bruised and battered because of my gifts in the psychic realm left me a much stronger, if not more cynical person. It is my faith that keeps me alive, and keeps me secure in my individuality and in my goodness. In a world where there lies so much hurt and pain, to have one thing to cling to and keep me going, one thing that is mine, and mine because my choice made it mine, and not because I felt fear or punishment.

If I've got it wrong, so be it. But, I truly believe that I did not make the wrong choice to believe in what I knew could and is true.

I do not attempt to convert. I do not attempt to belittle another faith. I see the virtues and the vices in each religion. I do not judge on faith, nor do I want to be judged on it. It is simply what it is.

In the future, I'll probably post more specific details of how I came to believe in what I did, but for tonight, let me just say that for every post I make about my faith, whether here, on some message board, or in some discussion I carry on in person with people around me, my heart heals from its pain, and my faith in life resurges. This is especially true in the cases of those who listen with open minds, and nonjudgemental hearts.

Column posted later.

Posted by sharasegypt on 2005.09.24 at 15:12
Feeling: contemplative

A column post will be up by the evening of September 25th, just to say. I've been quiet lately as I've been catching up with the season (and series) premieres of some shows, as well as work.

Just wanted it known I hadn't forgotten ya. *smiles*

As of this entry, I'm very baffled by people's behavior, both in my personal life and that which I watch going on in others' lives. I've been going through a very surreal thing the past few days, trying to understand the emotions and motivations I've been going through in regards to my life, my personal feelings, my family, and my work, as well as understanding humanity itself and how very, very screwed up it can be.

Due to my mom's everpresent influence, I've become a fan of a few reality shows. One of the first that I enjoyed the most was the original season of Big Brother, when I watched what people would do when they're locked in a house without any contact with friends, family, or any knowledge of what was going on in the world around them. I respected the ability of people to leave their loved ones for extended periods of time to compete for money and fame.

I stopped watching after that first season, only watching an episode here and there. My sporadic viewing schedule was partially due to my work times being crazy, and also because, as I watched CBS become more about the little gimicks they could throw at the public, and less about being Big Brother, I got fed up.

I watched other things instead. This season of Big Brother (the sixth) was different, and I'm not sure exactly how to pin it down. Obviously, every single member of the house was willing to win the money, and was willing to do what it took to get it. However, I think the line that was decisively drawn (and attracted me to the season) was that that extent wasn't universal, and was, in fact, what separated the good guys from the bad. Watching these people, both on the aired shows and on live feeds, was an eye opening experience. Hearing what they say, watching what they do, seeing how they portrayed themselves, watching as humanity was displayed in this handful of people just fascinated me.

Why?

Because people fascinate me. Weird, quirky, fun, spontaneous people. I love people who make me think, and make me question myself (in the good ways). I love people who can be creative, be smart, and be sexy in one body. I love people who can just hang, and make you feel comfortable, and reach out to you, without hesitation, and make you feel like they're good people. I saw some of that in the Big Brother cast, and I saw it in the personalities of Kaysar, Michael, Janelle, Howie, Rachel, Sarah and James. These were people who believed in friendship, and didn't need to parade about their bond to really see it and feel it. They were true to their word. They didn't compromise their personal values for a game. They didn't badmouth and slam others just to do so.

It boggles my mind why the other housemates (some of which are still in the house) could not comprehend why Kaysar, a wonderful man, was liked more than Eric, a man who was derogatory in his speeches towards women, controlling, jealous, angry, and explosive. Kaysar was a human being. He seemed to the American public like the man you'd meet on the street, or in some college course. He'd blow your mind because he's so very humble, so very thoughtful, so analytical. Sure, his game was perfect: He had too good of a heart, and got voted out a second time because he believed in the good of people and didn't suspect he was going to be betrayed.

Since his eviction from the house, he has had an opportunity to see how he has been shown to the American public. He could, like many would, remain distant from his fans and be an egomaniac. He could think himself "better" than us, as other reality tv stars have done. But, instead, he reaches out to his fans. He creates a website where fans can talk about him, the house, and what he's doing. He answers countless emails every day from fans. His myspace and friendster profiles are listed on his message for everyone to see and check out. He adds fans as his "friends" on these places on a day-to-day basis.

His friend, Michael (and the man who originally brought him on the show) originally started the reach to his fans. On his established website for his artwork and designs, Michael put a BB6 forum for discussion on his board. He too has opened access to him through email, his website, and his myspace profiles. He started an email address for another of his friends, Sarah (from the show, as well) so that fans would be able to reach her. Each of these people have been nothing but kind and thoughtful to the people who loved them, and in Kaysar's case, gave him a second chance at the money. When Howie, Rachel, Janelle, and James are out of the sequester after the show, they too will see what the public thinks of them, and if my estimations are correct, they will also reach out.

Meanwhile, we see that the Friendship, the people so willing to pat themselves on the back for morals, for integrity, for having, as Ivette says, "a heart of gold," calls Americans vile names, insults us, calling us, "pieces of sh*t." They say we're not watching, they're being edited to being mean, that everyone else in the house is lying. We've gotten threats and bad things said about our children, but if Janelle dares tell one of them "F*ck you!" she's infinitely more horrible, and has no soul. We've watched as they walk around in the clouds of delusion, insulting the viewers who could have given them a phone call to their loved ones, given them a chance to see outside of the house, and we laugh. Not because we are as vile as they say. No, because they're talk of integrity and having good hearts is nothing but the manipulation of themselves.

They are not liked because of the editing of BB crewmembers. What is seen on live feeds is no lie. In fact, many viewers (myself included) believe these people, these loud-mouthed, angry, jealous, and bitter women (and men) have been painted with a much nicer paintbrush than any of us would have chosen. When they are out of the house, they will see that. And, those of us with integrity, with morals, and with a clear understanding of what friendship truly is will still love our Kaysar and the others, and will still feel okay with who we are without having to say it outloud.

I mentioned that similar things happen in my private life, of which they do. I constantly have to hear the words of those who are insecure, touting how "hot" they are, wonderful they are, how "okay" they are. These are people who tout the virtues they can not live within and be of. I think what attracted me to Kaysar, Michael, and Sarah the most of all the houseguests was that they were people I could see within my own circle of friends, people I could enjoy hanging with, the sort of people that I seek out for my own companions. They are loyal without having to reaffirm their need to be loyal. They are honest with who they are, what they want, and what they do. Their word is solid. They do not break it. They're intelligent, kinda, and full of love and concern. They're funny and interesting to watch. And, not one of them fell under the spell of the "Friendship."

So, that's what has been on my mind lately.

Posted by sharasegypt on 2005.09.07 at 14:36
Feeling: contemplative
Tags: disagreements, family, friends, lonely, memories, memory, obsession, opinion, silence, solitary, those damn crooks, work, writing

After posting all of these columns from the past, I have to write one from the present, being that I'd like to somehow make up for my erratic posting schedule of the column's original run. Being as such, I will not guarantee myself to be on a schedule for this incarnation, only a hope to have updated more often than once a year.

I started Those Damn Crooks, as you can see by the dates in the prior entry, at the end of 2002, nearly three complete years ago. At the time I was writing it, I had been laid off from a job I had for over a year, and was desperately trying to find a job. I eventually (but not until August of 2003) found one, and will discuss, in a later column, some of the changes that took place in me after that fact, but at the time of the birth of Those Damn Crooks, I was trying to find something, anything, to occupy my brain. Writing a column, maintaining a message board, site, helped, as well as beginning work on my novel, Travelers. All of these things kept me sane, helped me push off the feelings of worthlessness. I felt like I had skills if I could still do such things.

Then, I became distracted by more and more. Sometimes, the distraction was good, as in a relationship that was just beginning to blossom and take shape. However, after 2003, when I got this new job, the distractions became more numerous, and suspended my ability to work on a lot of things, including Travelers.

So, today's thoughts for this new incarnation of Those Damn Crooks are more an apology and sad recollection over the past three years. It has been a very long, bumpy road, full of good and bad memories, and the knowledge that not only were things broken during this time, but also created.

I have, according to some, become a very different person than I was in 2002, and I do not deny that they are right in many regards. The amount of anger I have felt over what could be said to be small things put people off, as did my main personality flaw: being overly critical of myself and situations (and sometimes others).

Perhaps, in the coming weeks, I will go over, in more detail, what exactly the stressors were to bring me to the point where my personality, and the things people loved about me, changed, and also to discuss the feelings sitting inside of me at the moment. I am overwhelmed by my feelings, and am unable to make people see it. It may be that after I find the words to write the columns, I will be able to give them some understanding. If not, at the very least, my heart will relax a little to know I finally expressed myself.

Hopefully, the topics of this column will not become so morose and long-winded that my readers stop listening to me. My true optimism lies in my writing, as you can read between the words I put in my fiction, and see that despite the bad that happens, there is a line of good there. Hopefully, as things continue, my readers will see the same in my writing here.

Originally posted 5/2/03.

Growth

It is finally May! The warmer temperatures are trying to stick around and the world is starting to bloom into its summer colors. Things are finally starting to come to life again!

If anything, warm weather brings higher spirits for me and for many I know. You can go out, play in the sun, work in the garden, read a book outside, and finally feel as if you are free of your house.

But, while this nice, fantastic weather comes to sit on my doorstep and visit, I see so many things that seem to be an extreme form of spring cleaning occurring in my life, and my mind drifts between memories of the past and the new memories being forged in the present. Because of this, I am finding myself at a loss for what to type within this column, desperately trying to keep the drama of my personal life out of the eyes of the public, but also straining for a forum to discuss issues that I am limited to only thinking about.

So, after reading a few emails tonight, speaking with my mom for a bit, and speaking with other family members throughout the week, I decided just a few moments ago, to deviate off my ‘typical’ column ways and write a column with my opinion on personal growth. I am not claiming to be correct or all-knowledgeable this week, but I simply have a few things that I must say and adequately express, and I feel that sometimes, people just need to hear someone else say them.

How many people go to a bookstore or an online bookstore and see book after book on self-help therapies, how to boost your self-esteem, or how to make the most of your relationships? I would assume many people would nod and list off hundreds to thousands of different titles, from dealing with sexual relationships and dysfunctions to familial problems, to making friends in all the right places. I know I have seen book after book, and while I feel some could add some insight, I question how a book can provide for me answers that I could not find outside of words on a page.

Just recently, I have experienced an upheaval in my personal life, and I have begun to look through various memories of the past, trying to find a source to explain why things happened, or how it could have come to a point where relationships are ended over a relatively small issue. I would be incorrect to say that I am surprised by the event taking place, but it still haunts me as a very avoidable issue had people learned an effective way to grow, both as an individual, but also a person within a relationship.

I fear those books have little guidance they can give. Why do I say this? I would have to be honest in saying that advice from a book is workable if all participants are, to use an appropriate metaphor, on the same page. Unfortunately, life does not work this way, and we all do not read the same books, have the same backgrounds, and have not experienced the same things. We are molded from what our history has been and no book can provide an adequate leap from hypothetical to real life.

If you will excuse my leap in subjects from the “growth” of a person, to my defense as to why I do not consider self-help books an adequate solution to relationship related problems, I want to just consider the history of a current problem I have had to face.

When I was younger, I spent years going from a sense of apathy to one of pure emotion. I, several times, had no control of my emotions and I hid all of these things from members of my family; few would have known of the many times I had broken down, upset over things concerning myself and my family. I once claimed that apathy was the worst emotion, for it conveys no feeling, no sense of being in a situation, and is instead a subjective outlook that tries to be objective, minus emotions. However, I learned, as I grew, that no, apathy was not the worst because while it is a mechanism we use to strengthen our resolve against feeling pain (and even some good emotions), actually feeling such things in a form where you have repressed them for years is not healthy. It is too painful to describe.

For years, I lived in a ball, hiding how I felt from my parents, my brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. My friends could not see inside the walls I had constructed, and only a few times did they get to see me break down and cry. I locked so much away and I regret that now, if only because it has taken me five years now to move beyond that state of being and grow into the human being I am now. I learned to feel and deal with my emotions in a more typical sense and I do not, as an adult, repress so much of what I did as a child.

Five years back, several events took place in my life that led me to the way of thinking I have adopted. After an enormously painful wedding, my family and I returned home, and I set off to complete my final exams, amidst the sense that my family was breaking up. Several members were hurt, and many were sending angry emails and other correspondence to each other. At the end of June, the stress of years upon years of repressing emotions and opinions broke me down and I suffered two seizures.

It was those seizures that brought me to be the woman I am now. The experiences I had while in a horribly frightening event have scared me to the point where I learned hiding who I was, what I felt, and what I knew was no longer an option. Perhaps one column will feature more of my memories regarding these seizures because I do like to share them, but for now, I will continue on in my growth.

Over time, I learned to adapt my life to being on medication to prevent another epileptic episode, and to my dismay, less than a year later, my family was officially on the way to breaking up; my parents split up. Since then, I have gone through many roller coaster-like emotions, feeling resentment, bitterness, and a sense of sadness to know what took place and to witness the things I have. But, I grew as a person because I realized I was an adult then, and I could make my own choices on where I wanted my life to go.

Later, effects of the wedding gradually diminished to a low roar after that marriage disintegrated. I was left with feeling that a good thing had happened and that the family member I felt had been alienated from us was returned. Along with this return, however, came no resolution for issues and still the resentment grew. But, for me, I was happy to forgive and move beyond the pain of that time, a stepping stone in my growth and a new marker in my path to resolving the issues over my parent’s separation and later, divorce.

Gradually, new circumstances came about, extended family member’s feelings were hurt, and utter selfishness became the prescription in so many people’s lives. I was someone who watched from a middle ground perspective; if you prefer, you could say that I stood on top a hill surrounded by valleys where everyone else stood. I began to see the true nature of people exposed and I gradually learned where I sat in the line-up.

And, now, in more recent years, I have forgiven most of the issues that had plagued me. I have a few resentments regarding my childhood, though they are small, inconsequential, and simply things I will not allow myself to forget in fear that I will not be able to reflect on things and grow. But, most of what occurs in the present now presents me with difficulties that my growth that has allowed me, as an individual, to not be afraid to speak my mind.

Currently, my family has disintegrated, and that is the most I think I will say on the subject. For years, we had avoided speaking to each other of the things that plagued us; our resentment over childhood memories, some forgotten, some forgive, or the wedding that sent so many of us home with hurt feelings, and various other minor events that added to a stockpile of wood, now ablaze and the size of a bonfire.

I struggle between getting too personal in this column, but I will have to extend the length to present my ideas on growth, for I feel so many within my family have not passed what they need, and while it is egotistical, and perhaps all-knowing of me to say, I can stand up and look around and know that I am the only member of my family still talking to everyone else; there has to be a reason for it.

The first is communication, something that was absent from my childhood and young adulthood. There were times, as children, that my siblings and I felt we could not speak up, for we could gauge the response given. As we grew up, those of us who were introverted, remained that way, and those of us who dared to be more social, gradually grew. We, however, on the whole, did not know how to communicate our feelings, and especially those of anger. There needs to be open communication; there needs to be a forum where everyone is willing to speak on what they feel, and there has to be a place given where there is no fear. Unfortunately, while I have found this through most of my occasions where I feel a need to express, fear still is a strong motivator for silence.

The second is related to communication and I will entitle it listening. One must not just speak, but one must also hear. The words you speak are not from the same perspective as another’s, and sadly, if you cannot listen, than you should not expect others to listen to you. The past few days, I have done little but listen in many ways, at points getting my own opinions cut off and explained as to how I am wrong. But, in the end, if you cannot listen and not just hear, you will end up losing far more than you would have had you heeded this advice. You can hear what they speak, but until you really try to understand those words, your ears might as well be deaf.

Then, of course, there is the right/wrong perspective that clouds communication and feelings. Humans are extremely subjective and it has always been our thoughts that we are right, and the majority of everyone else is wrong. When things in relationships go wrong, all are to blame, not one or two people. And, I cannot stress this more, there are always grey lines. Part of communicating and listening to and with others is gathering perspectives to adequately form a relationship.

The last part of communication is perspective. We all speak from our experiences and how we view the world. Very few of us actually can see ourselves for what we are until we are confronted with a video tape or transcript of how we have acted. Then, embarrassment sets in and we are forced to deny it, turn red, or walk away in resentment because we have been found out. This saddens me, and I know that I am not an angel, nor am I a devil, but most of my family has no idea of perspective. Until we can live in each other’s shoes and have the memories each other holds, we cannot adequately judge their perspective.

My final comments will probably be much longer than I intend, but for my readers’ sake, I will take this from a subjective situation and apply it to a larger world. I grew, in my life, due to the fact that I was forced to deal with extraordinary circumstances that smacked me against the head and made me realize exactly what I wanted in life. The choices I made are made from the heart and soul of me, and my opinions and feelings all come from the life I lead. But, I also look around the world and see so many willing to judge, blame, and cast stones at the glass houses of others, forgetting that we all, in some way, live in a glass house ourselves.

One day that glass will break, and instead of seeing the world through the tint of the glass, we will instead see it how it really is. We will learn to not interpret what others do based upon what we would do, but through the actions and words they express and commit. One day, all will have to face a mirror and have a reckoning regarding their lifestyle, choices, and one day, all will see who they really are.

When that happens, you can always hope the person has grown enough to be able to handle that mirror’s unforgiving message, but I fear so many will not have. It is not easy seeing yourself in less than perfect ways. While we are human and know we have flaws, our mind is always centered on how our perspective is correct and everyone else has the problem. Instead, all of us are right and wrong in the same instance, same situation, and it is only how we grow and deal with things that displays our maturity and our strength for when we have to look in that mirror.

So, last night, I watched my personal life go up in smoke and my family fall apart; this time, however, there would be no joyous return and people made choices based upon a lack of communication, listening, understanding another’s perspective, and a lack of ability to take caution from declaring one side right or wrong. The last thing people really demonstrated was a lack of consideration in another’s abilities to have feelings different than their own. Instead, each opinion is heralded as more important, immature instances of using names and scolding is put out for arguments, and in the end, people lose huge portions over their lives because things were never spoken about when they needed to be.

So, while I have grown in astronomical ways, I see many who have not. And, some have grown in different ways that I cannot understand, at times, but I do not resent. But, when I look around me and see that family does not exist but in a loose dictionary format, I realize that we all are moving very closely to being a world of individuals who will soon lose out on the magic, beauty, and strength of a real relationship.

Now, as the flowers bloom, the trees gain their leaves, the children go outside to play, and the temperatures rise, we will leave our homes and embark into the real world, at times having to face and deal with the outside world and the relationships that exist there. But, in one way, I am thankful for the lesson I have learned from recent events; I can walk outside and begin new relationships and set up new foundations with those things I have learned in the past five years, while I watch people still struggling to make those that never had a good foundation to start, dwindle into obscure nothing.

Originally Posted on 3/7/03.

Origins

I mentioned in the first column the creator of the column name. However, in doing so, I left out the story as to why it was ever said. But, to do so, I have to give a very big look into the populace of where I grew up, and even, in many ways, turn a critical eye there. But, because this is my column and I make the rules, I believe I can do all of that without being “mean,” which is something I am always worried about.

My grandfather coined the term when I was an unknown age. I say that because I do not remember when he first began using it in frequency, nor how old I was. I remember it, however, because every member of my immediate family found it hilarious and yet, mean, at the same time.

I grew up, as I have said before, in a really rural section of New York State. We are pretty much ignored by most news, despite having some pretty racy past events (;)), and we do not garner much attention by anything other than ourselves. When people think rural, more often than not, they think of the town where I had my school. But, home? That was even smaller.

When you get into the boonies, as they are sometimes called, you meet an entirely different class of people. In general, they are relatively large family, not highly schooled, and very, very odd acting. This is not necessarily their fault, nor should it be thought I am picking on it. But, when you live in what is, by all accounts, the middle of nowhere, you develop a different type of social skill. My hometown was no different.

Understandably, my reason for using this term is to project an image to you that, unfortunately, is quite accurate in the course of things. I grew up surrounded by white trash people. These are people with poor health, not much intelligence (whether due to their own making or disabilities), very poor, economically, and their social skills can, at times, be related to a few things: violence, swearing, and sex.

Please understand, however, that not all were like this, or even those I’ll be commenting on being purely like this. However, when I say those words, “poor white trash”, the image in your mind is a Jerry Springer show gone mad. Well, it’s not entirely inaccurate.

We lived on a corner of a route and down the route in our extremely small town (if it could even, population wise, be called that), there lived a family who did not, for the most part, have good relations to my family. I should also mention here that I have a large extended family, most of which I do not see for months to years at a time. So, if you insult one part or do not do well, chances are you’ve insulted everyone.

My grandfather, when we were discussing something, used to go, “Those damn crooks down by the bridge…,” to preface what they had done. We found it funny, if only because it was such a strong statement coming from a man of strong statements, but only if provoked. My grandfather did not go out with a purpose of insulting people. He was, what some would call a victim of the time he grew up. His views are not entirely shared by the rest of my family, but we understand why he could share them. In this case, we knew enough of the family to know his statement wasn’t inaccurate in many regards.

So, what’s the point of this entire column? People who haven’t spent a large amount of time in some of the most rural places in one of the most well-known states mistake what it means to be in the middle of nowhere and to encounter people you would never dream of meeting. When surrounded by a group we may call normal, which by far, my family is only a tinge normal compared to many of my readers, you forget, sometimes, that there are entirely different groups out there, some that you cannot see or know of.

It is, by far, nearly amazing that I did not come out of living in that area with a stronger sense of being like who I grew up with. In many, many ways, I think my family was a different sort. Of all of us who grew up in that tiny little place, surrounded by people who, in many ways, were so radically different than most, we were different when coming out. We mentally did not stay in that small town, even as kids. We had enough provided, through various means, that our parents didn’t turn to alcohol or drugs, and we weren’t beaten because of some wrong we did. Those things you see and hear about some people are true.

And, there are only a few who can reach out and be totally, and I do mean totally, different than what they’ve always been exposed to. I feel bad, in many ways, even writing this column. The people I somewhat ridicule are people who, for a variety of reasons, have become locked in the trash cycle, which is, they don’t leave, the women get pregnant young, marriages do not work OR are full of abuse. The children are abused and violent. Most of the children become juvenile delinquents. Some aspire to be greater than what they were. And, all of those stereotypes become true because it is expected of them. Because, after a while, it’s a society within a greater society that does not see what is happening as destructive.

So, my family was different. We all broke out of the cycle. Every child in my family that could go to college, did. Every one of us ended up, through our own effort and encouraging ourselves, being far more than we could have probably dreamed. When I was little, I did not expect to be a writer. My one brother works with computers and software in a business sense. My other brother does a lot of graphic design work and works for a pretty well-known company (well, now, both of them do). My cousins all have jobs that do quite well for them. One of my other cousins is working on becoming a lawyer. Of my generation, several are teachers. Each of us, in our own way, let go of what could have made us eternally those small-town folks that we did not want to be.

As I am writing this, right now, I am nearly certain some are going to look at me as if I were bashing all rural folk and as if I were ashamed of my surroundings as a kid. I am not. In fact, of the rural folk I grew up with, only about half were those that were the subject of my column. The other half was composed of farmers and men and women who, for the love of the work and the country were there. They were not there because they knew nothing else, in many ways. And, it is in my opinion that “those damn crooks” are where they are because they know nothing else and have no ambition to be anything else.

So, taking a pretty fond memory of my childhood, I used it to title a column that, for all purposes, is a story of where my outlook on life comes from. This is where you see my biases and my, if you will, condemnation for certain practices and people. This is where you a going to see why I feel the way I do about where I live. This is where people who have gotten to know me, can really understand exactly where I am coming from when I say, “you don’t understand how I grew up.” I, compared to a lot who grew up around me, had a very easy life. But, my life was far from easy compared to a very large group, of which I am now a part of.

The difference between me and who I grew up around? I always knew and dreamed to be more. I always wanted to go places, see things, and do things that many unfortunately had no inkling of. Above everything else that I always pick on myself for, THAT makes me grateful that I am who I am.

Originally posted on December 27th, 2002.

The Woodshop

The year nearly being over, I am finding myself looking over the past twelve minutes and seeing how I, personally, changed. I think, however, nearly everyone goes through that sort of introspection, and due to this column not entirely being focused on my specific changes, I am going to go another direction with this particular week’s topic.

When I was a little girl, there were always a few things I could count on. The first is that I would get a lot of snow, the second was that my brother’s would always use me as their punching bag, so to speak, and my grandfather would always, and do I mean always, come up with some strange contraption to either hang in our house or stand in our lawn.

My grandfather used to love to work with wood. He was a rural man to the most typical description. He spent most of his life, subtracting that he spent in the Air Force during WWII, in the same towns, working various blue-collar jobs, and hunting and fishing. He grew up where I grew up, but about a mile up a very tall hill that had few roads down to the main state and county routes. He went to school in a small one-room schoolhouse which was about a mile’s walk down the hill from where he lived. His family was always poor, and rather large, too. I remember quite a few of those brothers and sisters of his.

He worked for various companies, constantly injuring himself, but being a stubborn man, hardly going to the doctor. He smokes packs a day, likes his coffee stale and old, but when I was little, he spent most of his days in winter in his shed.

The shed was a converted garage. It was his woodshop. Band saws, circular saws, various drills, sanders, table saws were all part of what I grew up watching. I would spend hours just sitting there watching him build stuff. Sometimes he built hutches, china cabinets, swings, survey spikes, bookcases, VHS tape storage cabinets, and of course, children’s toys and furniture. And, I would watch him cut the wood, sand it, glue and nail it, stain or paint it, and I would not say a word, which any who know me knows is impossible.

In the winter, he had a fire stoked in the woodstove, and it was always warm, musty, dusty, and dark in that shed. What is the significance in this memory? Well, I started this column saying that I learned more from my grandfather than I learned from most everyone else. I still will say this. My grandfather was a man who never had much, and yet, he always joked. He always had a smile on his face. He sang his quirky little songs, he wrestled and played with kids, he was everyone’s grandfather, and even when hardship and problems hit his family hard, he did not let it get him down.

He would build the ugliest things amongst some of the coolest. The paint jobs were not perfect, sometimes it was atrocious to look at it. Yet, he would build these things, paint them up, and give them. It was all he had to give sometimes. And, as he gets older, he can do less and less. So, I still have those doll bunk beds he gave me for my dolls, the table he made my sister. We still have the china closet he made for my mom, the hutch he made for our old house. For the longest time, we had his wooden butterflies on our house, a wishing well he made in our rock bed near the one flowerbed, the swing we had on our lawn, the canon he made out of pvc pipe and old wagon wheels, his merry-go-round on his front lawn, and those chickens that were so awful looking, we hid them high on top of the refridgerator. But, to me, even though I do not have to look on so many of those things anymore, I love each and every one of them. He did not have much, but he gave and made so much.

But, I miss most those days in his woodshop and he would tell me how to do this with the wood, or who he was making this thing for. Sometimes, he would actually speak of his past, but usually we talked of the most mundane things. He would threaten to knock me around, and I would threaten him, even at the age of ten, that if he did not behave, I would make him mind.

I think, upon growing up, I found within my grandfather what I sometimes missed from other members of my family. I found a sense of companionship. I found someone I could look up to for getting beyond what he was given and having children who, for the most part, took the best parts of him and bettered themselves.

He is the only grandfather I know. My maternal grandfather died before my mom was even born. I never knew him, only of him. I only have seen one picture of him. My mom only has his one ring. I have numerous pictures of my Gramps, and infinite memories. He is the man who had so many faults that, perhaps one day I will get into some of them, but despite that, there was a sense of acceptance in him. As I mentioned, he was everyone’s grandpa.

Children who had families broken up by poverty and ignorance grew up knowing Grandpa Ralph. People who had little could count on the love and kindness of that man. And, I am the lucky one. I was able to have him with me every day of my life until I hit eighteen, if I so chose. I was able to grow up across the road from him.

Talk on the individual lessons he taught me can be put aside. I am going to spend the rest of this year remembering him. He is still alive, so I luckily have that, but I am going to remember and put myself back into my shoes at ten. I am going to sit on that stool in his wood shop that was horribly unsteady, sit right next to that band saw, and listen to him talk on whatever came to his mind. I will watch him make whatever he will make, for in my mind, that is my grandfather. Now, he cannot do those things for health reasons, but he will always be my carpenter grandfather.

This was originally posted on December 18th, 2002 on both my website and the former message board called Asylum.

Introductory Column

When I grew up, I was always the kid that said the stupidest things. Perhaps it was because my closest sibling that would notice was six years older, male, and a very big pain in the behind, or perhaps it was my naïveté that was exhibiting itself in what I said. Regardless, I said some of the silliest and strangest, if not stupid, things I could ever say.

And now, even older, I cannot say I have outgrown that habit. We each go through life with what we are given. We are given a body, a mind, a heart, and a spirit to mold from. It is, so to speak, a clay ball that we gradually make a statue. The best part of that process, however, is the chance to take even those tiny mistakes and imperfections within ourselves to heart and learn from them, perhaps even grow from them. And, it is our duty, as we get older, to impart this wisdom we have gained to the younger, bringing to them our mistakes, and allowing them, perhaps to avoid the troubles that we, ourselves, suffered.

It is an optimistic view, no? We can, as we get older, rationalize the world in two ways. We can think that the younger generations will have it easier than our own, or we can think that they have it harder, and that, in truth, things were much simpler in our time. Is this the truth? Can we, in any form, say this?

I doubt it. It is not that we are wrong to optimistically think in one way or the other. It is a sense of optimism that we exalt one time above the other. However, we are naïve to believe that what came before or what comes after is harsher than the other. It is naïveté on the part of all to believe in such.

So, with that thought, let me introduce this column to you all. Starting a new project has always been a joy for me, except when it comes to actually knowing what to call it, what to place as its theme, and what to write, when all is said and done. What shall I, the meager one before you, base for this new project I present? What shall I say to make you come back?

Weighing heavily on my head, the only thing that flowed through my mind was the voice of my grandfather and the words he would consistently speak to me, in jest. They were potent words. He can still be found to utter them now. But, I learned more from a man with less education than any member who stepped upon my board, Writers’ Block than I could learn from teachers. Even those in their early teens had more formal education than the man I grew up across the street from. And yet, no one, except perhaps my handicapped sister, could teach me about life as well as he.

The title of this column is a line he used several times. It is in reference to a topic that I hope to gradually cover in this column. “Those damn crooks down by the bridge” is a line that has drifted in my head as a book title for well over five years now. It comes from a perspective that most are unconcerned with or ignore. It is from a perspective I later grew to adopt, then alter to fit my own greatening educational level. As I grew smarter, the line began to mean more and more to me.

This is simply just an introduction. This is simply just a “hello there,” from your writer. Come Friday, hell or high water, there will be a serious topic for perusal. I hope you enjoy.

Note, however, that the opinions expressed in this column are those of the writer, not of the board. They are subject to change and most come from what the author, in her quirky way, claims is random thoughts. Here, I express these thoughts to you. They are neither right nor wrong. They are simply opinions.

Just a test post...

Posted by sharasegypt on 2005.09.07 at 02:01
Feeling: determined

The first entry for this journal will simply be a test to see how the text and other customizations lay out. Coming tomorrow will be actual content (and this journal will be linked FROM my website.

The first few entries will be a reposting of the column I began writing a few years back which shares its title with this journal. I find it much easier for me to sit back and write an entry on a blog than type up a column in a document and then converted to something for the website. Perhaps, with this, I can keep a more consistent schedule and feel a tad more comfortable doing the column.

After I repost some of my favorite columns from its original run, I will have a new column up, one that I hope regular readers will enjoy