Month: November 2021

My aunt sent pictures to me. When things blew up at home, the photo albums from my youth and boxes of pictures disappeared. I know who has them, but the blackmail price of a thousand dollars for a ‘scanner’ to make copies of the family pictures wasn’t a realistic option to me. In the days of uber cameras on cells, I could not bring myself to help financially a family member who spirited away so much already. I found an alternate route. Thank you.

I find alternative ways to reach goals my entire life. I have my father, and to a lesser extent the actions of my family after my father died, to thank for that.

As I age, I have learned that as every study shoes, there is much more to words than words. I’m not even including the 30 percent or so of communication performed by body language, nor the 25 percent or so communicated by tone and pitch. There is no body language or tone in text.

Even text has between the lines communication. Heck, I usually purposely play games with wording to communicate a different message than what my words spew. Preachers do it in their sermons. Politicians do it so often that I’m not even sure if they can differentiate straight talk any longer.

This writing I’m not going to play meaning games. Although rereading the first paragraph, I already inadvertently have. It becomes second nature when you write constantly.

I will try and be entirely direct instead.

I was thinking of good times and bad in the past. I do quite a bit of that lately. I’m sure it’s the uncertainty of not knowing exactly what is wreaking havoc upon my body that tends me in that direction. I know after having been diagnosed with lymphoma and being told I was close to death that I started reminiscing more and more often.

Remembering the past is a decent pasttime. Living in the moment is as equally important. Dwelling is bad. I used to dwell constantly, a useless endeavor. I have a loving family, incredible friends, and usually a sensible dinner. (Sorry Slim Fast) Dwelling is a dark path. I don’t have time for darkness.

I am the black sheep in my family. I go against the peer pressure. I’m disliked for it. I’m ok with the label. I wear it proudly. Because at the end of the day, I hold strong to my convictions. Wow, infomercial anyone.

Time for the point. Depression, illness, a meteorite the size of New Hampshire rushing to end all life as we know it, it doesn’t matter. Be you. Even better, be a happy you.

I’m probably close to meeting the reaper soon. Doesn’t matter. I’m happy.

Joy is what and where you find it.

Peace.

Note: Writing direct has always been a weak area for me. I hope I was clear enough. Next post will be a fiction, my most fun writing. The story is percolating, and I feel it will comprise multiple posts. I have figured out an alternative route to my words finally and will go full tilt on the project. Thank God. I’ve missed my joy.

One of the nice things about being the black sheep is knowing even good things will never be interpreted in a positive light. Predictability means the ability to pre plan. Obscurely today’s subject in a very tangential way.

Living in a place where seasons are defined by huge changes in temperature, rain and snow, clothing, and all sorts of things people who reside in much more moderate climates miss or have the ability to readily avoid.

Avoiding winter storms with wind chills well south of zero is not a bad thing. I think most sane people would love to avoid that, being caught driving in a blizzard so intense that there isn’t any visibility two inches in front of the headlights, or losing power for days when the temperature never climbs above the teens.

Good things are also at times lost. Good is subjective. Watching leaves turn and the burgeoning colors can elicit emotions and infuse a soul with a feeling of serenity. In my case I like to think of it as nature’s fireworks display, albeit in extreme slow motion.

But Damon, it’s just the flora’s way of conserving the green chlorophyll for when there is the chance for the plants to make enough food to eat and store for next winter so the plants will survive. Who cares? It’s beautiful.

One of the smells most people can readily call to mind is the earthy slow decay of leaves piled deep on the earth in the earth in the waning days of autumn. Plant smells seem most easily recalled. Another example would be the scent of cinnamon. I prefer the leaves.

I often wonder about the few leaves that make it through all of the fall season. They keep attached to a branch or twig despite their brethren already having journeyed well along the road to becoming next year’s fertilizer for the next crop of doomed leaves. Unknown brother and sisterhood through the ages.

The clingers eventually give up the ghost, but not all. Some remain despite the wind and snow and frost. Tenacious leaves, or doomed?

Spring arrives. Even the leaves that somehow defied the odds finally are forced from the plant or tree by new growth, new leaves. The parent plant or tree doesn’t ask. It’s nature. The old goes. Despite defying the odds and making it through everything mother nature had during the depths of winter, the husk of the clinger is unceremoniously dumped from its perch.

Symbolic or random chance? I have my thoughts, but this story is not about me.

Plus sometimes the best answers are arrived at secretly.

Note: The above story has been in one form or another in my noggin for decades. The slant when it came out today may have been rather drastically colored by recent events. It was not meant to be a downer, and I apologize if it is. It was meant to be a celebration of new life and unknown future potential. Sorry it went sideways.

Peace.

After giving much thought, and if not a fictional story, I promised to be honest. Much thought.

Backstory: There is a baby girl, well now young woman, who may be mine. My first marriage was to a southern woman who was likely probably not a good fit. I could place blame on her, or she on me. Lord knows there was likely plenty of blame to toss around, probably even enough for third or fourth helpings. Reality, we sucked as husband and wife. No blame, just facts.

I will not badmouth anyone, but I can share truth about myself. I was not a good husband. Nothing like abuse or drugs, but I knew my parents had a marriage that was great at times, terrible at times, and way too much fighting about stupid shit. I tried to avoid that ‘part’ of a marriage. I’m shy. I don’t like to fight. I’m mean and nasty and want to win when I fight. Words can be swords. My swords are ofttimes over sharpened. I try to keep my swords in a sheath buried beneath the foundation of the house, unable to emerge.

I am almost totally successful now. My view isn’t always either the same view perceived by others, and lo and behold. Sometimes my view can be a far cry from correct. True story.

My first wife and I fought worse than any couple I’ve seen. I don’t know nor care if she or I were smarter or right. I hated fighting. I began putting some savings from my job aside to leave. I had deliberately distanced myself from my family, because when my parents were in the divorce process, things got ugly on both sides. I wasn’t directly asked to choose a side, but I certainly was strongly judged.

I chose to remain Swiss. They were both my parents. I loved them dearly even while hating what I felt were shortcomings. My perception, not necessarily reality. Some may have overlapped both.

I tended, and still tend to avoid family. The choosing of sides and manipulation began. Both mom and dad were guilty, as were likely all of us kids. It wasn’t the particular pool I wished to dip my toes, so I dipped out.

The war never truly ended, not when dad died. Mom still loved him. She cried often. She went on like 2 dates total after the split. I don’t believe any were second dates.

I stayed away until after my wife and I split, I’d had enough. I called dad and at 30 something, shamefacedly moved ‘home’, only it wasn’t. It was the house I’d grown up in awhile ago. The memories and laughter had been smashed deep into the carpet and painted over, stuck endlessly behind gawdy yellows or soothing cranberry. Except for the bedrooms and the family room, the house had always been eggshell white. You can’t go home no more.

The yard was a wreck. Burned trash littered the backyard. The grass was unkempt. Rot had crept up on the outer garage door. Symbolic? I suppose. The family had deteriorated as well.

So there I was in an all day every day fencing match of rapier wit. Talk about stress. Why all the backstory? It’ll perhaps become apparent soon. This story is for two people, one related by blood. The other?

I took a q tip with a cheek swab when I left. I didn’t have much money when I moved. I scrimped up enough extra for a DNA test. I had doubts. The results were negative. I found out I was (my paraphrasing) medically incapable of fathering a child. I didn’t take it too seriously, as the marriage was a goner anyway.

I WANTED children, or at least have the option of having one at hopefully the timing and woman of our mutual choosing. Two more tests saying no required that particular hope and wish to apparently be destined to remain naught but wishful thinking.

Meanwhile I was contacted by the woman in question. I had tickled her feet, changed a majority of the diapers, fixed bottles at 3 am, and gotten not nearly enough smiles and off key giggles. It all ended after the DNA test.

Anyway, I don’t remember if I told her about the DNA thing. I did share that due to the fertility tests, the odds were like (being hopeful) 1 in a million, but I’d happily do a current DNA test. Honestly, the swab wasn’t fresh when it was used. I don’t know if that makes a difference in the results or not.

The offer was left open. There was never a yes answer, nor was there a decline.

I can’t say for sure, but I think the contact was not with love in all sides’ heart. I don’t fight anymore on silly things. I have learned to be much more open about how screwed up life can be. How often it turns out that having something be impossible is impossible. To make it more confusing, it is impossible to say something thought impossible actually is impossible.

Gah, I sound like a logician, or even worse, an English professor preparing to decimate some of his pupils for having opinions perhaps not entirely mainstream or what the critics claim a long-dead author meant by particular wording. I’d like to think the writer did it not necessarily for the symbolism which accidentally may have come along for the ride, but instead did it for one (or an overlap of both) or two possible reasons.

Writing is akin to what someone of religious bent may find their state of mind when having a vision. Oh God, writing might be a cult. Don’t drink the flavor-aid ’cause there wasn’t any kool-aid in Jonestown. It’s all about the passion. Why do you write? Either because to not write isn’t an option or because I suck at charades.

Writing is done as a job. To get paid. It beats the hell outta manual labor. I’m sure you’ve seen the writing. Heck, you may have briefly entertained yourself reading one in a magazine while seeing a man about a horse.

Hopefully some do it for both successfully.

I fall into the first category. Sure it might be nice to get some cheddar, but I’ve written without for decades. I still write. I’d like to think they wrote because they had to, and maybe I saw a joke or insight others did not. Except Dante. I doubt the Divine Comedy will come to sit com Thursday anytime soon. I’ll probably scratch an obscene joke on the inside lid of my coffin. Nah, a dad joke.

I also avoid most fighting. Theresa has made me a better person. Talk about a cheerleader. I even rather enjoy the idea of pom poms. Mind outta the guttah. Not meant in a double entendre way.

Beware: Long convoluted details that may be mostly irrelevant coming to an end. (I might be slightly messing with some bored enough to read this, sorry. Ahem, I didn’t read it all, Dame. Cause it was, you know, long. ROFL)

So I still don’t know if she born of my first wife while we were married is my daughter or not. She has both her mom’s and my grandmother’s eyes. Italian stock both sides. She apparently chose to accept what I had as proof impossible of children. My son showed impossible isn’t.

A shame I was told politely to pound sand. One kid is wonderful and beyond words. That’s wrong. There are 3 other kids who I hope choose as much to think of me as dad as I think of them as my children. And the grandbabies. Four kids and grandbabies is wonderful. I get to be papa monster, a jungle gym AND hear fart jokes. Woohoo!!!

Would be kinda cool if there were five. I’d better start trying to do some pushups or something. Jungle gyms aren’t allowed to grow tired. They can be pretty good at distracting, however.

Peace.

The above quote is one of a myriad of involuntary sentences a drunken character has the potential to say in the longest running fantasy genre text based video game out there, Gemstone IV.

The game itself has evolved throughout the years, much as other fantasy games have. Rules changed, staff changed, and the player base changed. Expansion areas were added. Epic quests and multi-year storylines were created and run. I myself participated in several of the storylines, the longest lasting nearly five years. I even still managed to have a real life.

The first Gemstone was developed or at least conceived by David Whatley back in the early ’80s. Most of my friends had barely begun high school. The game was a virtual unknown at the time.

Eventually it went to a pay by the hour to play platform. The game itself was free, but the GENIE system used to access the game was like 3 dollars an hour. Some geeks went seriously into debt.

AOL and Prodigy picked up rights to access the game somewhere along the line, and when both of those internet providers were free access or a flat monthly fee, the game itself was free. Also around that time, the mid to late 90s, the game had been revamped twice more and become Gemstone III. I’ve never heard any reference to a Gemstone II, so my guess is it was scrapped before being allowed access by the general gameplaying public.

Several articles in gaming magazines as well as a few write-ups in more mainstream media, and popularity soared. It was not uncommon to see six thousand players in the game during prime time evenings, with the player base approaching close to a million.

Play.net was already in existence. The parent company of Gemstone, Simutronics, hosted other games there over the years. Cyberstrike, a mech warrior type game, Modus Operandi, a first person film noir detective type game, Dragonrealms, another fantasy text based game similar to Dungeons & Dragons and Gemstone IV, Hercules & Zena, based upon said television series, as well as more recent additions released after 2010, Tiny Hereos, a tower defense game usable on cellulars or computer, and One Epic Knight, run run run.

A few of the games listed, Modus and Hercules in particular, have gone the way of the dodo bird. Wikipedia says another game is in development, Dragons of Elanthia. Elanthia is the continent home to the Gemstone IV world. Dragons has been in development for well over a decade. I’ve test played the beta. Not one to disparage anyone’s effort, that’s enough said about that particular game.

I began playing Gemstone III on aol, back when it was free to play. It still can be free to play today, but like many free games, monthly regular or premium membership has perks. Microtransactions are also available.

Enough history. I played a Dark Elven wizard, ancient, decrepit, degenerate, wrinkled and scarred to no end. Disfiguring scar on his right cheek, sporting a purple robe complete with a diamond-studded motif of a dragon leaping from a sapphire blue sea, said sapphire also consisting of small gems. He came replete with a pointed dark purple wizard’s hat, bare feet, gnarled runestaff, and enough containers, pockets and hidey holes that whenever anyone asked for something, enough searching in one container or another would typically end in him asking how many were needed at the time. Packrat of packrats. Who cares if it weighed a ton, he had enchanted strength from one of his spells. It wasn’t uncommon to see him pulling out fifteen or sixteen treasure chests after a long day of monster slaying, occasionally even one from the secret compartment in his starred wizard’s hat.

Dark Elves were similarly despised and feared in Elanthia as they often are depicted in D&D. Kylinarr didn’t care. Part comedian, totally a cad and degenerate, slow to anger and fear his wrath, he had, um personality, and at any one time, fourteen or sixteen lasses who thought he was their one and only. Sometimes that was even true. I didn’t intentionally develop his persona that way. Like most of the characters I play, they develop on their own in directions I hadn’t really planned in any way. In short, the character develops a life of its own. It is definitely part of the thrill of the game.

I also had Ubadiah Ubiquit, Half Elven rogue. Country bumpkin and their who refused to steal unless it was from other thieves. He’d empty their pockets an melt into the shadows. His life of his own eventually became a country bumpkin with very astute grains of wisdom embedded in the stories he loved to tell. Said stories were usually communicated breathlessly while some monster hoarde was invading home turf. The guy wouldn’t ever shut up. He’s the character in which I met Mylenna, a fellow rogue played by a middle aged woman from Ohio, aka Theresa. We were wed on New Year’s Eve, exactly a year after we stopped in game long enough to talk to one another. We’d seen each other in passing several times before.

Mu favorite character was a Giantman. A cleric. Unlike D&D, clerics in Gemstone do not heal. They only resurrect the dead. My cleric worshipped a god of the sea, and his garb creeped out some.

He had a shield carved from driftwood depicting a ship floundering in a storm, sailors being flung from the decks into the roiling sea, while attempting to swim to shore amidst the violent waves. My cleric, Arnylon, stood stop a clifftop on shore, watching dispassionately while one by one the sailors succumbed to the depths. He also would do anything he could to avoid ressurecting the dead. That was for clerics whose patron actually cared about people surviving. Mine was an angry god, and Arnylon was a war priest who would rush into battle singing while praying that his warmace sent hoardes to their final rest. He was and is my most fun, intricate, and convoluted character. In game, he married Mylenna. His sense of humor is my only character that mimics me. Dry jokes, razor with (sometimes), and insanely bizarre connections. He is the only character I have that I’d say is sort of me. The others just wandered in one day.

I played for nearly 30 years, but have since taken a break. Plus sometimes it is difficult for me to process what I read. The characters are saved on a hard drive in St. Louis, awaiting deletion or one day to be dusted off and dragged out into the light of a virtual day once more.

Kylinarr is nearly 1600 years old. He’s patient and likely looking to sneak over a partition or two to the cute Aelotian gal’s data. Ubadiah would philosophize that if life gives you lemons, sometimes it is good to steal them from thy neighbor, or some such thing. Arnylon would be there resolutely oiling his shield, pacing and composing a new war chant or song while walloping tree stumps and searching out a dozen or two dozen cheesecakes for his evening snack.

It is entirely possible Theresa married a geek. There is also a slight chance I did as well. Arny is more me because he is the nature and outdoor freak.

Peace.

PS – If I can find it, with above said background, I will publish a story I wrote about Arnylon. It’s one of my few writings, grammatical errors and all, where after I was finished I KNEW it was damned good.

The weather is changing. The gentle cool of a mother’s lips in the morning has been replaced by the jarring chill of the first lass I ever asked on a date.

Frost is the watchword, and yesterday it remained almost the entire day. That’s not today’s tale.

I’ve been thinking about relationships and their origin. Many are blood relations, but in looking back on my own life as well as umpteen conversations with others, almost all relationships are by choice.

Don’t believe me? I’ll share.

I am the penultimate introvert. The entirety of my life consists of finding ways to be alone. Ironically, the best alone time happens around loads of people.

We were waiting our turn to be seated at a chain Italian restaurant. I won’t share the name, but I’ll give a hint. I have never seen an olive tree nor garden within 500 feet of one. Plus the landscaping leaves a bit to be desired. It’s cheap and fast when I’m being lazy.

There were throngs of people eagerly or with various degrees of angst awaiting the vibration of their coaster that has never seen a drink set upon it from its creation. We were no different.

People talk to me. Mostly I do not encourage it. I’m perfectly happy to snuggle up to Theresa, one of the few people who can touch me without heebie-jeebies making my skin break out in goose bumps. I tend to sit quietly and think more often than not. People still feel the urge to talk to me. I haven’t a clue why. I’m normal looking, do not make eye contact, and usually am dressed in an outfit that says ‘potential lunatic.’. Doesn’t matter. Apparently flip flops and gawdy t-shirts and terrible looking pajama bottoms or cargo shorts indicate to the world I must be a mighty keeper of secrets. Our dinner date was no different.

I knew what was coming. Often I’ll deliberately turn away, but this elder gentleman, gray grizzled hair, suit and tie, mahogany skin, and fidgety had something major on his mind. I smiled.

He took his cue.

“Lemme tell ya. I hates family unions. Hate ’em worse than a summer cold.”

I leaned in. This was going to be good.

He spouted for a long time. I learned that it was his family’s 60th reunion. He was 78 and had just lost his wife to the big C the prior year. We cried together as I shared my own bout with the big C with him. That wasn’t why he chose me.

We were alone in a sea of humanity. His coaster had long since been collected and dinner was well on its way toward becoming an integral part of his lanky form. He had more to share.

He could have screamed his secret without anyone caring. He chose to whisper.

He hated the family reunions. He utterly loved and adored his family. He hated the dress up, the pomp, the fakeness the family reunions had become. Plus he’d rather have had a good home cooked meal, preferably barbecue without the eyes of strangers wondering the event.

I shared with him my secret for avoiding such affairs. Bluntness. Directness. Honesty.

His family had paid the bill and were coming to collect him on their way to the cars. He stopped his daughter or granddaughter and pulled her aside. From his description, I knew she’d been responsible for planning the reunion.

A hushed but intense conversation ensued. It was followed by tears and a hug. I managed to catch enough snippets to know that she hated the dress up as much as him and that next year the reunion would be held privately.

He gave me a secret wink and mouthed a thank you as he walked arm in arm with his daughter toward their car.

Yes, I love being an introvert. Sometimes I love even more when I choose not to be.

Peace.

The origination of gifts. I’ve always wondered how it came to be. I even watched a documentary on the topic. Since the documentary only covered known history, I vehemently disagreed with their conclusion on the origin of giving gifts.

The documentary stated the origins were in ancient times. I was with them so far. Digression began when the narrator stated that the original gifts were designed to keep the peace between warring factions or cities or villages, etc.

Heck no! That theory does not hold water. I already shared that I make weird connections. Let’s go back further to cave painting days.

Grungh, a hunter, provides an incredible amount of meat and sustenance for his clan or tribe. He’s so ugly, even water won’t show his reflection. Darned good hunter, though.

As is the wont of most species, Grungh wants to procreate. No war between his clan and the next nearest clan three mountain ridges over. (Insert bad snuff film background music here). He just wants his chance with Byngh, who he’s known and harbored a secret attraction for most of his life.

He knows he’s not handsome. He knows Byngh is sought after by virtually every other guy in the clan. He doesn’t stand a chance. Or does he?

Take what you know and own it. Grungh begins leaving offerings just inside the entrance to Byngh’s cave.

A mammoth haunch here, the choicest liver and organs from deer there. On and on until Byngh has been fattened up enough that no other guys in the clan will give her the time of day, let alone pursue her with romantic intentions in mind.

Grungh sees his chance and takes it. He begins hanging around the local berry patch he knows is Byngh’s favorite place to gather, finding ways to accidentally run into her.

I doubt they’d talk about weather or other small talk. Life was shorter back then. Who knew when a wild animal might spring from the forest to claim its own meat? What germs might quickly consume the essence and leave behind a lifeless, shrivelled husk?

Byngh and Grungh get together in the ways of man and woman. Their descendants flourish. Eventually their genetic code can be found in nearly ten percent of the people of France, Spain, and Switzerland, as well as to a smaller extent in other European countries and on other continents.

It’s a shame that part of that genetic coding, most especially for their descendants who remained in what was to eventually become France, included an incredible disdain and dislike embedded in the genes, for America and all things American.

Now there would be a documentary I likely wouldn’t switch off 25 or so minutes into watching it.

Peace.