taerkitty

The Elsewhere: Why We Fight

taerkitty@gmail.com — Tue, 19 Aug 08 23:40:00 UT

"Why We Fight" is the title of a rah-rah-rally-round-the-flag series of films during World War II.

Me, I'm going to talk about Star Wars: The Clone Wars instead. This isn't a review.

Okay, here's the review: don't pay $10 to see it. It might be worth the 90+ minutes if you see it on cable, but I wouldn't recommend dropping any coin for it. There's that's done with.

The film has some strengths and some weaknesses. All films do, so discussing them isn't a review of the film. In the case of this film, I admire how it dares show arbitrary death in combat.

As the title indicates, there are clones. They're sent into battle. As one scene from the trailer shows, as they rush into position some number are cut down. No 'flesh wound' bits here - they're shot and written out of the story, so presumably they're dead.

The biggest weakness I see in the film is how it is just one battle sequence after another. In a way, this reminds me of many of my tabletop roleplaying game sessions: character interaction is just a way to move the story into combat. And, like most of my roleplaying sessions, combat time took up most of the whole interval devoted to it.

That's not to say it wasn't well done. Now, it's not as good as some of the wire-fu scenes from Yuen Wo-Ping or some of the classic fencing scenes, such as from The Princess Bride. However, at least the Princess Bride had some story behind the fighting.

Well, you might say, the Clone Wars also has a story. Yes, but it wasn't as enjoyable. I'm not going to quantify worth based on originality. The Princess Bride is a send-up of classic fairy tale plot elements. That makes it either wholly unoriginal and derivative, or it makes it deliciously original and seditious.

I prefer the latter.

No, I think the limiting factor to how much battle-time isn't the originality of the story, but the magnitude of the significance of the battle's outcome opposed to the sheer time it takes.

Watching a film still takes some effort. Not much, mind you. However, when you're as sleep-deprived as I am, then any comfortable chair that does not turn into a nap requires effort. And, that effort must feel somehow justified, else the viewer will walk away grumbling.

Yet another point to concern myself - to make sure the conflict (not necessarily combat) is somehow worth the reader's while to have to plow through.

Flash Attempt: No Statute of Limitations on Memories

taerkitty@gmail.com — Mon, 18 Aug 08 23:18:00 UT

Bad memories, like other capital crimes, have no statute of limitations. Take this one of me asking Kimiko to the senior prom. (And not realizing I had some lettuce stuck to my teeth.) Every time I think of it, I seize up and shudder.

I doubt Kimiko remembers it. I doubt she even remembers me. I'm glad I was sick for our school photos that year, my nametag doesn't have a picture of me with seventies hair (and acne.)

Yep, she forgot completely about me. She gave me that blank smile after a few frantic blinks trying to remember who I was. Why don't I feel any better? The memory's still there, just waiting to pounce.

Calm. Calm. Don't spaz out, not here. Just focus off to the distance. See? No one you recognize. No one that you screwed up in front of.

Hey, why is that guy staring at me and cringing?

This one is fed by both my own memories and how they torment me, as well as the concept of a statute of limitation and how it doesn't apply to same.

This idea probably could use some more bake time. I'm not sure if it would make a better philosophical blog entry or flash.fic, but at the time it seemed suited for the latter. The indecision whether to elucidate or to exaggerate hobbled it.

Originally, I was going to anthromorphize the memories, have them chase me and accuse me, much like the pink elephants from Dumbo or hefflelumps and woozles from Winnie the Pooh. Then, it was going to be an exchange of dialogue. Finally, it became a running monologue as the first-person protag gradually reveals the setting and some of the situation.

The ending is a bit of a 'twist in the tail,' but not strongly so. I've railed against those twist endings too often already, so there may be some small hypocrisy here, but it's small, much like the twist.

I hope the story is re-readable in spite of knowing the 'twist,' anemic as it may be.

A Bit About Work...

taerkitty@gmail.com — Sun, 17 Aug 08 23:03:00 UT

I don't like my job. It challenges me, it tests me, and, to quote Khan, it tasks me. But, in the end, I end up using a programming language that is much lower-level than I like.

[Disclaimer: major digression. I'm just too vain to edit it out. Geek.speek ahead. Proceed at your own peril.]

What's a high-level vs. a low-level programming language? It'd be like giving you directions to the store.

High-level: "Turn right on Lakehurst, then look for the Esso station. It's in that strip-mall, toward the back."

Low-level: Get your keys out. Select the fob to unlock the car. Press the left button. Approach the car. With your right hand, grasp the door handle...

The appeal of low-level languages? Efficiency. Of execution, that is. It certainly isn't very efficient to program. Nuance (no, not the political sense.) I can lay out a GUI with exacting exactness. Depth of features - I can program network applications, or XML remoting, or ... a bunch of other buzzwords I haven't the foggiest notion what they mean.

The appeal of high-level languages? I can concentrate on the problem, not on how I split it and then solve each individual piece.

Hm, another analogy comes to mind. "Paint this plate." If that's the job, then with a high-level language I break out the brush and go to work. However, with a low-level one, I first shatter the plate, then paint each individual shard before reassembling the pieces and cringing.

[Okay, I'm going to try to talk like a normal person again, at least as normal as people get around here. At least one person I know goes to work on a Segway, if that tells you anything.]

I received my performance review today. My boss and I have already discussed it for a few weeks so the rating is no surprise, though the compensation is, and pleasantly so.

Cutting to the chase, my rating is 10%. That roughly corresponds to my 'promote-ability.' Given what I did last year, the chances of me being promoted are near-zero.

Now, the compensation is the bonus and stock and raise. My compensation is on par with an average performer, not a bottom-feeder. The reason for this seeming contradiction is that I was doing a critical job, but not in a way that showed initiative nor actual software engineering.

I'm a software tester by title, but here the official title is Software Development Engineer in Test. I'm supposed to be engineering software, not just executing tests. Well, my boss was realistic enough to understand I was also serving as release engineer for a near-constant stream of releases (11 in 9 months) so he understood both my contribution and my reason for not doing more engineering.

Well, part of the problem is that I don't like our programming language, and using another is not really an option. I do have a high-level language (PowerShell) that I use, but it's designed to be a utility language, not a developer's language. In other words, it does things in the rough better than it allows for exacting exactness in doing things.

As I said, I knew I was going to get the low score on the rating. I wasn't expecting a 'normal contributor's' compensation, however. A pleasant surprise.

Flash Attempt: Unquiet Spirits

taerkitty@gmail.com — Sat, 16 Aug 08 23:31:00 UT

In my mind, I see a graveyard. On each headstone, the name of a friend or kin. Some are from my youth. Others remain my contemporaries. Nearly everyone I was ever close to, they have a place in this cemetery.

Their unquiet spirits accuse me of abandoning them. I did, I did. I left them, each one. Some when I moved as a child. Others when I graduated from one school and moved to another. Elementary. Junior high. High school.

So many are from college. Best of friends, closer than brothers. Another group from weddings and funerals, where distant members of my family gather and mingle, only to drift away until the next such event.

These are the dead. The graves are not filled with their remains, but with empty promises to write, declarations of being best friends forever. Memories of great times, of tears and guffaws shared. Never again, not with these people.

In my mind, I hold a shovel and approach an unturned plot. I scrunch my brow. The shovel melts, loses definition. It reshapes, hardens.

It is now a pen.

No idea how many words. I just wanted to spit it out. It's late. This idea has been in my head for too long. I think I over-thought it. It's like overcooking an egg. Just right and it's neither runny nor stiff. Too long and it becomes like rubber, with an unappetizing grey dusting over the yolk.

The idea is strong, but ideas don't make stories. Fiction is all about execution. Movies are fictive vehicles, and they are oft-times plainly derivative, embarassingly so. Yet those that win hearts (and wallets) do so with splendid execution. Do that justice, and the consumer seems willing to forgive unoriginality forever.

At any rate, I call myself author, so I must auth (I hope that means 'to write.' It doesn't? Drat.)

~~Oh, and the title? It's horrible. Help me come up with a bitter one, please.~~ Thanks for the title, RT!

The Thomas Jefferson Hour

taerkitty@gmail.com — Fri, 15 Aug 08 23:16:00 UT

Ah, what I miss by letting TiVo be the guardian of my viewing...

With three people in the house (and three TiVo remotes!) there is always something to watch on the PVR. The appeal of being able to watch a show when I want to, and to skip commercials, is just too tempting. That said, I didn't realize how it cost me the serendipitous discoveries by stumbling across channels with the + or - button.

There's a swathe of channels that carry shows merely labeled "Government" or "Education." No blurb, no summary. No way to distinguish a talk on higher math and its application to theoretical physics and ... a Thomas Jefferson impersonator monologuing on stage?

In this one episode, there were two academics standing in for former presidents, Jefferson and Samuel Adams. I came in midway, so I don't know if they had a prefab exchange already presented or not. At the point I clicked to this channel, they were fielding questions from the audience and were answering them in character (though with a pointed awareness to how to best align their words with our current situation.)

I stood fascinated (I stand often when watching television, to better encourage me to judge whether or not the show is worth not just my time, but a bit of effort and discomfort.) I admire Franklin far more, him being the inventor and scientist and intellectual, but Jefferson was dynamic and forthright in his words and reasoning.

Adams was no less so, and I realized from watching that his were the words "I study to be a general so my children can study commerce so their children can study art." (I'm not sure if he would easily countenance that the next generation would study reality shows, but that's an aside for another day.)

However, Adams did get short shrift because Jefferson was evidently the lead act. Beside that, the scholar portraying Jefferson Clay S. Jenkinson evidently has been doing this for many years, so he was much more comfortable and adept in both his role and stagecraft. I'm sure he meant never to upstage Adams (unlike the actual figures who evidently were in a few bitter rivalries, such as for the White House, until old age mellowed them) but that was how it came out.

At any rate, fascinating stuff. I can (and will probably do so later) hold forth on the matter of nation-founding and such, but for now, I just wanted to share a quick "what's the kitty up to now" momemnt.

Pundidocy - Nuance vs. Reflex

taerkitty@gmail.com — Thu, 14 Aug 08 19:43:00 UT

Somehow, in our national discourse, the mere act of being open-minded enough to examine the opposing view is viewed with suspicion. Worse however is to change one's stated position, no matter how good the reason to do so. "Flip-flopper" has become a standard attack formation in our electoral attack-vertisements such that any self-preserving politician will never go back on what they once said.

When we're talking about promises to improve the working conditions, the national debt, or other issues where the candidate is making a clear-cut covenant with the electorate, that's a good thing - we should hold said person to their words. It is on their words that we elect them, so we should have full right to expect that their words bear fruit in actions as promised.

However, when it comes to issues of policy, where there is no simple black-white choice, then pretending to ignore the fog is far worse a sin than to acknowledge that one's vision is impaired and what was once the plan is now the folly. I would much rather have a driver stop, ask for directions, then admit that s/he needs to backtrack some.

But that will not happen again. "Flip-flopper" will be the devil on every shoulder in Washington, no matter how reasoned or compelling the angel. If this bears out, we will have a political caste more worried about doing what they've always done, rather than worrying about doing the right thing.

Nuance and reflex. One party seems to prey on the fears of our population. Mushroom clouds. Riots. Letting 'them' win. The answer to every thought-provoking question is a thought-stifling fight-or-flight dichotomy. There is no place for thought in that mindset, only in 'gut-checks.'

The other party places a high premium on doing the right thing, perhaps even to the point of rather doing nothing than the wrong thing. It gathers options and knowledge, but perhaps to the point that it cannot communicate the breadth of nuance to the electorate.

So here we stand, between these two. One that panders to our basest instincts - the fear of fire, the lure of gold. The other that trusts us to think and entrusts us with fact instead of fable. However, I look around me and see how mistaken these lofty goals and values are.

The electorate doesn't think. It's a mob, ruled by that mentality. It doesn't contemplate, it doesn't analyze. It reacts. It runs on instinct. It relies on its momentum as its compass.

So we have two parties, one that benefits from a stupid electorate and strives to perpetuate that state with its attacks on science and education and art and culture. The other that sees a reflection of its own enlightment upon the faces of the masses, and trusts them to see both the light of its platform and the depths of the opposition.

And we have us. In spite of the spirit of hope and change I hear non-stop, I still harbor a dire prediction that fear and ignorance will win out, that the loud and the shrill will drown out the honest and the nuanced.

Prove me wrong. Please.

Flash Attempt: Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

taerkitty@gmail.com — Wed, 13 Aug 08 22:10:00 UT

Behind closed eyelids dance sugar-plum fairies. They turn into darker fey, those that trap the unwary with snares of the tongue. The writer in me smiles. This is from where I draw my ideas. Or try to.

Into these waking dreams encroach my everyday worries - my boss, my landlord, my postman. I remember when I was so excited to get the mail, as a child. Now, it just brings more bills, more worries.

The creatures aetheral take poorly to this intrusion. Out come their blades. Their wings beat the air in angry rumble. Mundane men wield pens as weapons, envelopes as shields.

The battle rings sharply. Screams of pain, of fury fill me. When the spray of red clears, mortal man stands. My heart mourns the vanquished.

Why was I so much in a hurry to grow up? Why didn't I spend more time with the magic?

150 words. I'm tired, but I wanted to get some fiction out. I'm not sure this counts as really what I want in a flash-fic. I'm always going on about the re-readbility and how I practically hold it as a requirement. This one isn't very re-readable. (It might not even be readable, but hush...)

Is it more of an autobiographical monologue? Maybe. There is an element of fiction in there, but it certainly isn't the longing for that childish sense of wonder.

For me, writing is about that same sense of wonder. Perhaps not capturing the same images that originally triggered that feeling, but somehow uncorking that feeling nevertheless.

The power of 'what-if' coupled with the rush of projecting oneself into the thick of the chaos. That's what I try for, at least in the big stories, such as Sian. I should get back to her one of these days...

Quick Update from Thyroid-Land part 2

taerkitty@gmail.com — Tue, 12 Aug 08 21:58:00 UT

(Also written 23 August. See previous entry as to why the gap between reported and actual dates.)

This news was actually why I stopped writing on 10 August for nearly two weeks. First week was spent waiting for the news, the second processing it.

Cutting to the chase, the news is about as good as can be expected, we think. The cancer hasn't packed up and gone traveling (or, more accurately, set up franchises.) It's still in SpouseKitty's neck, her trachea to be exact. It's probably still very small.

Doctors don't operate on the trachea lightly. It's a difficult place to do the work, crowded with other critical bundles of flesh. It doesn't lend itself to wholesale excisions, either.

External beam radiation is going to be part of the therapy, that's for sure. The question (still outstanding even now at time of this writing) is if they can operate on it. Hopefully, that's the case.

Still, she scared me when she told me that she has a persistent cough, and a matching persistent pain in her throat. I'm glad she's getting this looked at ASAFP.

We've spent 13+ years together. I can't say it's been smooth sailing, but we have learned one another's styles and rhythms. That's no small accomplishment. I'm a difficult person to live with, and I'm elated she still finds me bearable.

Thirteen years is a long while, but I want more. There never is enough time, really. Even if we had fifty years, I'd still want more. She does, too. She wants to see Kitten graduate college. She wants to know that Kitten will be ready for life without her, without me.

Scary days.

Why We Wright

taerkitty@gmail.com — Mon, 11 Aug 08 21:44:00 UT

(This was actually written 23 August. I'm just backfilling in hopes I can make my goal of an entry a day. Yeah, some of the past have been links or such, but I'm hoping to keep these remainder entries of consequence.)

Firstly, a quick shout-out to netter. She's going through some rough times right now with a family tragedy, so I wanted all who read to send some good thoughts her way.

That said, something she said in today's entry galvanized me to write more - these are part of the legacy that we leave behind.

So what have I wrought in these pages so far? I don't know, really. Some self-indulgent posts. Some attempts to be profound about the art of writing. Some false starts on actual writing. Dribs and drabbles of Clan Kitty's pawprints on this shared journey.

Not a lot about me, I'm afraid. I'm a bit paranoid in this regard. The internet is as close as we've come to creating permanent recording. It's the fossil record of the digital age. Anything said here might be discovered. Once it's discovered, it can be captured perfectly, preserved indefinitely.

Moreover, I promised SpouseKitty that my writings will never compromise her (or Kitten's) identities. Sorry, no online photosite albums of the Kitty family's winter trip to Disney World.

So, I have here the opportunity to leave a message to my progeny, and what do I say? As little as possible about the here and now. I think my legacy is more what I think about than what I do. I hope to inspire, to challenge, or, failing all that, at least to cause a reader to dust off a counter-argument recited many times (hopefully to others.)

Why do I write? Why do I try to work words? To try to nudge the thought process along. Add momentum to our collective cognition. Why do that? Because I fear that entropy applies on this allegorical plane as well.

If "I think, therefore I am," what happens should we stop thinking?

Flash Attempt: Preserving

taerkitty@gmail.com — Sun, 10 Aug 08 01:00:00 UT

I take one more sandy step, then turn. My footprints fade quickly, the wind and waves taking their slow toll. A gull alights on my shoulder, saying, "Nothing lasts. Nothing."

"But so soon?"

"You want them to abide? Seal them with blood."

"Blood? My blood?"

"No, it must be another's. That, the spirits of air and water will avoid."

"Blood can't be my legacy."

"But only a drop."

"It doesn't matter. Blood is blood."

"Many do it. All who you think famous chose thus."

"I won't be remembered that way."

"Good. You may find the Other Way."

"Oh?"

"To be peaceful sufficient that the spirits themselves want to remember you."

"How do I...?"

"I never said it was easy." The gull takes flight.

===

I'm not a very visual person, at least not when it comes to writing. Origami is almost wholly visual, yes. I enjoy drawing; I craft with Kitten and delight in it and her. However, when times comes to write, I usually think in words.

This one wasn't truly visual. It was more a gestalt. First was the memory of the story, even though it wasn't yet written. This ersatz feeling gave me guidance - from knowing how I should feel, where I should be, after reading it, that gave me some hints as to what the story was, how it worked.

From there came the nurturing, the growing. It expanded, and I pruned it back. Again this cycle. For some reason, I have a fixation with the hundred word limit, though I know flash fiction can be quite longer than that.

This one is over a hundred words. I tried to trim it, but again, I cannot find ways to do so without compromising either the story or the characters. As I said before, I can't give much by way of description, so the gull's words and syntax should be something fluid, yet unorthodox. "My" words, on the other hand, should be everyday.

As for the theme, I cannot say if that is ordinary or not. I hope it is worth some thought, mundane or magical.

Quick Update from Thyroid-Land

taerkitty@gmail.com — Sat, 9 Aug 08 01:00:00 UT

Per SpouseKitty, the condition vexing her is metastastial thyroid cancer. That's when it's gone traveling. There's a specific term for the version that doesn't react to iodine, but I forgot it. The last modifier is if it leaves the neck or not. If so, it's termed distant metastastial yaddayadda. I don't know what to call it if it hasn't left the neck.

A blessing, that'd be what it will be. A blessing.

See, the literature SpouseKitty's found says that distant metastastial thyroid cancer has a poor prognosis. Ten-year survival rate is around fifteen percent.

===

On a slightly related note, I met my new mentor at work. I worked with my old one before, so we knew each other for some time. The new one I've met before, but never closer than the grunt-and-wave that makes up guy bonding.

Anyhow, I told him about what's going on - SK's cancer, her inability to walk, disability, Kitten's autism, my mother dying last Christmas and SK's aunt dying a few months ago. (I think I left out my own Asperger's Syndrome and SK's paralyzed stomach.)

Anyhow, he was surprised I'm still standing. I'm not. I don't have a choice.

It's amazing what you can do when you don't have choice.
-Clan Kitty Family Motto

Geeking Out: The USB Turntable

taerkitty@gmail.com — Fri, 8 Aug 08 01:00:00 UT

Yes, I have records. LP's. 12" vinyl platters. The ones that weigh down, are fragile, attract scratches and aren't portable. Yeah, those. Most of the time, I think they exist in our common consciousness as some icon disassociated from what people think when they see the icon.

No one who sees the record icon will think of LPs. They may think of recordings in general, both the nound and verb. They may generalize it to music. Maybe they understand the concept of an album, a set of songs the creator wishes to be heard, either as an accidental set or a deliberate composition.

Him, I just self-distracted. Anyhow, SK has a collection of "Let's Pretend" stories on LP. These are radio plays for kids from the 1950's (one set) and 1970's (the other set.) She loves these, and wanted them recorded to our MP3 player before her scan so she could listen to them and get her mind distracted from the scanning machine and the pain that lying flat on her back would generate.

We went out and purchased a USB turntable. It has RCA jacks too, but we purchased it for the USB connectivity. It's quite amazing: we plugged it into our laptop, then waited with the install CD at the ready. No need - for some reason, Windows (XP, mind you, not Vista) recognized it for what it was.

Then since, I've been recording albums to MP3. First, we went through the 20+ LPs. Then, with Halloween next up on Kitten's holiday calendar (I guess Labor Day doesn't count.) we recorded her scant handful of Halloween records. At that point, I wanted to keep it in use - I figure we purchased it, and we should use it to get the most out of our money.

Well, the holiday after Halloween that was of major significance to Kitten is Christmas. Then again, it's SK's favourite time of the year, so Kitten may have caught it from her. At any rate, we're now recording Christmas LP albums to MP3. In the middle of summer.

I want to make sure SK has her happy place music if she needs to go anyplace else for any other long and painful scan.

Flash Attempt: Courting (100 words)

taerkitty@gmail.com — Thu, 7 Aug 08 01:00:00 UT

May I have this dance? My body settles into slumber; my thoughts shed their drab workclothes. As Morpheus beckons me, my mind is pure. For these moments brief, I am truly me.

I want us to seal hands. I want to hear your every whisper. I want to giggle, to let mirth float us away. In this twilight, the impossible become the everyday.

Let your tongue tickle my ear. May your words give me enough purchase so that I may wake with them at hand. Let me write your gifts down and share them with the world.

===

Supposedly, one of the cardinal rules is to not write fiction about writing. I can see some reason for that - just as I can't really see what will work with the audience in general because I see fiction differently than they would, so would the wider audience not appreciate what it means to be a writer, even if I'm a neophyte.

That aside, the Fickle Muse is a fact of life for most writers. I greatly admire those who can sit down and write fiction without struggles with inspiration. For me, the best I have it is when an idea springs into being just as I sit, so it feels new and promise-filled.

Normally, the idea gestates in me for a while, having been seeded at some inconvenient time. During the interval between then and now, I've had too much time to think about how to do it, how to do it wrong, how to...

At any rate, this is one of the latter. I've had the idea for a while. Had it and lost it and refound it, so on. I'm writing it more as exorcism - if I don't, then it'll rebound inside my bitty kitty noggin.

Hope you enjoy it!

Flash Attempt: What Wrought Forth (100 words)

taerkitty@gmail.com — Wed, 6 Aug 08 01:00:00 UT

I look over the fallen, my sadness fighting with my pride. You, who I nurtured from an orphaned waif, this is the work of your terrible hand. These wounds, those marks, I recognize them all; I taught you all this.

Each body under my boot deserved this end, I say to myself. I split your tutelage between how to wield this power and why. Did you learn one lesson better than the other?

This littered ground continues toward the sun. With heavy breath, I follow the dying light. I made you; that obligates me to see what wake you leave.

===

Back-filling some missing dates in my journal. If I'm going to claim the mantle of writer, I ought best keep my nibs sharpened.

I'm noticing a trend in my flash - I don't go for the shock of a twist ending. I think it's because I've seen it fail so often. Instead, I seem to choose more anticlimatic ones.

My stories are also usually very small in scale, to use the term in a theatrical / cinematic sense. This one is the exception; it has the dead-strewn field, the mists and blood splatter.

It's very hard to pack enough description into a hundred words and still leave enough room for plot. My personal taste for large-scale stories may be because it's easier to make the payload proportional to the scale.

If it's a huge battle, but the end is devoid of meaning or meme, then why have it? Yes, a simple battle of hundreds takes little more ink than a battle of two, but to do one justice requires much more work on both author and reader's behalves.

Most of my flash fics are internal. They aren't necessarily meditative - each of the four I've written recently have ended with a choice, a commitment. To quote one author's rules, "Something must change." It's very hard to work interaction into this compressed form.

That said, the most obvious enemy is "show, don't tell." If I don't have much room to move, and I don't have much space for dialogue, it's difficult to not tell. I try to mitigate this by trying to personalize each tale's vocabulary, to infuse the words with emotive content as well as their surface meaning.

Random thoughts from a random story.

Flash Attempt: Wishes

taerkitty@gmail.com — Tue, 5 Aug 08 01:00:00 UT

There are candles on the cake. Everyone's smiling. You're all looking at me, looking at me look at the big candle's flame.

It's orange; it's yellow; it's white; it's clear. Through it, I see Uncle Ted worrying about his mortgage. I see Margaret from church, thinking about her son in the Army. Here's Sissy, wondering if Stefan really is seeing Siobhan.

You're all smiling, welcoming me to a new year in my life. Is this all I have to look forward to? If that's the case, why are you so happy for me?

Hi, Mommy. I see you, too. You and your your promise, "I'll make sure your life is better than mine."

I nod, I smile and I blow the candles out.

===

I was reading Little Murders and this coalesced as a sort of counterpoint to it. I beg your indulgence, both in the flood of posts, and in the lack of polish here.

This one is sloppy. It's flabby, but when the muse strikes, I must chose to either write it or later regret not writing, staring at the impression that meme made, trying to recreate the whole from just that one memory, a memory of a memory.

I'm at work, so I can't invest as much time in this as I want. If you have ideas how to tighten it, to hone its edge, I'd be most grateful.

As always, thanks for reading.