Square Eyes

Whatever you say about another person’s method of living is what you say about yourself. You impart more information about yourself in your censure of another than you do about the person you’re criticizing.

Oddly enough, there are many in this world who know this. They know the fact of the matter is their own character is displayed when they fight and bite, but they do it anyway. They can’t help themselves. The reaction is so long-practiced the vitriolic review just pours out like a flood. Whether it’s a wordy, mouthy retort, or a wordy thumb response on a digital device, it is a habit to avoid.

Challenged to keep their mouth shut, some people hear a trigger word, or read a trigger subject, and they leap in the conversation like a jaguar on prey. They hunger for the negative concupiscent word volley.

And is it only certain subjects that trigger? For some this is true. For others, further from sanity, any and every subject will do. There are some who can find the negative aspect of any topic.

Perhaps we should call the ones who are only triggered by one subject the fortunate ones. Possibly we should pity the ones who find everything controversial. It’s a difficult task to pity the ones who bring poison and hate into every conversation. Most people learn to avoid poison. Most people don’t drink the abrasive or devour the rotten. We tend to avoid that which brings us pain. We tend to reject that which causes us sorrow.

So what is the answer to the problem of finding negativity in conversations?

The first thing is to recognize when it’s happening. You have to see it when it starts. It comes at the first thought of negativity. Before you even talk about something, you have to square your sights on the words you’re going to use. You have to focus on the way you’re going to approach a subject. It’s at that moment you need to shift your crosshairs. You have to be able to say, “Hold on. Am I going to bring this conversation down, or am I going to bring it up?”

(Have you ever seen Terminator? The scene where the robot assassin scrolls through a menu of possible responses and chooses one? This is how humans work too. We have a series of possible responses. We can choose the angle at which we attack any subject.)

The second thing to do is to keep it up. During a conversation where a negative thought enters your head, there will be other points when the conversation can steer toward the negative. So, you have to keep your guard up.

Third, you have to practice positivity, even when you so want to point out the stupidity, the ironic views, the contradictions, and the bad habits of another.

And is the irony of my observation of these uber-critical people not obvious to me? It is obvious. I must be hypercritical or I wouldn’t know these people so well, eh?

Recently Read: Arena by Karen Hancock

Arena by Karen Hancock

An amazing novel by Karen Hancock, Arena is like an allegory, a virtual reality adventure, and an exercise in dramatic suspense all rolled up into one.

What amazes me most is this novel was not written in first person. I suppose I might stereotype female writers as always wanting to write in first person to maximize on the emotional aspect of the story. Karen Hancock easily and skillfully breaks my mental construct. She may have sacrificed her majority audience by not writing Arena diary-style, but the novel is presented intelligently and with such expert writing style, it would not have been as great if written in first person. Who wouldn’t rather have a superior quality novel than a popular one?

One consequence of the chosen point of view is the novel Arena hits the moments of tension with extreme accuracy. There’s a functional element of suspense in the writing, which is fun for the reader because the reader actually cares about what happens next.

The main character, Callie Hayes, appears to have gotten herself into a virtual world. It’s real enough she can’t easily escape. There are dangers at every turn, not the least of which are the other participants in the same virtual game. There are wild animals and treacherous landscapes. She is challenged to make choices all along the way. Some choices are good, others bad, many unclear—until later. Her challenges are multiplied when she meets others who want to help her, especially a rough and rugged man named Pierce.

I particularly enjoyed that Callie Hayes is not one of those characters you read about making one stupid mistake after another. She makes good choices at times, bad choices other times, and is still affected by the rotten choices of those around her.

There’s beautiful balance in Karen Hancock’s characterizations. Not all heroes are infallible, not all enemies are incurable. Friends turn on each other and then turn back. Much like life.

Like any good writer, Miss Hancock is a student of life, an observer of people, and a documenter of them all.

  1. Drawing Power  *

The writing style has such flow, the reader is easily drawn into the story and pulled along through to the end.

  1. Interesting  *

There is accuracy in the tense moments. There is great detail in the scenery, the dialog, the situations, and the props. Enough in all to make you want to keep reading.

  1. Offensive factor  *

Non-offensive, yet real enough for any calloused reader.

  1. Range of emotion 1/2 *

Within Arena there are a wide variety of emotions described. I think some of them, describing the way female emotions work, are lost on this man. Still, the emotions I felt while reading coincided at least half the time with what the writer was trying to convey.

  1. Character factor  *

Excellent characterization. Top scores for Karen Hancock creating real characters, believable characters.

  1. Technic  *

Karen’s style is pleasant. Her flow is smooth, plotting is without excess or obstacles, and she has the ability to get the right details in the narrative to make the reader care.

  1. Proper length  *

Just right. No word padding in this one.

Grand total: Arena by Karen Hancock is a * * * * * * 1/2 * 6 and 1/2 * star novel.

Blog blog

There should be a blog about snowshoeing. There should be a blog about snowshoeing while wearing a kilt. There should be a blog about lacing snowshoes while wearing a kilt without getting your little tushy in the snow.

But not this one. Not my blog. Yours.

There should be a blog about how to learn how to love reading. Because. . .teenagers. Pfft. Ornery teenagers. “I don’t even like reading,” they say.

There should be a blog about how to play the harmonica. There should be a blog about how to play harmonica in the rain. There should be a blog about how to play the armonica. . .yes, they’re different. (Though, I don’t have any idea what the second one is. Don’t ask.)

If I get interested in something, there should be a blog about it. Who will fill the need for all these blogs? There will be millions of them.

In the summer, there should be a blog about summer sports and summer activities. In the winter, a blog about winter sports.

There should be a blog about backgammon. I don’t think anyone on earth knows how to play that game. Someone should figure it out and write about it.

And if there was a blog about how to solve a Rubik’s cube, that would be helpful. Oh wait, there are those. Many of them.

There should be a blog about how to reuse everything. Reduce, recycle, reuse. That’s what we always say. But how to do it may be something of a mystery. It’s always good to know how to practice what we preach.

Zombie Origins

As every child who has ever asked their momma knows, zombies come from spores.

Spores are wicked, little gobs of dusty fuzz that cling to the following: the undersides of plants, chewed up gum on the sidewalk, dried up mushrooms, carbon dioxide molecules, political parties, anti-gender tweets, socks, and of course in the vapor of an electronic cigarette. There are so many places they could hide, it’s almost impossible to prevent the spread. They were once discovered in the bones of a mastodon frozen in Siberian ice. Fortunately, those spores were neutralized before they could infect a new age of victims.

With every gust of wind, or careless step of a traveler, the spores are released from their hiding places and sent to the air around us where they are breathed in by unwary and unlucky souls. Whoever breathes in this toxic dust will first act as if they’ve been drinking, with slurred speech and lowered inhibitions, then soon after they will start to search for brains. This is because the spores will be consuming the infected individual’s brain, turning them into a zombie. Soon he, or she, will have a sudden urge to find brains elsewhere.

Keep your eyes aware and your brain engaged! If you’re wondering about the origins of things, be sure to ask your momma.

Most importantly, be prepared to meet some zombies in real life. Be on the lookout for those around you who appear to be searching for something they no longer have—and watch your step!

Naturally

Had a battle with the wardrobe. Nothing matched. Plaids and stripes collided, like atomic collisions, so disaster inevitably happened. No one wanted to be my friend. No one wanted to be near me. It was a plague of the fashion variety. Everyone thought it would kill them if they got too close. They turned and ran. 

Now sitting here in the park plaza, buildings oppress on every side, though grass and trees create peace. I can see the method of my outfit symbolically in my surroundings. The good stuff is here with the grass and trees. The good stuff is here, though in small amounts. All else is a mismatched disarray of concrete, steel, and glass. The city grows taller than the natural things. Even here in the park there’s an invasion of concrete in the walkways and the drainage gutters.

On a bench an old man waits. For what he waits, I do not know. Not me. He does not wait for me. He seemed a bit shocked to see me sitting on another bench within the park. The shock didn’t dislodge him from his waiting, or his position. His waiting is as slow and uneventful as the grass growing. And yet, his assembly of clothing is far better than mine. I can’t judge him. I have no leverage. Not that I would approach and disturb his calm meditation anyway. His peace is complementary to the beautiful greenery. They’re so similar as to almost be one. Perhaps in a few years (if this man could wait that long) the park and the old man would assimilate. Tree roots would slowly mold themselves to encircle his feet. His thin grey hair would gradually turn green. Ears, nose, cheeks would become like the bark on a tree, hardened by elements. He would move no more from his bench, but his eyes would still search and wait and watch, until one day, the wood might overtake his eyes too.

Then, I might return to view the park, to enjoy its peace and pleasant smells. The old man might still be there. No one can be sure if I will recognize him. No one can predict if he will be shocked at my future collisions; pink shirt, purple pants, yellow socks, red shoes.