Winter Solstice 2009

Winter Solstice 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Tonight is the Winter Solstice. Today we gather all our candles and prepare to set the house alight.

Each year, the day begins with preparations. Like the night before a camping trip, we review our equipment, noting wear and patching holes. We wash the glass covers, add oil to the lamps, trim the wicks and clean the candle lanterns. Some only emerge from storage for this one night of the year. There is the one my mother gave us, the one from my grandmother, the ones from Karen, her friends and her sister. The one we light whenever necessary to guide wayward souls back home.

We arrange candles in clusters on counters and on tabletops, hanging lamps and lanterns from the ceiling, gathering flames anywhere away from inquisitive paws and whiskers. Candles float in a bowl in the kitchen. A few cat-proof globes adorn the dining room, others are scattered across the coffee table. The surviving Wolford from our wedding is perched atop the stove. We stake candle sconces along the front walk, a trail of flames to guide any visitors to our door.

This night from dusk to dawn no incandescents will glow within our home. No lights, no television, not even the memory of a fire we have captured on DVD. The stereo is the only electronic compromise as it cycles through a cappella music from a darker, more medieval age. There is a haunting, simple beauty in an anonymous quartet giving voice to carols and motets, chants and polyphony in soprano Middle English and alto Norman-French.

We brighten this longest night of the year in the manner of our ancestors, with candles, flame and oil. Our tradition began just under a score of years ago on a whim, an idea adopted from a more creative writer in a book no one remembers. These days, Karen has become more orthodox, more militant, unscrewing even the bulb in the refrigerator. Women are the keepers of our faith, the enforcers of our traditions.

We prepare the mead, anymore our lone batch of the year, mixing water with honey while it's still light enough to read the measures, adding the yeast before the night descends. For many years, we poured the ingredients in near darkness with only candles to light our way. Later, we will share a glass by the fire table, always sampling the fruits of the last year's tradition.

Even dinner is prepared and eaten before sunset. It was harder when we had to rush home from work to make the house ready. When we first started, we made sure we had something simple to prepare or reheat the moment we hit the door. Now, it's become a personal holiday, a festival, a feast, a celebration like any other. We roast a lamb shank with all the trimmings, a real holiday dinner, clearing off the remnants while it's still light enough to see.

At dusk we will wander out to the lake to watch the sunset. We will stand at the rail, comparing the sun's position to the other Celtic holidays throughout the year, reflecting on events that have filled the intervening spaces. We will head home at twilight, take up the matches and stick-lighter, and begin our ritual of candle lighting as soon as we return.

With all the preparations finished and the candles softly burning, we will finally have a chance to relax and reflect. A chance to breathe after another hectic year. Later, by candle-fire, we will exchange a single gift, always related to the holiday, a sconce, a lantern, something Celtic, something living.

Some time ago, we discovered that our neighbors of a more than a dozen years, who have since moved on, always thought we were Jewish. We are judged by our lack of Christmas lights, and the darkness of our home. We have no flashing icicles, no sparkling reindeer, no lighted plastic nativity, no inflatable Rudolph or Frosty or Santa. No tinny carols emanate from our yard. But every year, a wreath from Karen's sister adorns the wall beside our door. This year, another fragrant evergreen arrangement is ensconced on a table on the porch. For many years, a tree was visible in the library, lighted and shiny with antique tinsel, though it has since moved farther back in the house along with the all books. For half a dozen years, we donated our live tree to the community to be planted the park. Live, as in still living, not live as in freshly cut. And each year on the Winter Solstice, the blinds remain open as the house burns against the night.

Like every Solstice, eventually the darkness will return. One by one, the candles will be extinguished and we will be left with little but each other and the night. I do not fear the darkness; I embrace it in a way. I am more comfortable roaming thorough the house in winter than in summer, at midnight than at noon. The night is my advantage, the cloak of my disguise. I am used to seeing shapes and motion in place of clearer images. In darkness we are all once again created equal: none of us can see.

Some years, I sit down to write this message thinking I know exactly how it will end. Some years, something happens that changes that. This year it was a name, one resurfacing after more than a quarter century, one I hadn't heard since high school, contained in a brief message saying that a man my age had died, his family's holiday turned from joy to sudden grieving. All of our plans for light come to naught when a candle burns out prematurely.

Our kind thoughts to all of you no matter your holiday traditions, whether re-enacted in joy or private sorrow. However long the candles last, may they keep your Solstice warm and bright.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Earl Morgan, a final note

Earl Morgan - a reading (on YouTube)

Today, I feel alone and untethered, like someone has cut an anchor line and suddenly I'm adrift.

Last Sunday morning, I received a phone call, one I'd been expecting for some time. Charles Earl Morgan, Jr., my uncle, my friend, had died the previous evening around 8 o'clock.

How do you explain a life, an individual, in a way that will make any sense to someone who never met him? I could say he was a WWII veteran, that he treated the wounded returning from the front, that the experience affected him deeply. I could say he was once a steward for Eastern Airlines. That he had an interest in biology and genetics, and thought, one day, science might neutralize humanity’s aggressive tendencies. That he suffered from depression. That he was fascinated by our family’s genealogy. That he always wanted to visit the south of Wales and was so excited when we toured the north. That he read science fiction, Asimov and Herbert. That he liked Impressionist art. That he had a collection of African woodcarvings. That he enjoyed the Winter Solstice. That he fed the cats he found outside. That he was the kindest, most understanding, most generous soul I’ve known.

None of those things mean much out of context. They are just facts and information, pieces and fragments. They are pale pigments that only paint a watercolor of the individual I knew. They don't encapsulate a life.

In the end, I cannot introduce you to him. I can only say what he meant to me. I’m not certain I will succeed but at least I have to try. I wish I could paint a beautiful picture or utter some memorable turn of phrase. But I can’t. This week, the words have failed me.

By the time we met, half his life was behind him. By the time I could remember him, he would have been about the age I am now. The last time I visited him, I was a teenager. The last time I saw him might have been at my grandfather’s funeral, but I cannot say for certain. The last time I heard his voice was a phone call over the summer. The last time I heard from him, a letter just a couple weeks ago.

We kept in touch through letters. We didn't talk a lot about the past. We talked about war and peace, life and nature, people and the world around them. I shared with him things no one else in my family knows, no one but my wife. Some family secrets, some observations. That was the type of friend he was, the type you could confide in without receiving any judgement, the type who always had a word of encouragement or support. The type you could trade letters with every few months and still feel completely connected with, as though you picked up the conversation just where you had dropped it off.

Recently, I sent him the things I'd written, essays and stories. He was one of the first people I’d shared them with, and seemed to enjoy reading them a great deal. For the past three years, I sent him a packet after each of the Celtic holidays. I’m told he saved every one. He was one of a smattering of people I knew was reading what I wrote. Part of the reason I started posting daily lines was to have something to share while I was restructuring the novel. I wanted to have something to give back as I knew he had been going through a difficult time. The last package went out a week before he died. His sister read him the final essay, for which I am more grateful than she knows.

I have a stack of almost fifty letters that I received in return, dating back just over twenty years. In his last letter he told me how much he appreciated me sending the essays and stories, how they had helped him through some very hard times. That’s the highest compliment I’ve ever been given, being told that something I wrote had helped someone else in some small way.

Like his final letter, now he, too, has gone missing. In a similar way, I keep searching for that letter in the last place I saw it but in my heart, I know it's gone. Lost, misplaced, perhaps never to resurface again, though I desperately hope it will. Just like him.

Last night, I had a dream, a nightmare. I was with Karen in a doctor's office. The doctor, an older woman who reminded me of a close friend's mother, was going over her blood counts, commenting that they were the highest she'd ever seen. My biggest fear these days is that I'll find myself back there, sitting in that chair, holding her hand while someone utters that fateful word again as I stare back into the maw, not of my own mortality, but rather of the potential loss of someone I care so much about. I woke up terrified of having to continue on alone.

There are only a few people that I care that deeply for, companions I am that connected to on the journey though this life. My wife, an aunt I write to every day, a series of familiars. A handful of others once upon a time, most already lost to circumstance and distance. There are people you meet in life that you can't explain why you're drawn to. For me, Earl Morgan was one.

When many animals are born, they imprint on the figure taking care of them, whatever species that individual might be. Humans are just as instinctive, only slightly more complex. Some people are lucky enough to be born into a family that provides all that they need, love and support, acceptance and understanding. Others have to look elsewhere. If we don't find what we need in the people at hand, we continue searching. Sometimes that search lasts all our lives. Once that bond has been established, no matter how late, it is inviolate and unbreakable. When it is severed, it creates an emptiness, a void where something existed a moment ago that has suddenly been removed. Spouses know this, as do parents who have lost a child. And children who have lost their parents.

Last Saturday, I lost more than a man I called an uncle, more than a friend, more than a mentor and a kindred spirit. I lost an individual I'd imprinted on, an individual I'd come to see as a constant, like air or food or water, noticed only when they disappear. A man who was warm and supportive and wise, a man with unique experiences that somehow resonated with my own, a man with a unique presence in the world, and a view of it I often shared.

How can emptiness feel so heavy, so wearying to carry? But still I stumble forward, more alone now, hunched under the weight of the man gone missing.

There are people who say they know what happens after death. Some go so far as to declare it with certainty. I know that no one can be certain, at least until they stand ready to cross the threshold from this life to whatever happens after. That is why our beliefs are titled faith.

What I do know is what happens on this side of the veil. We grieve, we remember, we are saddened by our loss. All grief feels selfish. We mourn what we are missing, what we no longer have, and sometimes forget to honor the life that was lived.

Earl, I am honored to have called you my friend. Wherever your ashes settle, whether in a National Cemetery or in the waters off your home, I hope you will ease the way for those of us left behind who wonder what awaits us. Whatever you discover on the other side, I hope it brings you peace. Godspeed and good journey, my friend. I hope one day we will meet again to resume our conversation.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

The Day of Peace in Flanders Fields

"The Day of Peace in Flanders Fields" - a reading (on YouTube)

Ninety-one years ago, at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the Western allies signed an agreement to cease hostilities with Germany, putting an end for us to the Great War. Around Europe and parts of North America today is marked as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day. Independence Day for some, Veterans Day for us. The following year, we signed a treaty formalizing the end of the War to End All Wars.

Or so we thought until we finished off a two-front war twenty-six years later that saw more civilian deaths than military and whose carnage was four times greater than its predecessor. This time around we decided not to tell ourselves quaint lies about the future as the ashes and rubble cooled and settled into a Cold War between erstwhile allies. This time we didn't feel the same need to remember so much as some of us felt the need to never forget.

Thirty-eight years after that war ended, I met a former Marine in a hobby shop who had fought as a young man on all the islands that still ring through our country's collective memory, Tarawa, Peleliu, Iwo Jima, Okinawa. For decades, he had been unable to share or even understand his experiences. He never told anyone what he had seen, including his wife and children. He suffered nightmares and anxiety attacks.

Then, he met a group of veterans who reenacted the battles he had fought with miniatures. Suddenly, he was able to understand the reason his friends had died here or there, and why his commander had insisted they advance to take this or that position against seemingly impossible odds. He could see the battle from a higher angle, one reserved at the time for men with stars on their collars not stripes on their sleeves. He understood why the sacrifices of the men around him were necessary, men he'd lived with, talked with, eaten with, gotten to know, many to like. He could see the lives of other men in other units that his unit was saving through their actions and loss.

His anxiety eased, his nightmares went away. He found he could talk with others about what he had seen and been through, even non-military people, even strangers like myself, at the time a young man perhaps a few years older than he had been when he was sent away to fight. After decades of silent suffering, he had found a measure of peace through comprehension.

War changes every man and woman who survives it, directly or indirectly. While I am unlikely to become a member of that fraternity, someone did try to kill me once with their hands, up close and very personal. That experience changes the way you see the world from that day forward. It is not an experience you easily forget.

We tend forget that the objective of any war is peace, as lasting and sustainable as humanly possible. War should always be a last resort and kept as short as possible. There is nothing inherently glorious in weapons, nothing to be celebrated in taking another's life, no matter how justified, no matter how necessary. To paraphrase Lao Tzu, we should enter battle gravely and treat even victory like a funeral.

In my family, funerals involve either praying or drinking, usually one or the other to exclusion. I was never very good at either but more tolerable at the latter. So to any veteran reading this, I raise a sober glass in acknowledgement and remembrance of your service with a fervent hope that your experience only changed you for the better. To those still in uniform, if you cannot be safe, be well on this and every day. May you and all of us celebrate another day of peace sometime in the near future. The Day of Peace in Flanders Fields.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Samhain 2009

Samhain 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Half the year we spend in darkness struggling to find the light. The night is not evil, only mysterious and unknown, unilluminated.

Unblinking eyes embrace the darkness tonight, glowing in the shadows, some friendly, some not, some merely mischievous. They look out from behind the masks of archetypes, the stories we tell each other gathered around the harvest fire to remind ourselves that danger is ever present and all around.

We tell tales of the horned god who is the hart bounding through the forest, darting into shadows to keep the wolves at bay. Like him, we fear the onset of twilight, the hunting hour for wolves and panthers. We sense them stalking us from a time when a flash of eyes provided our only warning before a scream heralded that one of us had gone missing, disappearing behind a trail of blood. The stag serves as the guardian of the forest deer, a reminder that if we are quick and willing to confront the circling pack in our fastness, our children will survive and prosper. But to him, we are just another set of eyes in the night, another predator darkly desirous of his flesh.

We speak of the great mother, the black soil beneath our feet from which life springs, as dark and mysterious as a cave. Sometimes cruel, sometimes gentle, she nurtures her better children and grinds the rest to nourish the next generation already stirring in her womb. She is the dark earth goddess we appease with blood, bone and flesh to keep the land fertile and the harvest towers full. After the sickle falls, she embraces our dead, still her children, whose eyes make our spines tingle in the night when she sends them out to play.

We whisper of the old crone, our ancestral grandmother, toothless and bent yet bold and unintimidated, reminding us with her cane when she thinks we've gone astray. She is the good witch whose identical twin lives deep among the trees luring children into her lair with sweet promises before devouring their innocence, baking them into men and women in her oven before offering them as sweetmeats to her pets, some of which have learned to walk on their hind legs among us. Their hungry eyes follow us while she hums through her preparations, devising a cunning plan to separate us from the shepherds and woodcutters so they can dine on lamb come spring.

Finally, we utter stories of the goblins, the thieves that live among us, miscreants of mischance that pilfer our good fortune. Hardship and misadventure waiting to steal our cache of luck, they are the mischievous spirits lurking near our shame. Once, they were simple village numina, kobolds and tomte easily appeased. Outcast from our homes like demons, now they gather in clans and tribes, packing up like wild dogs to hunt, setting camps deep inside the forest to brigand the unwary and unsuspecting. Their eyes shine beyond the windows tonight, casting back red or green reflections as they call for treats in small, high voices.

Half the year we spend in darkness struggling to find the light. Tonight beyond the harvest fire, eyes embrace the darkness, tracking us through the night. We must be careful not to hold their gaze or we will be spellbound by our own reflection.

© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Many Paths, One Mountain

Both of my eyes are not the same. Each perceives color just a little differently. When I look through one eye, I see slightly more red, the other slightly more green. Not enough that my brain has trouble integrating the two, just detectable if I allow myself to notice.

In my mind, if my own two eyes can't agree on how to see the world, how can I expect anyone else to agree with the way I see it. Each of our perceptions, memories, life events, manners of viewing and processing the world, are different. They become our touchstones on the journey, the markers that guide us along the way.

We walk together on our separate journeys, supporting each other when the path gets steep, finding water when one of us is thirsty, sharing our food with anyone who is hungry, sheltering together when there are storms or danger, tending the sick and the wounded until they can continue, laying our companions to rest when they cannot. We do these things because they are the right things to do, without asking whether our companions are Jewish or Muslim, Christian or pagan, Hindu or Buddhist, atheist or Daoist. It is enough that they are human.

Many paths, one mountain. I hope you find the one that is right for you and gets you where you want to be.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Fall Equinox 2009

Fall Equinox 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

More than a dozen years ago, I learned to juggle. That Christmas, my father had given me a set of juggling balls and I decided to give them a try. Karen remembered juggling when she was in school and very patiently taught me what she knew. Anymore, I like to use a set of small, suede beanbags that she gave me a few years later.

The trick with three ball juggling is to always keep at least one ball in the air. As one ball is arriving in your left hand, another is always leaving your right. The problem is you can't really watch your hands while you're learning or you'll miss a catch, or one will collide with another and balls will scatter everywhere. As you get more comfortable with the standard underhand throws, you can try tossing them overhand in a pattern not much different from the traditional three-ball cascade.

Once you get the knack of it, juggling is almost meditative. You no longer think about what your hands are doing. In fact, the more you focus on your hands, the more likely you are to interrupt the pattern. Left catch, right toss, right catch, left toss. With the beanbags there is a soft, contenting thump each time one finds your hand and a little squoosh when it leaves. Thump, squoosh, thump, squoosh, thump, squoosh, always in a braided circle, repeating like a mantra. One rising, another falling, the third being redirected by a hand. Like the wheel of life always turning only following mirrored left and right cascades.

Your mind drifts off into simpler patterns. There is no past, no future, only a continuous, peaceful present as you keep the pattern going. Until you realize what you're doing or your thoughts drift off completely. Then, a hand spasms either with enthusiasm or hesitation and you find yourself chasing balls across the room. If you're lucky, they remain in the air and only walk away from you. But even when the pattern is broken, it resumes with a simple toss, toss, catch, toss, catch, toss, and there you are again, in constant balance, catching, throwing and redirecting.

Juggling is constancy in motion. One cycle ending, one beginning, one hanging in the air. One beanbag rising and one falling while I feel another in my hand. Eventually, the cycle, like my concentration, will be broken; one beanbag is bound to hit the floor. But I'll just pick it up, dust it off and toss it back into the air, beginning my simple hand dance once again.

As you know, today is the fall equinox, one of two balance points in the solar year. For me, summer is always a time of juggling, a time when there are too many balls in motion. Even this message is balanced against several other activities and concerns that demand my attention right now. I always look forward to autumn then winter, a time for me when all the balls settle back in my hand to rest for a little while. A year ago, it was just the same, only then the ball that dropped was Tina. Some balls can never be retrieved; they only roll away into memory.

I hope you find balance with all your activities today. Remember to enjoy the day, and hold on to what's important so that it cannot fall beyond your reach.

© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

September 11, 2009

Outside eight years ago, I steeped in sudden silence. Within that stillness, fear and uncertainty festered, infecting many with suspicion and mistrust. To soothe unquiet minds, we sculpted fresh heroes, saints and demons, breathing life into them before the dust had settled from the air. Now, once-shining avatars weather into golems whose crumbling structures reveal the rubble, dirt and ash still trapped deep within.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Dragon*Con 2009: Dancing in the Dragon's Lair

How can you know up without down? High without low? Beauty creates ugliness; there is no shadow without the light.

One percent of our year has come and gone in Atlanta. We have seen the Dragon, danced within its lair. But at the end of that encounter, I am uncertain whether we are the slayer or the slain.

The year was marked by good and bad in equal measure. Nothing catastrophic, but not quite the heights we scaled in years before. The line at registration, the six panels we left early, the hike down twelve flights of stairs with suitcases, the mild food poisoning (if those three words ever go together), the three missed concerts, the war game I wanted that disappeared, those were lows. The highs were the record number of panels and concerts we attended, the nine CD's by six groups we brought back home, the short-story I sketched out on the plane, the photographer from Twitter we touched base with again this year, and the lead singer of the Cruxshadows remembering Karen. A full and busy weekend marked by marginal frustrations.

This year was typified by our trips to the dealers' room. I saw a used SPI war game from the 70's called Musket and Pike that intrigued me, though it was expensive so I wanted to think about it. The more I thought, the more I decided I would buy it. By the time I went back, it was one of the few that was gone. That's how this year felt, promising but disappointing.

Some changes we noted from previous years: fewer Goths, fewer kids, less skin, more people, more costumes, more sponsors, more folk and Celtic music.

I'm sure people wonder what we do for five days in Atlanta. How much science fiction can occupy our time? Panels for us tend to divide into four basic food groups, the inspiring, the thought provoking, the entertaining and the complete waste of time. I'll give the highlights and teasers from each day.

Thursday started with two and a half hours in line at registration. I'm not sure we'll use Ticket Master again. It's always understaffed. This year, I heard the convention website crashed so a LOT of people went to Ticket Master. And they sent 2 people to handle them all. After that we met another couple at an Indian restaurant for dinner and a great chicken curry. We topped the night with a concert by the Spider Lilies, a band formed by the former guitarist of the Cruxshadows. Decent music poorly mixed.

Friday started on a hot streak. William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy on DCTV in the hotel. No lines, no crowds, great seats, fun interaction between them. Our first panel was a talk on the I Ching, complete with a handout, by a bio-anthropologist who had no trouble resolving his science and his personal (not professional) use of it. Next was a great presentation on biophages, viruses that infect bacteria sometimes killing them in the process, perhaps the solution to antibiotic resistant strains of disease. A contribution we've ignored from the former Soviet Union. The day peaked with two hours of instruction by a director and editor on lighting and framing in film which we translated into still photography. They went over a standard three light arrangement, the law of thirds and crossing the line. Then, a discussion of an unexplained gravity anomaly discovered in the data from the Pioneer probes as they exit the solar system. After that, the evening fell apart with two aborted panels, one a no-show by the primary speaker. We used the opportunity to peruse the music tables and pick up the first load of CDs. We opted to forego the 1:30 a.m. performance by Abney Park, a band we'd seen before, to start fresh the following day.

Saturday dawned promisingly enough with a thought provoking panel about viewing art on the Internet called the Low-cut Blouse Phenomenon by the photographer who did the Myth of Photographic Truth last year. How do you entice people to examine or contemplate art in 100 x 120 pixels? After that, Karen and I briefly parted ways with her sitting in on a so-so instruction on how to draw monsters and aliens while I sat through an ok authors panel on what women want in science fiction. Then a panel on pandemics with two authors and a scientist from the CDC that was informative and not much more. The day started to degraded with another two aborted panels, though we used the time to crawl the dealer's room the first time, hit the music tables again and get some dinner (bad choice, my friend). It briefly peaked right after with a fascinating discussion of synesthesia, the cross-talk between senses from the same input ("Fours are red, sevens are green, and green tastes funny") by a neuroscience clinician, a doctor of cognitive psychology and a doctor of psychology and neurobiology. That was followed by yet another aborted discussion where two authors confused economics with social engineering. We salvaged the night with the Cruxshadows concert which was eminently danceable until almost 2 a.m. Once again, we got in easily by waiting until the line had passed.

Sunday we slept in. About noon I realized someone had slipped a little something extra into the our salad the night before, which left me at about half power through the remainder of the weekend. If you starve a cold and feed a fever, what do you do when you feel dizzy and flushed? Apparently, sit in panels until it clears on the flight home thirty-six hours later. Or maybe the two lemon wedges I ate in the airport did the trick.

First that day, we hit a great demonstration on how to draw wings complete with a handout and website references wing exhibits in museums. Next was an entertaining presentation of how much longer humanity will have the resources needed to support our current lifestyle. Turns out 25-100 years for things like aluminum, copper, lead, oil, gold and silver and platinum, not to mention those nice little exotics that run your laptop and cell phone. Followed by a solid discussion of military attitudes and personal interactions by a retired USAF officer. After a short break, there was a good presentation on decomposition of bodies by a forensic anthropologist, though perhaps the slides weren't dinner fare. Then an interactive life art drawing panel modeled by three local dancers. Karen did really well. I played to my strengths and focused on one of the model's eyes which were striking with their makeup and the strands of hair crossing them. The day ended on a sour note with a writing panel hijacked by five authors who chose to waste our time with war-stories rather than discuss the topic listed. We opted out of the Faith and the Muse, and Ayria concerts that night in favor of sleep and early panels the next morning. Listening to the CDs, I'm sorry with missed the first but perhaps not the second.

By Monday morning I felt a little better. Just in time for perhaps the best presentation of the convention on Darwinian dating: the biological basis of beauty, or what we look for and gauge in prospective mates based solely on appearance. Did you know women can smell not only good genetics but symmetry in men? Cologne doesn't help guys, it only annoys them. This one was delivered by the anthropologist from Sunday (who had ditched out on two of our aborted panels). We checked out of our room and followed up with an illustration demo that was more of a discussion by two artists, one digital, one traditional, but still fascinating as I could apply many of their observations from painting to writing. We rounded out the day with an overview of digital forensics and anti-forensics by a Georgia lawyer and an electronic investigation consultant. Is everyone out there is practicing safe wifi on their iPhones? Probably not judging by the number of passwords they picked off in the room. After a quick run through the dealers' rooms and the art show, we crawled for the airport and headed home. It's good Monday was short as I was lucky to be standing by the time we got on the plane.

If I had to pick the three most outstanding or inspiring panels this year, the would be Lighting and Framing, Darwinian Dating and a tie between Biophages and Synesthia. So the Science track wins out again this year even for the two we walked out of. Art put in a solid, consistent performance again with notables in Film, Writing and Silk Road, though the latter two had more losers than winners.

The business cards disappeared regularly from tables, transparencies first even though they were interleaved with the paper ones. Unfortunately, several stacks got cleared out by the cleaning crews in a game of mouse and mouser before it became apparent where they would and wouldn't allow information to linger. About 200 went into people's pockets, with some still disappearing on the last day. We'll see if anything comes of them.

A reasonable trip, though it didn't quite live up to the anticipation. This year felt a lot like being on the outside looking in. In a month, we'll reserve a room or two for next year, and decide next summer whether it has moved beyond us, we have moved beyond it or we just had an off year. The Marriott is definitely the place to be for us, on a low floor where we can use the stair. Karen is trying to convince her boss to provide a USGS presence next year with a panel or two, which I think would be good for him and his book, the Survey and the convention. We'll let you know if that works out.

Until then, we'll be listening to CDs, writing e-mails, checking websites, compiling a list of good and bad speakers, and trying to digest what we learned. And enjoying Nyala and Mara's affection now that we are home.

© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Anticipation

Anticipation - a reading (on YouTube)

Waiting, waiting, always waiting. 360 days of waiting and still we wait some more.

If you look for me over Labor Day, you'll find me in Atlanta. As we crawl through the unending days until Dragon*Con, we are like teenagers on the night before the first day of school, restless with thoughts of old friends, new teachers and new classes. We meet up to compare schedules and lockers, check out who's new and who's missing, who’s changed and who is just the same. We revel in that moment of endless promise and possibility before the first bell rings and notes are made on our permanent records. Excitement. Anticipation. An adventure.

Only geeks, right?

We arrive early to review our battle plan, our timetable gridded out with spreadsheet-like precision, knowing it will be shredded by the first encounter wandering down the hall. We reconnoiter the terrain, though after more than half a decade, we know it like the inside of our home at night. We note any rearrangement in the landscape, new tracks, new traps, new ambush sites.

We map out each encounter space, ruins, lairs, abandoned towers, any new source of potential treasure. Like sailors on a circumnavigation, we review our upcoming ports of call, Savannah, Cairo, Singapore, Manila. Like starship troopers, we learn the alien runes designating our assigned compartments, A703, M105, L504. For the next four days, we will be minotaurs wandering through this maze, vampires who fear the slightest kiss of sun. When Monday comes, we will be like clockwork toys whose springs are in need of winding.

Right now, our springs are fully wound, tight with anticipation. We are like children craving sugar the eve of Halloween, college students preparing for half a week of Mardi Gras rolled in with New Year's Eve. Our giddiness only intensifies as we stand in line waiting to get badged and cleared for entry. Like the alarms on our watches and cameras and cell phones, we slowly count down until D-Day, H-Hour, the second when the ball drops, the panels open and we let the games begin.

On the eve of this invasion, we roam the empty halls embracing the tingling, contented silence before they burst to overflowing. We stand watch on a balcony overlooking an impending anachronistic battle where the deaths are only temporary and the violence make-believe. We can almost hear the previous year echoing through the hotel lobbies and atriums and interconnecting hallways. Though a few old veterans are missing, we feel their presence like kindly spirits moving through the haze below, friendly ghosts drawn back to the self-described best weekend of their year.

When the gates finally creak open in the morning, we abandon all our cares in a pile by the door. Our days turn into bivouacs on a wilderness adventure. We carry rations in our backpacks, sling waterskins to be filled in this land of many springs. We become a recon team for the odd and the offbeat, slipping unnoticed into the strangest panels on the strangest tracks in the smallest, sometimes most crowded rooms. The quirky ones that surface then disappear. The ones that send archetypes and ingénues stalking through our collective subconscious, or settle in our minds like weird states of matter that shouldn't quite exist. Or dance before our eyes like symbols in the formulas defining interstellar combat. Or tickle our reasoning with the myth of photographic truth. The ones that fire our imaginations. The ones that make us think

For now, we read the intel reports to choose our encounters wisely. Occasionally, we reference the topo maps to find alternate routes around blocking actions and the inevitable pitched battle between the Miss Klingon Empire contestants and the Imperial 501st that spills into the hall. We are men and women on a mission; no one can bar our way. We fight through a phalanx of Kentucky-Fried 300, their creamy white beer-bellies blinding our eyes and sending our minds reeling with thoughts that loincloths are a privilege, not a right. Armies of angels and demons and faeries hover and flit around us, attempting to distract us with their plunging necklines before battering us with their underwired wings. We claw our way through hordes of synchronized Jacksonian undead, then dice with the blunderbuss-toting ranks of Victorian steam-punk explorers who stumbled into our melee, wagering for a map to guide them home.

We stockpile provisions in our night camp, content to live off the land and our rations until we return each day to rest. We hold vigils in the drum circle each night, dancing with the shadows in the concert halls, crawling back to our bedrolls with the False Dawn Brigade to catch enough sleep to stay on track tomorrow, whatever track that is, Art or Science, Space or Writing. In the morning we might wander the Silk Road or roam the Electronic Frontier until we are consumed by an Apocalypse Rising against the horizon.

We sprinkle business cards on the tables, hoping to seed some new readers, hoping at least a few will grow. We exchange coded contacts with fellow adventurers in casual meetings over coffee or in the lull of empty rooms. When the adventure is over, we will gather virtually or face-to-face to recount our tales, exchange our lies and compare our notes and treasure as we quietly sip our coffee. Very, very quietly.

Before we break camp on Monday, we will load up with parti-colored trinkets, baubles, books and music that we haggle from dealers and artisans in the booths of the bazaar. By then, we will have become like children's tops that have wound almost completely down, wobbling before we topple over on the plane.

But now, our strings are tightly wrapped, ready for the pull that spins us into the four dizzying days we crave to create sufficient memories to see us through the remainder of the year. Until then, we wait like children impatient to open our presents on this alternative Christmas Eve, sleeplessly wondering what surprises our secret Santa has in store for us this year.

If you look for me over Labor Day, you'll find me in Atlanta. I'll be the tall, dark-haired, geeky looking guy with glasses staying in the Marriott Marquis, the one carrying the khaki shoulder pack, the one with a leather notebook always in hand. That should narrow it down to one of several thousand. If you’re truly brave or interested, find the needle in the haystack called Smoke or Nodda Imaginings. If you get close enough to read my badge, perhaps I'll see you there.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Lughnasa 2009

Lughnasa 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Lughnasa. English Lammas. The sun slowly fades from its solstice peak. Its journey is like a river; the water constant in its swirling, only the landscape changing as it slides by and day follows day.

The first day of harvest dawns with soft, shadowless, silver light creeping through the windows. By the river, a low furnace burns among the trees whose leaves dance a pantomime against the silver-orange light that forges another smoky dawn.

The spirits of the neighborhood gather to accept the offering of Lammas bread I lay before them, a small sacrifice to the guardians of this suburban demesne. With fluttering wings and fanned tails, young blues dance a ritual challenge against the reds, duns and grays for control of the unending seed. A red-shouldered juvenile frolics in the morning sun, chasing fallen pine needles before clutching one as a prize as it ascends to an oaken perch.

As I turn toward the water's edge, the summer sun embraces me like a lover long away, the humidity crushing all the breath from my chest. Nestled among the sage in this sere and shattered season, a lone purple blossom recalls an ancient rain song with an echo of storms to come.

The river is a still, black mirror marred only by a patchwork stain of lily pads, reflecting the cypress knees that tremble from supporting a dark green canopy of sky. Islands of tall, straight pines scattered across a green sea of pasture form the only topography along this stretch of watery highway.

Lightning skitters and shies along the horizon as cloud bottoms blur, merging sky with sea. Closer now, the lightning dances among the clouds, flashing their petticoats as distant elders grumble their disapproval at the provocative display. As the rain sheets down, the voice of the river rises from a hoarse whisper to a thunderous roar proclaiming its rebirth.

The edges of the world become as sharp as shattered crystal in the sterling twilight that follows the landscape cleansing rain. As night descends, the moon plays hide and seek among the clouds, its light occasionally spilling onto the water like heavy cream overflowing a large pewter pitcher.

By the equinox, thousands of migratory birds will form intricate line drawings of shallow waves cresting upon the river's wide and sandy shores. On a bluff overlooking the water, a mound of stones creates a low, dark chamber with a narrow passage leading in from outside, a cold womb where the dead are reborn from within. Towering trees guard these ancient ruins where gods once wept. Only blind men dwell there now, unscathed by its fallen beauty.

Each year wends along its own journey. Some happily burble while others crash and tumble over cataracts. A few become silent mirrors upon which we can reflect, with no two images looking exactly the same. Enjoy the journey, wherever it may take you. The river might not pass this way again.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Free Fall and 55 Fiction

New Times 55 Fiction

This morning one of my entries into the New Times 55 Fiction competition was published. It is titled "Free Fall."

So I thought I would share all the entries and the winner. They all started with lines I’ve been posting on Twitter.

Check out the other stories at the link above. There are some good ones. Enjoy.

No Surrender

In response to his enemy’s request, he raised the white flag high above the watchtower, where both armies could plainly see it. Its corners snapped in the breeze, disrupting the sudden silence that embraced the walls. Once it had drawn everyone’s attention, he set fire to the pole and watched it burn as his reply.

Regret

Alone outside an hour after the argument, he felt a sting of regret followed by an ache deep within his chest. By the time he thought to look down at the dampness pooling on his shirt, the belated crack of the rifle caught up to him and his lifeblood was already spent.

The Question

Would she or wouldn’t she? The question hung between them like a perfect smoke ring, constantly circling inward on itself. Then her sharp sigh tore it open and it dissipated, unanswered, leaving only the bittersweet memory of an unexplored future lingering in the air. He knew in that moment he would have to find another.

Free Fall

His world became summer bright outside, winter dark inside, with no spring to bridge the two. Only tumbling in a perpetual fall. His life narrowed to a series of breaths floating in free fall, as peaceful as he'd ever been, until the rope snapped taut and his feet came up just short of the ground.

Summer Solstice 2009

Summer Solstice 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Shadows slant from north to south as the sun continues its annual progress, a celestial pilgrimage through this sublunary realm.

The morning whispers in pearl white velvet as shadow cardinals dance behind the blinds. Outside, a knot of butterflies chase through the grass like a cloud of mischievous faeries playing tag on the wing. From ground level the lawn looks like a jungle, the ants a distant tribe of hunters pursuing their quarry high into the canopy. Elite arachnids in bright green and orange uniforms parachute down upon unsuspecting prey. Tiny wrens twitter warnings against each intruder lurking behind the morning leaves.

Suddenly, a gray stillness descends as though the world outside has paused for breath. Thunderheads obscure the horizon. Stormbound light casts long, double shadows directly south. The sky grumbles in strobed slow-motion with unheralded flashes of freeze-frame anger that capture the world in thunderously burning violet. Raindrops ripple and shatter the world's reflection in the mirror of an ancient pond.

Green leaves glow against a slate of purple clouds as the downpour trickles away into torrents of slanted sunshine. An indigo silhouette swoops in below the rooftops, an iridescent shadow with an offering of bread rinds it sacrifices at the hanging pool. At the bottom of that restless, rippled basin, in a spot of sunlight no larger than a silver dollar, a thousand summer dreams swim free.

As the sun melts and runs into an orange lake, a lavender sky oozes through the trees as evening slowly slips toward night. Beyond the field of twinkling, midsummer lights, the voices of the dead call as whippoorwills, a reminder that this time is brief and must not be forgotten.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Beltane 2009

Beltane 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

In darkness there is memory. In shadows, a witness to our reflections. At moonrise the shadows coalesce into the shapes of trees disguised as men, hungry and threatening, their sylvan fingers scratching at the window. In the forest, gathered green men turn their faces eastward to catch a glimpse of the sun king reborn.

The wind whispers colors across the morning sky, telling tales of all the places it has been. A golden fanfare of allamanda echoes off a slate gray ceiling. The sun peers through a fine leaden veil as the wind traces the shadows of her face with a delicate lover's touch. When the veil parts and the morning brightens, new leaves perch upon the branches like hundreds of yellow-green butterflies drying their wings, poised to take flight. Near the moss cloaked statuary, fallen flames of honeysuckle litter the grass like discarded votives at an unnamed shrine.

The morning air has the cool edge of a little used knife scraping slowly against a pale blue stone as the seasons prepare for battle. Summer and winter have once again entered the lists to settle their annual dispute, this time to the death. Two men, one armored in multicolored ribbons with a willow wand, the other armed with only a shield and blackthorn switch. Like ancient rivals at a watering hole, each circles in silence, cautiously waiting for the other to respond. Between the need-fires their melee erupts, and none too swiftly ends. The green man claims the victor's cup, quenching his thirst with honey mead, sweet water from a holy well. The straw man has been scattered, at least for a time. From winter's corpse we sow the embryonic seeds from which the barley king will rise so we may sacrifice him later in the year.

In the west, the sun peers shyly around a pale purple curtain, her face half concealed. She retreats demurely, divergent rays shining outward from radiant eyes behind a gold-lined mask. As we bow to the antlered king, she sets the sky afire in his name, burning a rainbow of amber to apricot, lavender to ash. The last a reminder that deep within the thicket, a wicker man is born, stalking among the roses, and all too soon will be coming home.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Vernal Equinox 2009

Vernal Equinox 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Last night I dreamed I was standing on a knife's edge, a precipice. On one side lay darkness, on the other, brilliant light. The division between the two was so sharp it could draw blood. I stood on a narrow threshold, slightly dizzy, longing to embrace the light but fearing that if I turned away the horned king would pull me backward, consuming me in his fury. I stood like a deer before a hunter, unmoving, unblinking. Then the dream faded into uneasy sleep.

I woke this morning to a tornadic kitten clawing a swath of destruction across the bed. Amber light seeped through the blinds. A jar of Tupelo sunlight had overturned in the office, it's honeyed contents pooled upon the desk. The world beyond the window is softened by the morning. Light slants gently through the trees as shadows cling to every curve and crevice and the haze gives form to both.

Outside, the hibiscus has unfurled a bright red pennant, declaring itself for spring. Spider webs flash coded messages from the mailbox to the trees. Higher now, the sun sparkles off bright new leaves, a forest of tiny jewels, a private tribute to a crystal anniversary. A cardinal descends to the feeder then flits to the bare branched myrtle, sharing kisses with its mate. Flurries of oak flowers descend, forming drifts across the driveway like ropes of dirty snow.

Inside my sanctuary of glass, I watch swirls of steam rise from my coffee cup, lambent in the morning light. I reflect on my dream from the night before, and remember a similar threshold many years ago. One spring from Imbolc to the equinox, I haunted a wooden bridge across a quiet stream in a botanical garden at school with a novel between classes. On the near side was the domain of daylight, cultivated paths, constrained rivulets, maintained shelters. On the far side, the domain of night, fallen trees, the wilds, the clearings where we performed our youthful rites and ceremonies behind a veil of darkness. Below was the stream, always the same yet ever changing in swirls and eddies, rising and falling with its principal seasons, rain and dry. Upstream was the rope swing where we would splash once summer solidified its grip. Downstream were the dorms where soon I would go to live.

But it was the scene above the bridge that captivated me as I stared into the sky between chapters. At first the view was clear, obstructed only by denuded maples. At Imbolc, I saw nothing but the piercing blue of a crystalline sky broken by a web of branches. As the days fluttered by like pages of a unattended novel riffled by a spring breeze, I noticed a faint red blur clinging to each branch. The blur became a fuzz that each day became a little more distinct as tiny, red leaves unfolded to seek the sun, their winter slumber over. Week by week, I marked their progress as they grew then slowly transformed from red to yellow-green, half a shade each day. By the equinox, they were a full, bright green, their canopy completely shading the sky.

I relish the memory of those tranquil spring days after a series of harsh winters. Like the new, red leaves I remember that spring, I draw comfort seeking the sun, knowing that until summer ends I no longer need to fear the darkness. The wind outside brings changes. The night king's time is over; the sun queen's reign has just begun.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Half-life

Half-life - a reading (on YouTube)

Unstable degradation. Statistical decay.

As I reflect on my life, I find time has become mutable, radioactive and mutagenic. I am a blackout victim haunted by the ghosts of my past. I run across lines in my notebook and recognize the handwriting but don't remember jotting them down. Some still send icicles crashing down my spine.

I sort through the scraps of paper trying to piece the notes of my past back together. I only decipher a list of casualties whose bodies lie forgotten at the communications outpost from when the trenches were overrun.

Too many companions have gone missing. How many were silenced by friendly fire? I don't remember. My memory is now a trauma ward full of head wounds suffering one too many concussions. So many events have become ephemeral and translucent that they almost disappear.

Desperate for direction, I seek guidance before sleep. I wake on the verge of screaming from the dream that follows. Alone in the dark, I wonder what path my life should take from its small, subconscious symbols. If they are the answer, it would have been better not to ask. Or, perhaps, the answer was not the dream but the hour of writing that followed when sleep would not return.

Life alternates between moments of stolen moonlight and chasing the sun from room to room as it migrates through the seasons. I map the maze from memory, caging still-lifes as my legend. I capture story fragments on the journey as others collect vacation snapshots, painting scenes like signposts in case I stray this way again. Such lost and wandering moments have become my life now. And in that living, I am content.

This year, I reach half the age of my oldest known relative when she died. Half this life lies beneath the reflective pool which was once a boiling cauldron. The pathways of the second half are now limited by my choices in the first.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Imbolc 2009

Imbolc 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Today is Imbolc, the first day of the Celtic spring.

Each year I've used that line, I've been greeted with rolling eyes and gentle laughter. "Where I live, spring is still many weeks away."

I think that is the difference between the Celts and the Christians who co-opted their festivals. The Celts saw two distinct signs of spring today. They saw the light had returned to the level it was at Samhain (All Hollow's Eve). They saw the ewes lactating, a sure sign that lambs were on the way. Their traditions survive from the cold and desolate places where they lived, Ireland, Wales, Scotland.

Theirs wasn't a Nordic cold. The Norse didn't have much use for a goddess of poetry anyway. Winter for them was a time for sharpening weapons and preparing the longboats to launch once the thaw came while the skalds inspired them with the sagas. An egalitarian people, they didn't discriminate on whose lands they raided, on whose books they liked to eat.

The Celts were more in tune with nature than our Christian ancestors. In Christianity, today is the Feast of Candlemas, the Purification of the Virgin. Where the Celts focused on the quality of light outside, I think the Christians saw only darkness, saw only another day to burn candles against the pagan night. Some see seeds, where others see only soil.

Here, a bright yellow fog of pine pollen drifts in front of the windows with every gust of wind. Soon, that wind will turn amber-brown as the oaks join their cousins' arboreal fertility rite. Brigid's flame sparks the red unfolding in the new leaves of the maples, and fans the yellow-orange embers dying in the oaks. Fallen leaves reflect the sun like so many water droplets splashed across the road, like so many tiny candles strewn across the lawn. Crepe myrtles wander naked through the landscape, their limbs barren of all but last year's empty husks.

Cardinals dot the branches, vibrant reminders of the season just begun. They disguise themselves among the hibiscus, sheltering near solitary blossoms. Orange honeysuckle lift their trumpets toward the sky, the first flowers of a coming symphony. Azalea's pop with recently forgotten colors, purples, pinks and reds.

Eagles and osprey call their mates to nest. They return to the same haunts year after year, latticeworks overlooking the rich hunting of a tidal basin, pines towering above the stone-strewn field of human dead. Soon their nests will blossom with young in ones and twos like the wildflowers dotting the lake shores their parents hunt. Young heads will cry for life to feed their insatiable hunger, their need to see a future as bright with promise as their piercing eyes.

I hope today you will turn your own eyes toward the horizon and search for the subtle omens that spring is on its way. Like the alpine flowers whose blossoms burst through snow, the signs are there for those who unchain their blinders, and choose clarity over night.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Lost

Lost -a reading (on YouTube)

Some weeks seem so full of problems, plans and appointments piled one atop another day after day that when they are all resolved, I'm uncertain what to do next. I feel like a child searching for direction, striving toward a goal that he has lost sight of or never completely understood. I'm not sure if it's the pollen, the weather, or some other internal or external factor. The feeling just envelops me like a fog until my world becomes unclear and indistinct. I feel as though I'm still waiting, stuck circling in an endless holding pattern. The runway lights are visible but I never receive clearance to land.

On days like this, it is hard not to feel completely isolated and alone. I belong to no pack, embrace no herd, have no clan to call my own. I feel like a one-man play with no supporting cast, no Greek chorus to warn me of my folly, no social safety net to catch me if I fall. Instead of exploring new or undiscovered countries, I circle back along the fringes of familiar places, uncertain whether to stay or go.

On Sunday I had an unexpected visitor. A young, gray tiger came knocking at my front door. When he saw me through the window, he immediately started crying as if I had been remiss and left him out all night. It was cold outside that morning, at least for a cat born in Florida. I thought to offer him a little food, something to warm him a bit until the sun could take over. As soon as he heard the cabinet open, his ears perked. He sat up on his hind legs when he heard kibble rattle against the ceramic bowl.

When I joined him on the front porch, he was friendly but cautious. He had obviously been around people and knew what he was missing in regular meals and a warm bed. His fur, thick, rough and a little gritty, gave him away as spending most of his time outdoors. His white socks were just an off color of gray. He had scratches along his nose from defending his territory. He was comfortable at being petted, though somewhat skittish of any sudden movement. When he turned his attention to the bowl I set before him, I could see he was an unneutered male.

He dove into the dish like a man just rescued from a deserted island. He finished every morsel, sniffing along the ground for any crumb he'd left behind. When I retreated back inside after he'd eaten and washed, he sat staring at the front door, waiting for it to reopen, waiting for an invitation to follow me inside. After several minutes of disappointment, he trotted behind the house to stalk the top of the ditch in the now bright morning sun.

I don't know his story, don't know whether he was a stray abandoned by his owner, a wildling raised around people, or simply a semi-neglected pet forced to spend his life outside. He comes around some nights and cries at the back door as if surprised to find it closed. It's heartbreaking not to be able to open it and let him in. The other two just wouldn't understand.

Many days I know how he feels. I've been outside polite company for so long that I am cautious when the opportunity presents itself. But I haven't turned completely feral. Some instinct drives me back toward the door and longs to be allowed back inside, despite my uncertainty at what I might find within. Despite my reluctance to enter lest someone raise a hand to me again.

In that way, perhaps we are both lost, caught in the twilight between a shadowed world of solitude and self-reliance, and a brighter one of constant warmth and companionship. We beg at the door, accepting any scraps laid out before us. Perhaps, if we are friendly enough or gentle enough, if we purr loudly enough, someone will accept us and let us in. Or perhaps we are merely trying to convince ourselves that inside is where we belong.

So we linger beside the door, hesitating at the threshold when it opens. Afraid that if we enter we will become trapped inside, losing our identity or our independence. Afraid that such a prison within is worse than the one we've already constructed for ourselves without.

Gripped by indecision, we wait in the fog, gray and indistinct, until the sunlight burns through to warm our spirits, and we wander off to hunt or play alone.

© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

The Gift

The Gift - a reading (on YouTube)

I believe that everyone receives a gift, a talent or a passion they enjoy far more than anything they attempt. For the luckiest, it becomes their profession. For the rest, an avocation or maybe just a dream.

For me, my words are my gift. I'm not saying they are literary or masterful; the wall of rejections behind me says the best I can hope to be is competent or adequate.

Writing is an addiction that I can't stop myself from relapsing into. Thoughts and phrases echo through my mind until I jot them down. The compositions haunt me. They possess me in ordinary moments, walking, driving, watching television, showering. They stalk me into sleep and wake me in the night.

Some messages begin with a reflection that strikes me as significant, or an encounter from my memory that I'm still trying to sort out. It's not that I think my life is unique or even particularly special; it's just the only one I have to reflect on and discuss.

Other messages ignite my imagination with a spark that burns until all its fuel is spent. I record them like a court stenographer then read them back to myself, adjusting and readjusting each word and phrase until my mind is content. Sometimes that takes hours, sometimes days.

A few I play with like a child building sandcastles out of words just to see how they might sound piled one atop of the other. In some I am trying to capture scenes of light and shadow, the beauty that pierces my eye like an ice pick on the days when colors ache and make me want to cry. They emerge in migraine-muddled complexity with strange, almost Lovecraftian references, religious and mythological, the natural symbols that form the currents of my thoughts. Capturing them is almost meditative though I'm sure few people understand their meaning. They are an expression more than a communication.

Then there are the stories, the worlds I become immersed in as I allow myself to explore them. I drown in the character's experiences like an overdose of narcotics. I know their dreams and motivations better than I know my friends. I remember their histories and can feel the events that interrupt their lives. While I'm typing, I can see the places they travel through in vivid detail. When I listen, I can hear their conversation deep inside my head.

But many days, writing is like thinking through cold molasses. A headache pounds or doubts and distractions pile up until each thought becomes an exhausting weight and all I want to do is sleep. On such days, I am lucky to stay positive, lucky to keep shambling forward in something resembling progress. On such days, I have to embrace simple pleasures like remembering to breathe. I have to remind myself that each day is its own gift, its own experience added to the stockpile we call memory with no guarantee that another one will follow.

When I was fifteen, I learned to rappel. That summer, my Boy Scout troop was camped in the mountains of North Carolina. One day, our adult leaders took us over the ridge to the top of a sheer cliff face, maybe sixty feet up.

There, instructors taught us what we needed to know step by step: how to tie our own harness, how to attach the karabiner, how to grasp the rope with one hand and loop it behind our back, how to pull it tight across one hip as a brake, how to set our feet against the rock face. All very simple and exciting to fearless adolescents. After one instructor descended to the bottom in three or four quick leaps, the other asked, "Who's next?"

Like any group of boys, we stood around and shuffled our feet. All of us wanted the opportunity, but none of us want to be the first to make a mistake or look foolish. Since I was the senior juvenile leader at the time, I figured it was my responsibility to step forward. So I did.

The instructor checked my harness and hand positions then sent me to the edge. As with any new experience, the first step was the hardest, the one where you lean backwards over empty air then push off, trusting that everything you've learned is right. After a few tentative hops away from the wall, I jumped out farther and farther, leading to longer and longer drops. All too soon I was at the bottom staring back up, wanting to scramble up the path and take another turn.

But there wouldn't be time. My example was all it took for the line to form at the top of the cliff. Now everyone wanted to try.

While I was waiting for the next of my friends to arrive, I glanced down at my harness. The extra six inches of webbing feeding into the knot had shrunk to between one half and one quarter inch. One good pull and it looked like the knot would come undone completely. In fact it did when I gave it another strong tug. My blood still freezes when I think how close I came that day to a quick, unplanned descent onto the rocky platform where I stood.

I believe that everyone receives a gift. Remember to enjoy the gift today brings, whatever it may be, however hard you have to struggle to embrace it. You never know when the knot might come untied and all your plans will change.

© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III