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Writer’s Log: 1883 Fog

I found a bunch of poems and songs I’d written decades ago. I’ll post these here over a few days/weeks.


Where the sea meets the sand
 humidity finds
its invisible status
 has left it behind.

A chilling night air
 bumps head to head
with a moist ocean breeze
 and between them they shed
a mist.

A rolling white specter
 so think it’s been dubbed
with an untouchable texture
 an ethereal rub.

Fog is its title
 confusion its wake,
leaving all standing idle
 while the sun works to make
a fist…

To punch through this blanket
 to tear it to shreds,
but remorse moves to thank it
 for fog’s presence led…

Us to ponder our lives
 and their continual rush
to question our pace
 to instill a hush…

As fog’s dearest treasure
 is silence and calm,
a noiseless deep pleasure
 which soothes as a balm
our souls.


Old dog: New tricks

I’ve had to take a “real” work-a-day job.

Up at 7 am. There by 8 am. Home by 5:30 pm.

Sitting (and standing) in a CUBE FARM, ALL-DAY-LONG.


So, I’ll be wiped for the foreseeable future.

I’ll be learning Microsoft Dynamic AX & X++ for an S&P500 company — maybe it will delay my Alzheimers for a couple of years.


Adolescent squirrels are spastic

That big Douglas Fir tree there was covered with cones. Two or three Energizer squirrels, young ones with apparently nothing better to do, cut down every cone they could reach. The cones littered the lawn and the mower does not care for them. So I had to collect them. Here you see three bins filled and then dumped back into a pile in the woods/park behind us. These were the cones found only in the yard. The balance the little devils had squirreled away in whatever nook and cranny they could find.

What’s curious is it’s only the young squirrels that do this. The adults? They know there’s nearly zero nutritional value in a fir cone. Within the cones exist tiny seeds the size of sesame seeds, attached to wings that flutter out once the cones have dried to brittle.

But, since they think there’s value in them, I decided not to pitch them. If they get desperate then they’ll find the hundreds I dumped in a pile.


What would you say to Hemingway?

If I could someday write like Hemingway, Steinbeck, or London, I’d die content.

Dave Cline - lost and found

What would you say to Hemingway?

The Idaho sun is, just now, rising above the treetops. The Sun Valley home you find yourself within smells of Hoppe’s, old leather, whiskey and sweat. He’s there, sitting in a stiff backed chair behind a desk. You’ve plopped yourself into a leather stuffed monster that nearly swallows you whole.

“Papa,” you say, “your stories are not — have never been — real.”

“Of course they were real.” The man slurs his words, from age or alcohol, it’s hard to tell which. His bearded face scowls at your assumption.

“I mean, to readers. To readers, they were always imaginings. They shut the book and their own lives came back into view.”

“Your point?”

“You could go on telling stories that even you, yourself, knew to be ensconced fully in the realm of imagination.”

The old man cleaned his teeth with his tongue. His jaw…

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I’ve got a glass eye

Fiction: knowledge kills it

I spend some time over on Scrib-O-defile (which is a pretty good collaborative community for getting your writing critiqued — among other things. The moderators are draconian and the owner is an enigma. Anyway…)

I batted around the concept of what irked me (or anyone) about Science Fiction tropes.

I happened upon a thought, my own, that pretty much boils down to: “the more you know, the less fiction is plausibly possible.”

My offering over there:

“Truth stranger than fiction” certainly comes to mind when it comes to Sci-Fi.

I’ve read a barrel full of Sci-Fi in my days. The stuff that was utterly outside the realm of reality — I loved that. But lately, as I realize the fallacy of “aliens” I’ve become more of a “probable” Sci-Fi kind of guy. What is the “probable” future of science and discovery?

Frankly, I lament my Sci-Fi youth. The 60’s – the 90’s were the “if you can imagine it, we can write it into a story,” period. Card, Foster, Farmer, Asimov, Laumer, Dick, and dozens of others filled my mind with fantastical beings and worlds.

Today? Bah! Starwars is just so much crap science and lame plots now. StarTrek? I enjoy the hell out of Chris Pine, but the reality of it? Ugh! Probabilistic bogosity.

It seems that the more we know, the less fiction can soar beyond our minds. Imagine once we know 1000 x’s what we know today (in about 20 years)? What “fiction” could we possibly entertain that didn’t feel completely false and contrived?

A poor wizard?

How is it possible that the Weasleys in the Harry Potter universe — are poor?

Most likely, Rowling didn’t pay enough attention to cogent world building. She told a great (7 great) stories, and that’s was enough.

Specifically for the Weasleys, of course they wouldn’t want to be poor, or seen as being poor (“Let me guess, hand-me-down robes… you must be a Weasley!”)

A true, cogent Potterverse would not support such income disparity — magic would cure this for everyone. And specifically for the Weasleys, as clever as they are (all of them, in fact), they would have figured out how to grow their wealth.

But Jeanne needed a poor, put-upon family, so, there you have it.

I’d say that Potter magic, above all magics in fiction, would be the least likely to harbor poverty, however one measures it. It’s just too easy to use magic, in some way, to better one’s life-style.