Filed under a need to remember, that whenever I start feeling a bit sorry for myself when a project hasn't gone to plan, to watch an episode of Restoration Home.

After a few episodes, the rhythms of it become predictable, in terms of how and when the headaches will come in. Budget, time, hard to find expertise, all these things are a constant headache. Even with all the will in the world, and where the people involved all know what's coming, inevitably they run into shortages of time and money and effort.

It's a master class in project management. And always always always a lesson that things just won't ever go to plan, no matter how much effort you put into planning.

So be it, though, because it's also always a lesson in perseverance, and the payoffs that come into to it if one's of a mind for success on your own terms.

(this is the post where my story Dancing Along A Precipice was originally published; look for it April 2020 in M. K. Dreysen - Collected Volume 2, coming soon to retailers near you.)

I'm... not gonna gripe about the day. Well, except for the bug going around the house, our daughter came home second day after the return from spring break, and sure enough she'd caught something one of the little petrie dishes brought to class. Oh frabjous day, oh joy.

And now my wife's sitting next to me on the couch, reading under a blanket, steady sinking down under the aches, the pains, the incipient fever. I know my time's a comin', I do, I just hold out for, well. A good night's sleep is always nice. Assuming the dogs and the cats will allow me that. And the sick kid and the sick wife, but they're reasonable, up to a point. There's no talking to dog or cat when the family's sick en masse. They have to cuddle and love and make sure we're all safe and sound and properly pinned down under the weight of beasties.

At least the littlest dog seemed to treat last night's settling down period with a little more decorum. Usually, when we head off for bed that's her signal to join battle, at full throat, with the orange nitwit, i.e. our ginger tabby. The two of them have their evening ritual, dog scrambling along at ankle height while the feline takes to the heights, both of them griping and the dog especially sounding off fit to make your ears bleed.

I see that they have fun with the whole thing. I'd just wish the two of them would pick a little bit quieter way to have their fun of an evening. And at bed time no less. Oy.

So far at least I'm fighting off the bug, but I don't hold out much hope for making it all the way through the weekend. One can hope. And go for chocolate, which is what's next on my agenda...

This is now the second time this question has occurred to me. What stimulates it is the paranormal tv show flickering along in the background. My wife enjoys the heck out of the ghost-hunting shows, and the occasional paranormal show as well. Me, I figure they're a good excuse to get some reading done or work on other things. Good noise, though, and they're often a lot of fun. If nothing else, the people filling the hours are having a ball.

On with the question. Stephen King has confessed his fascination with supermarket tabloids, he's said he used to get lost in them while waiting for the cashier. You know the type, 'Elvis is alive and holed up with Bigfoot in a hotel room in Cabo', that kind of thing. Any rate, what I wonder is if Stephen's moved over to the cable t.v. equivalent. Considering how long the History Channel has been broadcasting their alien shows, SyFy with their ghost shows, and now the Travel Channel with everything from true grotesques in various museums to the haunted house shows, I figure that he, and probably a lot of other writers, have the same fascination with them they had with the tabloid stuff.

Even when I'm on the road for work, stuck in a hotel room and scrolling through whatever channels are available, I tend to stay away from these sorts of shows. Entertaining as they can be, to me that's the kind of thing I enjoy with my wife, at home on the couch of a quiet evening. I usually end up hunting for things I otherwise wouldn't get a chance to watch, like food competition shows. I keep waiting for a good food fight to break out.

For all your driving through the smoke plume caused by a tank farm fire needs, may I suggest John Coltrane as your soundtrack to the day?

After you figure out how to make sure your vents stay on recirculate when you push the farging button, of course...

No particular news today, I'm consumed with the elements of bookkeeping peculiar to writing. Keeping track of directories, what went where, did I use that title already? (ahem. => Many Odd Little Steps and Many Odd Steps differ *formally*, true, but that's a complete accident, I'll admit it. Of course, I have started to wonder whether my sleeping mind is trying to tell me something... Ok, watch this space but I don't promise anything in the immediate future.)

My slate's ramping up for the next few months, that's for sure. I've a fair few stories to send out on the wind. I knew that would end up being the case, as fall is given over to our daughter's marching band adventures. I kept up a good pace, I hoped, in terms of writing, it was the publishing and submitting part that I had to let backburner for a while. The good thing is that means I'll probably be caught up. Right about the start of the next marching season, of course.

And our mockingbird is back. Sure, this is an assumption, but either way, every year we end up with a mockingbird staking out our house for his shenanigans.

This year our world is dominated by a portly gentleman of the world. His tail's longer by far than those of his neighbors, this loud crew moving in to claim our neighborhood.

One of my favorite things about the little boogers is their call practice. He'll sit on the peak or a handy vent pipe, and work through his repertoire. A whistle, a croak, a grinding little whisper, each in turn as he warms up to the day's gig.

The reason I believe it's the same one for the past few years running is that he's got a very particular whistle that is guaranteed to set our nervous nelly of a lab off. He'll make his way along the bits of song, and then he'll whistle that particular call. She'll go mad barking for a few minutes, settle down to listen to him.

And then he'll do it again.

I don't think he pays all that much attention to her and her outrage; mostly he's worried about the other mockingbirds, and the hawks. But when all else fails, when there are no other interesting games to play...

He can always get a little noise going by playing his whistle and setting the dog aloud.

writer's follies: this may change tomorrow, but at least for today the most bloody-minded thing I can do isn't murdering my darlings, or taxes.

It's organizing my stories in such a way I can think about slating. Ugh, reminder to self: try not to let this get so far out ahead of you next time.

Oh, and to any future archivists, I apologize in advance. And may the gods help any actual trained librarian that gets ahold of this. My only defense being that I'm at least attempting to think in terms of database querying, in which case my mind works as it does and can do no other.

Maybe it's just me, but this death of the ego thing is a funny business, isn't it?

Probably as much a function of what I do in the day gig. Working in science/engineering long enough is akin to hanging a giant "Kick Me" sign in the yard and waiting for the universe to take a lick. In my experience, if you're not wrong on occasion, it's because you're working on the easy stuff.

It has its benefits; saying "I've got this thing figured out" is the warning sign, from what I've seen. Most often, sure, you've dug a little farther, made that one crucial next step that opens up new worlds. And then... and then you say "Self, what happens if I do this?"

Or the experiment answers "Ask again later", or "Orange" when you wanted to hear "23". It happens. Pick it up and run on down the road a ways and see what comes next.

Probably after a little time hang-dogging it, because let's face it, getting your nose rubbed in the stuff again is never a pleasant experience. Even if you'd done good work since last time.

Death of the ego may not be the only path to the Buddha nature. But that's the branch of the family tree I most associate it with, just from my particular sequence of early reading. Oh, there's the other branches for sure, the Abrahamic traditions have stories, practices. Go thou into the wilderness and wander, child. Chase Coyote and tell us what he shows you, but don't get too close.

As opposed to the golden children; hang out in any field long enough and they show up. The easy path they seek, as a certain little green dude might have said.

I remind myself that the vast majority of any field of endeavor toils in silence, apurpose absented from spotlights and chattering observers.

So I had an interesting post all fixed up in my mind. This thing was going to be fantastic, I had literary intentions I did. Links to ideas, constructions of little trails from Irving and Poe to Morrison, with a few stops in between for the penny dreadfuls and EC comics.

It was great.

It was dull as dishwater, and useless as a rooster with socks.

Instead, let's talk Tina.

Then again, about all I can really say about Tina Turner is that I love the lady. Which, so far as I can tell, is pretty close to the universal reaction. That said, there are two stories of her that I like especially.

The first one comes from an interview Tina did with Oprah some years back. The whole thing interesting of course, but the bit I remember was Tina bringing up Sheryl Crow's song "All I Wanna Do" from "Tuesday Night Music Club". What I recall is Tina saying that she absolutely loved that song, and that she wished she'd recorded it.

What sticks out to me was Tina's love for song, not just that particular song. Here she was, a Legend in the most significant sense, and the joy on her face talking of a new song... fired up and ready to roll.

My second story of Tina comes from my mother. Mom saw Tina in the Ike and Tina Turner Revue days, at the local civic center. Mom said this was one of those shows, the big ones that stick in the mind long after all the others; one of the good ones.

And the bit that stuck out more, even with all the fantastic music: they opened the show with "Proud Mary", Ike doing his bass line intro and Tina nowhere to be seen. Then she starts her intro, and still, no Tina to be seen. Then, the spotlight fires up.

Pointing to the back of the hall, where Tina is held aloft by four... Tina set her intro to the four carrying her down the aisle, spotlight focus and the entire hall very much enraptured. "And we never, ever do anything.... nice," and the two guys in front knelt, and the four used the fur they'd carried her on to lift and throw, and Tina leapt into the transition, the part we all know as the horns and the singers and the world lit afire and the show went all the way to the river...