Happy Halloween!

Tonight, we eat candy, and tomorrow, we begin writing American Science!

Off we go-a Trick-or-Treating!

In Memory of Lou Reed

Jenny said when she was just about five years old 

You know, my parents are gonna be the death of us all

Two TV sets and two Cadillac cars --

Well, you know, it ain't gonna help me at all

Then one fine mornin' she tuns on a New York station

She doesn't believe what she hears at all

She started dancin' to that fine fine music

You know her life was saved by Rock & Roll

Expect the Unexpected

When I was in school I was convinced that I wasn't going to need any math or science because I was going to be a writer. The only subjects that interested me and were therefore of any practical use to me were English, history, humanities, art, and maybe speech or psychology. Science and math were for the birds. Who needed em? I was really bad at them too, so it stood to reason that my lack of aptitude meant that that a STEM career just wasn't in the cards for me. I went round and round with teachers trying to get the to explain to me when I was ever going to need the things they were trying to teach me "in the real world." I was certain that the answer was "never."

Also, this was 100% not a thing. (Source)

Oh, how wrong I was. As much as I disliked science and math as a student I find myself enthralled by it now. I don't know when or how it happened, but one day I found myself looking at science like it was magic that came from Narnia itself - especially chemistry, a subject that I was particularly bad at. I'm also quite fond, as you may have guessed, of nuclear physics, entomology, and quantum theory. I like writing about these things. The problem lies in the fact that since I was such a lousy student I end up having to teach myself about these subjects all over again, just so that I can write about them convincingly. And every time this happens I curse my younger self.

Sound advice.

If only I'd studied harder as a young person. If only I hadn't been so arrogant and full of myself. If only I had learned these things for the sake of learning rather than for practical reasons; then I wouldn't find myself in this mess. The writing would just flow out of me and I wouldn't have to hold up the process to figure out just what exactly critical mass is anyway. That's not the case though. Here I am, 30 years old, and giving myself a crash course in chemistry and nuclear physics. The truth is you never know what you're going to need to know, or even want to know when you get out into the real world. I never thought that I would ever need to know what a mole was once I finished high school. Joke's on me, brother.

Dominoes

Last night j^C, That Sprout, and I went to the Halloween party at the office at the apartment complex. There was a Chinese woman there whom I wound up talking to for a little bit. Jake ended up talking to her more than I did because they could talk in Chinese. On the way home from the party I asked Jake what they had talked about and if her husband was in the Army. He said. "No, he does something with atomic energy."

Say what?

I didn't think much more about this until this morning when I googled "Augusta Atomic Energy" and found out about the Savannah River Site nuclear reservation in Aiken, SC. I have a stockpile of plutonium and depleted uranium in my back yard and no one told me about it. This would be no big thing if I had known about it before I started the whole "American Science" thing, but finding out about it now feels a little uncanny. And my neighbor is a nuclear engineer? It's like dominoes falling.

Nice place for a picnic, right? (Source)

So, I did a little research on the place and I found that they have a Citizen's Advisory Board. I thought "I used to be on a board. (It was actually a commission, but whatever.) I should put in an application. Maybe it'll be useful to writing." So, I called the number that was listed on the website and asked a few questions.

At first the man on the phone told me that they weren't taking any new board members until 2018, but then he found out that I was under 65, a military spouse, and a resident of Columbia County and suddenly there was about to be an opening and I needed to submit my application as soon as possible. So, I did. Now, I wait. And I wonder, is my participation on the board in order to learn more about nuclear things to write about (i.e. research) a conflict of interest? I suppose if I find myself on the board I'll just have to ask.

In the meantime, I'm still counting down the days until I can start my novel and waiting patiently for it to be December when I can tour the Savannah River Site. That's right, they do tours and I'm taking one. I'll have to figure out how I'm going to get That Sprout picked up from school on time that day, but that should be the only thing standing between me and the inner sanctum.

Don't judge me. (Source)

There's a part of me that's wondering why I'm doing all this. There's another part of me that feels like I'm just doing what I'm being led to do. The dominoes all seem to fall to this. Then, there's a third part of me that feels like it's some sort of candle I'm burning; some grande gesture I'm making - some attempt to know someone I know I'll never know. Deep down I know this answer has the most truth to it and I wonder what it is about this man that has me so possessed.

Why is it that the other boy geniuses who built reactors don't elicit nearly the same response from me? Is it because Duran Duran wrote a song about him? Is it his youthful exuberance? His reckless abandon? Is it the fact that he tried or the fact that he failed that captures my imagination? What is it about this story that captivates me?

My heart is too unstable. (Source)

A Brief History Lesson

I have so much that I want to talk about, but it's all best kept under my hat for now. So instead . . .

I give you:

A BRIEF HISTORY LESSON!

On this day in 1966 the world gained The Velvet Underground's seminal debut album The Velvet Underground and Nico.

Proof of Lou Reed's genius. As if you needed one. (Source)

On this day in 1984 the world lost Edith Massey, AKA The Egg Lady.

Miss Edie, The Egg Lady (Source)

On this day in 2006 the world gained My Chemical Romance's album The Black Parade.

Will you be the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned? (Source)

I can't believe it's been 10 years since The Black Parade came out. I can't believe it's been 50 years since The Velvet Underground and Nico either. Yet, somehow I can believe Edith Massey has been gone for 32 years. I guess music is timeless.

I haven't got a whole lot to say right now, but I've been trying to keep up with the blog leading up to NaNoWriMo. I don't know why really. I'm beginning to question whether or not I'll even post the thing on here at all. It seems like a foolhardy venture at this juncture.

I'm still waiting for my piece in Post Road Magazine to come out. Any day now. I wait with bated breath. They said it would be late October. Well, this is October and it's getting late. I'm getting anxious. I want to see my piece in black and white. I'm ready.

That's about all I have for today. Maybe I'll have something more compelling tomorrow.

Halloween Wreath

I feel like I forgot to show you all my Halloween Wreath, so here it is since I feel like garbage and I can't think of anything to write tonight. I drove back from Pensacola today and that's about it, other than hacking up a lung. There is something else that I'd like to talk about that happened tonight, but I don't think that it's my place to talk about that right now. Maybe later.

Kitty!

 Seriously, though. This is a pretty nice wreath.

Another angle, kitty!

Touchdowns and Meltdowns

Today was UWF's Homecoming Football Game against Shorter University.

Let;s Go, Argos!

It was a slaughter. We beat them 30-0. It was sad, really. I had fun though. My face is as red as a lobster, but I had fun. I wish I could say that I forgot about The Boy Scout for a little while, but that would be a lie. I'm in full on writing mode right now and I spent most of the game, and if fact most of the day thinking about my story and trying to work out plot points. That's not to say that I wasn't present. I was. Sort of. I can be in two places at once, right?

After the game, Shelley and I went to McGuire's for a late lunch and I had an Irish Wake. I hadn't had one of those in years and if I'm being honest, that was about all I was interested in having. I ordered a Ruben and some bean soup, but none of that was interesting to me. I was all about the Irish Wake. It made me feel a little better considering that I am hacking up a lunch at the moment. I seem to have caught a cough from That Sprout. I'm not real thrilled about this development as NaNoWriMo comes bearing down on me, but what am I going to do? It is what it is.

After McGuire's Shelley and I came back to the hotel. She's been taking a nap and I've been doing some research for the novel. I decided that my character needed to steal some uranium 235 from the military (NAS Jax?), but that won't do because the only Naval things that are nuclear are aircraft carriers. Back to the drawing board on that one. However, I did discover that breeder reactors, the type that The Boy Scout was trying to make, are prone to exploding. This is useful, since I wanted to make a boom. The question now becomes "How big is the boom?"

I also need to think of some other reckless things for my character to do in the meantime, I need minor plot points. One thing that I really want to work in, and I don't know why - is the way that it feels the first time a girl touches a boy in a button front shirt and tie. Also, chloroform, because Mr. Hahn definitely made chloroform. It might be useful in his procuring the uranium.

Meanwhile, I am very tired and I am tired of coughing. I miss j^C, That Sprout, and The Beans. I will be very glad to be home tomorrow as much as I miss Pensacola and I was glad to be here this weekend. It's just not the same without them. I will be very happy to be back in Augusta with my little family, despite the fact that I hate Augusta. A lot. Like, so much.

The Duality of "Playing with Uranium"

As I continue to grieve Mr. Hahn I have begun to think about my own personal fascination with the element uranium. Regular blog readers will know that I have dubbed myself UraniumJ here on the blog. This is indirectly a result of Mr. Hahn's garden shed reactor. It is directly a result of Duran Duran's song "Playing with Uranium" which was inspired by Mr. Hahn and his garden shed reactor. This is my second favorite song by Duran Duran (my #1 favorite is and always will be "Ordinary World"). When I decided to get a Duran Duran tattoo, it was of a uranium symbol because of the song.

My tattoo.

For many years I thought the song was nothing more than a very clever metaphor dreamed up by Simon LeBon. It wasn't until fairly recently - within the past four years I would say - that I discovered the origins of the song were rooted in fact. When I was a Deep Fellow I wanted to use the song as an example of metaphor, so I began researching it and I found out that it wasn't a metaphor at all. This was when I first learned of David Hahn. I didn't give him or his story very much thought at the time. I was mostly disappointed by the fact that this great metaphor was in fact literal.

Still, the element Uranium remained fascinating. I had also begun collecting Vaseline glass, a subset of depression glass that was manufactured with uranium to produce a vibrant green color that glows under a black light. I thought about buying a sample of Uranium on Amazon - sealed in lead of course. I always picked locked number 92 at the gym because that was Uranium's atomic number. At the time, I thought all of this was just an homage to Duran Duran, but I think now that there was more to it than that.

My Jeanette cake plate. My pride and joy. (Source)

Like the god Shiva, uranium has a dualistic nature - it is the creator and the destroyer. I wouldn't go so far as to say that it is a god of the modern age, but maybe you could. Uranium - and any radioactive element for that matter has the ability to create vast amounts of energy for the greater good, as in nuclear power plants; energy that is mostly clean and safe with the capacity to power thousands, even millions of homes for infinitely longer than smog producing coal. With Taylor Wilson's plans for nuclear fission reactors we could possibly create clean nuclear energy from nuclear waste itself. This is the very definition of creation.

But Uranium, and all radioactive elements have the power to destroy - and destroy they do. Most if not all of the pioneers of nuclear research died horrible and gruesome deaths from radiation exposure. The Radium Girls, who painted watch faces with Radium paint were so irradiated when they died that 60 years later their graves still set Geiger counters off. The doctors who pioneered the use of X-rays lost limbs to cancers or died in the early days of the technology. And let's not forget about the accidents that can happen when creating nuclear energy, such as were experienced in Chernobyl and Three Mile Island. All that creation does sometime come at a price.

 Then there was the Manhattan Project and everything that came after. It takes a grapefruit sized amount of Uranium 235 weighing 118 pounds to build a nuclear bomb. It only takes a golfball sized amount of Plutonium weighing 24 pounds (which is created from Uranium 238) to achieve the same thing. According to the United Nations, one nuclear bomb exploded in one major city could kill hundreds of thousands of people. We know this to be true as we are the only nation on the planet to have used an atomic bomb against another nation. With Uranium and the advent of The Bomb, we are become Death.

"Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds." J. Robert Oppenheimer (Source)

And so perhaps, this is the fascination of "Playing with Uranium" for me - of the song, and the element itself. There is a duality to it, a creation aspect and the possibility for destruction. With the song, the metaphor still exists and there is the chance that when one is "Playing with Uranium" one might "reinvent the human race" and create something wonderful - a relationship perhaps? Or "it" could "blow up in [one's] face" leaving one to pick up the pieces of the broken relationship "on the other side." It works on two levels.

Then, of course, there remains the fact that the song is in fact about David Hahn, whom I am still mourning and whom I am planning on writing a book based on. He too embodies this dualism. He was so enraptured by the good that atomic energy could do for the world that he was blind to the harm it could do to him, his environment, his relationships, and potentially his entire community. He was himself the god of creation and destruction, and I think if I am to write anything poignant, this must be my theme. I only hope that I am able to do him justice and honor his memory in what I create. We will all do well to remember that this is a character inspired by David Hahn. This character is not actaully David Hahn. I only wish that he were here to give final approval of whatever I come up with.

Shiva dances in the flames to kill the demon and recreate the world. (Source)

The Boy Scout Had a Name

I don't even know how to begin this.

I wrote the day before yesterday about writing a letter to The Boy Scout. I didn't want to mention his name because I didn't want to call undue attention to him. He was a minor celebrity at one point in time and there was a book written about him. I figured if I had any hope of him writing me back that I had better keep a low profile. I also tend to give everyone I mention on this blog an alias in order to preserve their anonymity. I feel like it's the ethical thing to do, especially if the people I write about didn't ask to be written about.

The Boy Scout's name is David Hahn. Otherwise known as "The Radioactive Boy Scout," David Hahn built a nuclear reactor in his mother's garden shed when he was 17. This incredible story was covered by Ken Silverstein for Harper's Magazine in 1998 which was later turned into a book of the same name in 2004. Something of a chemistry prodigy, David Hahn fascinated me from the moment I learned of him. His story not only inspired Ken Silverstein, it also inspired Duran Duran's song "Playing with Uranium," one of my personal favorites. I've been researching his life and work in earnest since September 25th of this year in preparation of NaNoWriMo so you can imagine my excitement at getting in contact with the man himself.

The book that made David Hahn a minor celebrity.

I found out last night that David Hahn died 3 days after my NaNoWriMo idea was conceived. I spent an hour and a half crying over his death after I found out. I went through all sorts of emotions - namely guilt and sadness. I'm sure there's nothing I could have done to have saved him, but there's always that chance that if only I'd had my idea sooner - if only I'd reached out sooner. I don't know how he died, for all I know he was hit by a bus so this train of thought makes not rational sense, but this is how my brain works. It's a very narcissistic way of thinking and I know it.

More realistically I'm just very, very sad. I meant what I said the other day about wanting a connection. I feel this strange sense of loss for something I never had. I've invested myself quite a bit in this man as I've been researching his life for NaNoWriMo and I feel like I knew him. I feel a kinship to him that I don't know how to explain. There's something of a sameness between us, I believe, only now I'll never know for sure. I'll never know if we could have been friends, and for better or worse, I'll never know what he would have thought of my NaNoWriMo.

Aside from these selfish reasons for sadness, I'm sad because David Hahn seemed to have led a very lonely and sad life. I don't know a whole lot about his life after 2004, but what I do know seems rather bleak. He was a very talented person with the potential to do great and wonderful things, but the circumstances of his life hindered him in the pursuit of his dreams. He was an unlikely genius - a mad scientist perhaps - but a kind and gentle one with only the best of intentions. Though foolhardy and reckless, he achieved things as teenager in his back yard that college educated scientists in laboratories slave over for years. He was a diamond in the rough.

I don't know how he left this world, but I am sad that he had to leave it so soon. His birthday would have been next Sunday; he would have been 40 years old. All I can do now is promise to do my best to honor and respect his memory as move forward with my NaNoWriMo project and hope that I succeed in my endeavor. The first step of that is completing NaNoWriMo, which starts in 11 days. I can't let him down. This is about more than Duran Duran now.

I can't find a photo of Mr. Hahn that doesn't have some sort of proprietary restrictions so instead, here's a picture of the Atomic Energy merit badge he earned as a Boy Scout. This began his journey of atomic exploration and I like to think he continued to be very proud of it.

Criminal

I forgot to mention yesterday that I've been breaking the law.

And not in the manner of Judas Rockin' Priest, either. (Source)

Yes, I have become a hardened criminal. I know not right from wrong. I am beyond redemption. Incarceration or annihilation are the only options for a criminal such as I.

What have I been doing you ask?

Apparently, this road that I go down on the way home from picking That Sprout up from school is closed from 3:15 to 4:15 Monday through Friday. Because the children. Okay, fine, whatever. There was a sign. I never saw the sign, but I was wrong and I shouldn't have been using the road during that time. Got it. The residents of this idyllic little street flagged me down and let me know of my error and all was resolved.

Oh wait. No. That didn't happen. That's right. It was the crossing guard who did it because that's his job. To keep the kids safe and to inform ignorant motorists such as myself of the traffic laws.

Wait. No. That didn't happen either . . .

Oh yeah, now I remember what happened!

Someone called the cops on me.

Ekk! It's the fuzz! (Source)

So there I was, going about my usual afternoon routine of taking this street to get home when who should I find laying in wait for me but a Sheriff's Deputy. I wasn't sure at that point what the deal was, so I waited for him to approach the car. It was at that point that he told me that the road was closed during that time and it dawned on me what happened.

"So they called the cops on me?"

"Well, it wasn't necessarily you, ma'am."

Sure it was, because I just moved here and I'm the only driver to ignorant to know that the stupid road is closed.

And here I thought Molly-Gator was the only criminal in the family.

Now, I'm not mad at the cop. He was nice and he was just doing his job. I'm mad at all those people who I saw standing out in the street who never bothered to try and tell me I was doing something wrong and then called the cops on me. And the crossing guard! Oh, the crossing guard! There was one morning when I was sitting in my car next to that guy for like five minutes because the traffic was so heavy and he never once offered to get out of his cozy little truck, tap on my window, and politely say, "Excuse me madam, I'm not sure if you're aware, but this road is closed during this time for the safety of the children walking over to the school." And I would have gasped and said "My lands! I had no idea! I'm so sorry, you won't see me here again." And that would have been that.

"Who, me?"

But confrontation is hard and scary when everyone you encounter could potentially be packing heat, so it was easier just to call the heat on me I suppose. What a bunch of cowards. And they all had Trump/Pence signs in their yards. They lack the courage of their convictions. As for me, my only regret is the choice words I uttered within hearing distance of my child as I carefully backed my car all the way back up the street since I dared not try and turn around in one of these fine Christians' yards. When I got to the end of the street, I finally saw the sign, and yes it was there, but it wasn't the most obvious sign I ever saw, and coming from the direction I was coming from, it wasn't like I was going to see it unless I was looking for it. I was positioned so that you'd really only notice it if you were looking at it head on.

No matter. Today I went on a quest to find a new way to get home after school and avoid turning left. I wound up getting lost in there, I never found the right hand turn I was looking for, and every house I saw seemed to have a Trump/Pence sign prominently displayed on the lawn. I've never seen such horrifying Halloween decorations. There's a part of me that really doesn't want that take That Sprout trick-or-treating because I don't want to see just how many of these houses there are. But I'll go and maybe this will be the first Halloween in many years where I'm actually afraid.

Searching

My 11th grade English teacher says she remembers me as "always searching." Ha! If she only knew. It started again on Friday night with The Boy Scout. I don't know why. I decided that I just had to let him know that my NaNoWriMo was inspired by him and come hell or high water I was going to find his address. It didn't take me long, maybe twenty minutes of searching. I can find just about anything that I set my mind to. You just have to know where and how to look. If it can be found, I can find it. The rest of my evening was spent writing Him a letter. I even sought out the envelope and stamp. It was signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered before I ever went to bed. This should have been my first indication that something was wrong.

Signed, sealed, delivered! I'm . . . yours?

Saturday afternoon I mailed the letter with the approval of Mojo Jojo. The rest of the weekend was spent with family, but by Monday afternoon I began having "sender's remorse." So, what did I do? I went home and started googling an old rock star acquaintance. It began as "Hey, I wonder if his band is touring, I sure would like to see them." Then it became, "I wonder if he remembers me. We used to joke that we were cousins." Soon it was "Hey, wouldn't it be awesome if I wrote something about him? But what's my angle?" At this point, I still had a noble and admirable goal: creating legitimate work for myself in the hope of getting published. It was when I started thinking about the angle that things went awry. "What if I could prove we were related? That would make an interesting essay."

It's merely 24 hours later and I have made an Underwood Family Tree more intricate than any I have seen up to this point, all in the hope of proving that my old friend Ron and I are related. We share a last name after all. It's possible. Highly unlikely, but possible. 

Cousins?

"Why the hell am I doing this?" is the question I find myself asking as I realize that I have spent every spare moment on this project since last night. "What am I searching for?" The question is, what am I ever searching for? This isn't the first time something like this has happened, and odds are, it won't be the last. I've spent hours upon hours and even days at a time looking for long lost friends, ex-boyfriends, military records, celebrity phone numbers, and arbitrary historical facts. I search for things and I find them. It's what I do; but it's never enough. At the moment, I'm looking for a connection between Ron and myself - but then what? I'll start looking for some sort of meaning in that connection. I'll start wondering what we have in common. Is there some essential sameness that we share? Who are my people? What are they like? 

My father's mother. I wonder if she was a searcher to.

Since my dad died when I was 12 I've never really known anyone else who shared his blood. Save for some notable exceptions, I haven't felt much kinship with my mother's side of the family either. I often have this feeling of being un-tethered and adrift in the world and while it's liberating in many ways, in others it's quite unpleasant. So, what if Ron isn't related to me? Then what? Maybe that's not so bad either - if we were to find that sameness were still there. The same goes for The Boy Scout, All I'm really looking for is some semblance of sameness between us that we might be two balloons that drift together for a bit before popping. This is what I crave the most - connection to a soul who speaks the same language I do. They are so rare and hard to find that when I think I have seen that spark in someone I can't help feeling optimistic. 

Of course, there's always the chance that I'm manic right now and that instead of merely searching for connection in an uncaring world I'm simply making trouble because I'm geared fer't. I can't help thinking that I haven't done anything destructive though. I've been creative. I've been writing. I've been making a family tree. I've been making CDs. I've been volunteering. (Yeah, I totally volunteered at That Sprout's school twice already this week, and I've got another 2 hours ahead of me tomorrow.) I might be manic, but if I am, I'm putting the energy to good use. Better that I should be searching for meaningful connections when my meds stop working than carnal ones. 

"Meaning is not found in things but in between them." Norman O Brown
For what it's worth, my Uncle Lavern had a son named Ron. Could be related to my Ron.

I bet you're wondering what it is about these two that fascinate me so much and make me crave some kind of a connection, aren't you? Well, with The Boy Scout, it's the NaNoWriMo thing. I think we could jive on an intellectual level and talk about things that I can't talk about with anyone else. I crave stimulating conversations and Mojo Jojo and j^C can only be put upon so much. They do have lives and I get lonely and bored. I need mental stimulation. As to Ron, that really does have to do with a craving for family. I really do hope we are related. He's a really nice guy and it would be nice to find that I'm related to someone that is close to my age and who has similar thoughts and interests as me. Like I said, I don't have any family on my dad's side, so it would be really neat to acquire a cousin, and I think it would make for a very interesting story. That being said, I would like to add that I love and cherish the family I already have, namely j^C, That Sprout, Mojo Jojo, Captain Tesla, Merlisser, and the family I share blood with whom I don't have cute blog names for. You are all wonderful. :-D

NaNoWriMo Approacheth

This is the face of a writer on a mission.

I went to the library today to renew some books I had checked out and I thought to inquire as to whether or not they would be holding any events for NaNoWriMo. Evidently, they will not. All of the events for NaNoWriMo will be held at the Headquarters Library in Augusta. Call me lazy, but I don't really feel like schlepping all the way to Augusta for some Write-In at the library. Of course, I know that I should because this is how I'm going to meet people and get involved in the community, but there's a part of me that's thinking "Why can't I just be the Evans/Martinez Municipal Liason and hold Write-Ins at the library here?" I can't do that because I already have too much on my plate right now and once I add writing a novel to all that there's just not going to be time for me to be a Municipal Liason as well. I did it once, and while I wasn't bad at it, I don't think I'm up for it again at the moment. Maybe someday, but not today, Cobblepot. Not today.

Tonight I made my NaNoWriMo Playlist. This proved to be quite an arduous process, for you see I was working from CDs and some of them were unlabeled mixed CDs. Some of them were in my car. Most of them were in these huge CD wallets that hold hundreds of CDs that I had to painstakingly look through to find what I was looking for. Then, there were 5 CDs that I just couldn't find, so I had to download those songs. This process wound up taking several hours, but when it was all said and done I had a playlist I was happy with. At least, I think I'm happy with it. I'm going to listen to it for a while and see if I need to make any adjustments to it before NaNoWriMo begins. At the moment I feel like last year's playlist was stronger, but maybe that's just nostalgia. On the bright side, I just found out that the NaNoWriMo CD Swap is happening again this year so I am super prepared for that. All I have to do is burn my CDs and mail them out as soon as I get the addresses. In fact, I can be super efficient and burn them now and have them in the envelopes so that all I have to do is address them when the time comes. I'm not playing this year.

I've been working on my plot for about a month now as well. The idea came to me on my way to Valdosta for a UWF footbal game. Since I'll be driving to Pensacola on Friday for Homecoming, maybe I'll have time to think up some major plot points. I've also got some major character decisions to make, but as it stands, I have several pages of notes to work with, which is a lot more than I usually start with. As such, I think the benefits I reap this year will be many. I can "begin with the end in mind" as they say. I'm really excited about my idea. I think it's going to be a lot of fun to write and I think that I'm going to be able to make some really big points with it. You know, those "thinky" sorts of things that I'm so fond of. My only concerns are that my plot is cliche and/or unbelievable I suppose that's something that can be worked out in post though. As last year, I will be posting here daily to let you all see my progress. All two of you.

I've Seen the Future, Brother. It Is Murder.

When they said "Repent" I wonder what the meant?

There is a car that is parked right outside my bedroom window. All night long it does that thing where it kind of beeps as though someone were locking it with the key-less lock. It does this every few minutes or so through out the night, waking me up. If I go down, it'll be for finding the owner of that car and strangling them.

An Open Letter to All the Self Righteous, Pretentious Academics Lamenting Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize Win

This is what a writer looks like. Just so you know. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes.

Dear Voices Crying Out on The Web,

When I awoke to the news that Bob Dylan had won the Nobel Prize on Friday morning, I was overjoyed. “Finally,” I thought “lyrics will finally take their rightful place in the literary canon.” You can therefore imagine my horror and disgust when I saw not only Anna North’s New York Times article, “Why Bob Dylan Shouldn’t Have Gotten a Nobel” but also Hanson O’Haver’s piece in Vice,” Why Bob Dylan Doesn’t Need a Nobel Prize.” If the content of these articles were questioning the value of his work, I might feel that they had a leg to stand on. That however, is not the case. I came to find that these were just two of many articles refuting Dylan's Nobel Prize and all arguments hinge on the fact that Dylan is a musician and lyricist and therefore cannot be a writer in earnest. The academic world is up in arms at the fact that a *musician* had won the Nobel Prize. The Nobel Prize in Literature should have gone to a legitimate literary figure they say.

This is nonsense. Bob Dylan is as much a literary figure as Chaucer or Shakespeare, or Billy Collins or Natasha Tretheway. The fact that he is a lyricist only adds to his legitimacy as a literary figure. Historically, storytellers were not wrditers. They were not literary figures. They were poets. They were singers. They were lyricist who sang the songs of great warriors and of battles waged long ago. Beowulf? It’s a poem, sure, but guess what? The scop sung it to the thanes and the Leige in the Meade Hall.

Consider the story of Caedmon as told by the Venerable Bede. Caedmon was a simple cowhand who sadly couldn’t carry a tune. This could be interpreted as he wasn’t a very good storyteller. This embarrassed him so much that one evening when the harp was being passed around the table after supper and songs of heroes were being sung that he ran out of the mead hall and into the barn in shame when it was his turn. Later, lo and behold! A man appeared to him in a dream and asked him to sing. Caedmon sadly replied that he could not sing. The man said “Try,” and Caedmon started singing a beautiful hymn that became known as Caedmon’s hymn — a song meant to be sung aloud which was only later recorded by Bede.

Most of early Anglo Saxon Literature, and World Literature for that matter was oral and it was lyrical. It was music. To dismiss Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize in Literature is nothing short of pure ignorance of the origins of literature itself and frankly, it is a disgrace to the study of literature as a whole. Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize win is quite simply a boon to the study of literature, both modern and archaic the world over. Literature is more than words written on a page and bound in a book. Literature is the conveyance of a story — of a narrative — by any means necessary. A true scholar would know that.

With a song in my heart,

Joyce Ann Underwood

What I Learned From Hurricane Matthew

Hello there dear friends and gentle readers. I apologize yet again for my absence. 2016 has been a bitch, but I am going to address that in another post. I'm here to talk about the hurricane.

Hurricane Matthew, perhaps you've heard about him? He hit the South Eastern Coast last weekend and left a swath of destruction in his wake. St. Augustine, FL and Fayetteville, NC were two of the hardest hit areas. While St. Augustine seems to be making a decent recovery, Fayetteville is having a harder time of it. Savannah, GA was also hit pretty hard. 

This used to be A1A. (source)

I have lived in or near all of these places at different points in my life and as such have friends and family in all of them. My mom, sister, and uncle came out of the storm no worse for the wear so that's good. Sadly, an old friend of mine in St. Augustine lost her business in the flooding. As far as I know none of my Fayetteville friends have been personally affected by the flooding there, so that's great news. On the other hand, a couple of my Savannah friends wound up here in Augusta with nowhere to stay so I put them up for the entirety of their evacuation. Luckily, when they got home all was well with their apartment. No damage, nothing was destroyed. All is well and I did a good turn.

So why don't I feel like I've done enough? I wish that I could do more to help. I wish that I could send money to my friend's GoFundMe to help rebuild her business. I wish that I could go to St. Augustine to help with the clean-up. I wish that I could go to Fayetteville to help with the clean-up. I wish that I could be there to help the people I care about. But all I can do is sit here and post what little information I have - which handy-ways and supermarkets are open and have supplies - on Facebook for people who need that information. 

I feel really helpless and it occurs to me in my helplessness that this is why people pray. When they have nothing to give, the only thing they can give is their prayers and it makes them feel like they are doing something to help. The thing is, there's always some small thing that you can do to accompany your prayer. Prayers are fine and well and good, but as Pat Robertson of the 700 Club tells us, they work better when a monetary contribution is attached. I know I don't have a monetary contribution to attach to my prayers, but I do have an extra bed to share with weary evacuees and I have information to share with people who might need it. And that's something. I'm doing something. 

What are you doing, I wonder? Just a thought. 

Incidentally, if you are feeling generous and you want to donate to my friend's GoFundMe to restore her business, here's the link: SaveTheFishTank She and her husband are really great people and they have 3 little kids, the youngest of whom was just born a few months ago. Any help is greatly appreciated!