SilverPen Silence.

Magical Kingdom Musings.

Lately, I have been doing a lot of thinking (a dangerous pastime, I know). You hear a lot, mostly from cynics, about the greed and money-centric focus of Disney World. And, to be fair; I get it. Every time you exit a ride into a store of themed merchandise, you can see evidence to support their claim.

But, see, here is the thing. Disney is more than just a company trying to sell you. Every company on the planet has to make money. That's a given. They are supporting everyone who works there or for them. They are also in a never ending process of improving etc. As such, they kind of have to make money.

Now, that being said leads me to my point. We all grew up with Disney as a part of our lives. The single core element that has always defined them has been their ability to tap into the fabric and intrensic nature of fantasy. From the fairy tales and fables of folklore to the more modern medium of movies, every child and even adults have always reveled in an opportunity to escape into fantastic worlds. All Disney has done is reintroduce us to our old friend in a new way.

Every aspect of Disney world does a great deal to emphasize this. It is a great credit to the scale and scope of imagination they pour into everything. The focus is inexplicably entrenched in immersion. From things imbedded into the ground beneath your feet to the texture and architecture of the buildings around you. It doesn't take a child's eye to see the wonder.

And, when you introduce a child with special needs into such a setting, all that magic comes alive. We, as adults, have a tendency to get tied up and numb to the magic all around us. But, for a child, especially one with special needs, imagination is such a huge part of their life. Those stories and characters are dear friends. Those places are treasure troves of escape from their daily reality. The second you inject them into the heart of that, it's like lifting the curtains of lavish velvet at a majestic theater stage.

I have always taken solace in my own imagination. I have crafted countless tales, landscapes, worlds and the like. But, even to me, I was struck and taken aback by the sights and sounds - the raw ability to reach out and touch something tangible. The second you see Kermit appear from a building to speak about the revolution or witness Mickey, the classic and iconic image of a gentleman waiving at you gives you pause. And then when he helps your daughter up from her chair... Or when Goofy hugs you and your Wife... Or, seeing Belle curtsey with your daughter and dance for a moment in response to her sudden simple request in the middle of a show... It's a lot to take in and appreciate.

The point is, Disney works so hard to capture that innocent magic of imagination in us all. To witness it is something spectacular. You get what you pay for. But it isn't all about the money. I have experienced it first hand. And it still brings me to tears and has me in awe. If you ever get the chance; go. I never expected to. And it is a memory that I wish I could freeze in time and experience forever.

Blank.

Blank.

Everyone who knows me knows that I have Narcolepsy. It isn’t a secret. I don’t hide it. So, with that comes the standard never-ending sleepiness that is infamously associated with it.

No, seriously – I wake up so mind-numbingly tired that I can barely think at all, let alone of anything other than sleep. It is the curse of the condition. You are never, ever, anything but sleepy.

However, that isn’t the only aspect of the affliction that affects me. There are so many others that most people never realize. For instance; lately, I have been plagued by blank outs.

That’s right; you read that correctly - blank outs. Everyday, most times at least 2-3 times a day at least I suffer from what we have come to call blank outs. I can be reading, watching a movie or even in the middle of a conversation. It doesn’t matter how active I am or how much I may have slept the night before. Regardless, to me the world goes blank. I can complete a task as if on autopilot, keep walking or just collapse.

File Not Found.

No Signal.

The Number You Have Dialed Is No Longer In Service.

There is no gradual slip from consciousness or indication to warn me. It is as if a switch has instantly been flipped and everything is blank, gone. It can last a few seconds to minutes or even hours. When I do manage to come around it is generally with a jolt. It is as if being hit with a burst of adrenaline. I have to look around me and try to rapidly determine what has happened and assess my situation.

Now, this may sound fairly harmless at first glance. I mean, most people have dozed off before, if even just for a moment. But this goes beyond that. I say this because everything goes blank. Your mind goes blank, often your awareness of where you are to even what you were doing. If you’re lucky you can try to piece together what was going on or gather some idea of how long of a lapse of time you are missing.

That is, if you are lucky. I won’t lie; years ago I had an accident as a direct result before I knew I even had such a condition. It took a long time before I ever even understood what had happened. To this day I am extremely careful, especially about driving. In fact, I didn’t even drive at all for around 8-9 years or so.

You may not even be able to truly imagine what it’s like. I suppose you could relate it to working on something on your computer when, for whatever reason, it reboots and you lose everything you were working on. However, I suppose in that instance you might still have an idea of where you were at or what you were doing/going with things. For me it can be a complete void.

This is something that I have to struggle with on a daily basis. Others do too. I can sit down in my chair for a minute in the evening and then in a blink it’s some time later and I have no idea if I sat out meat for supper the next day. I may not know if I finished my daughter’s feeding or what I was meaning to do. It can be frightening. Basically my brain collapses in on itself into a sudden cycle of deep sleep but without going through the proper motions. There is no rhyme or reason. It just happens.

Sometimes, it isn’t just a look on my face or an expression. Sometimes I really am just blank. And I always try to apologize to my Wife. I never mean to go blank. I can’t control it. And I know it is an endless source of frustration for her and my family at times. But I felt it was something worth sharing. Because, Narcolepsy is more than just a comical excessive napping like people see in the movies. It is so much more complex and no two people suffer exactly the same.

Everyday I can only hope that there are fewer blank spaces in my day.  

Dreaming In Darkness.

Dreaming In Darkness.

Here is a basic question for you and don’t worry it is an easy one. Where do we dream? The answer, fundamentally, is that we dream in darkness.

Think about that for a moment. When you close your eyes, the world effectively goes black to you. On a base level, our minds are cut off from one of our primary senses and we surrender it over to its own devices as we began to shut down our body’s systems to allow everything to rest/recuperate.

And on some level, it is in that ethereal plane of void and shadow that some of our most vivid and bright moments are born. We call them dreams, but in truth they can be anything from unconscious fragments of thought, memories to unresolved fears and worries. My point is that is where some powerful parts of ourselves are born.

I know something about this, because if anyone is qualified to talk about such a subject; I am. Over the course of my life I have done so much sleeping. And not in the way you might expect.

As many people familiar with me are aware I suffer from two neurological conditions known as Narcolepsy and Cataplexy. Directly because of this I had to go for years before we had an accurate diagnosis or appropriate treatment. I’ve spent weeks and even months in a perpetual state of sleep.

While in any of these events, I could sometimes hear things around me and at others was lost to dreams. It is said, by both experts and those who suffer the shackles of sleep or plagued by the demons of dream (both are expressions I have used to inject some degree of humor into the discussion of my condition) that those with this problem tend to experience far more vivid and intense dreams.

While others might only dream while in the confines of their beds, we can involuntarily fluctuate in and out of REM sleep just walking around. We have no control over when we choose to drift off to sleep, let alone when we will awaken. Long story short, I can go from wide awake to deep sleep as rapidly as a light switch can be flipped.

I mention all of this as a matter of perspective. Two days ago, my son collapsed in the check out aisle at a local grocery store. Within moments I was packing him out to our vehicle. We had believed he suffered from a form of seizure and had been treating him accordingly. So, after the designated time had passed and his situation remained unchanged, we administered his emergency medication and called an ambulance.

By that evening my son couldn’t stay awake and it was decided to transport him and my Wife 4 hours by ambulance to a children’s hospital. The next day tests were being done and he spent the majority of the day asleep and unresponsive. In time, a neurologist reviewed his data and stated that this was not a seizure that he was suffering from.

All manner of thoughts and questions now flood through my thoughts. But at the core is the fact that, these doctors have admitted that they believe my son might share my affliction. This point leaves me conflicted.

It is terrifying beyond description to be frozen inside your body and unable to react. It is also a nightmare to awaken in a fright unaware of where you are or what is going on, especially if you suffer from paralysis via cataplexy or the like. To know that my child now might be experiencing the same thing pains me. And yet, it is a foe I already know…

In addition to this whole ordeal, our oldest son was airlifted last night as well to the same hospital with my Mother escorting him. There has been some debate regarding the authenticity of his symptoms but regardless they have to take it seriously when a child, even a 16 year old one, complains of numbness, tingling and loss of use of his legs or lower back.

In the meantime, I am confined to my home, trying to care for my two daughters and coordinate things from here as best I can. In many ways I feel as if I am trapped inside some terrible dream and unable to affect any impact on the real world.

Failure Failed.

People fail. They can fail in so many different spectacular ways. Some are even talented enough to be able to fail both when trying not to do so and when not even attempting to do anything.

When it comes to failure I tend to be somewhat of an expert. I fail to notice the most obvious signs that something would be unwise to say or do. I fail to remember the things I shouldn’t forget. I even manage to fail when trying only to provide assistance on the most basic of tasks.

To surmise; I am a master at failing.

But, at the end of the day, when everything is said and done one thing remains; the knowledge that one cannot fail forever. There is the perpetual hope, the faith and determination that despite the overwhelming amount of failure in your life that not everything is doomed to failure.

I guess it is safe to say that it is possible to fail at failing. You have to get things right once in awhile. All you have to do is persevere. 

Hypothetical Holidays.

Recent events have left me looking back on life and reviewing things somewhat. For instance, my birthday came and went this last November and not a single soul in my household noticed. Not one word was uttered to me aside from a flood of well wishes from friends and family online etc. for days. Now, to be fair and honest we had a lot going on - chiefly among them my son being taken by ambulance for seizures.

As a point of full disclosure, I did assure my Wife that the matter was not a big deal. There was a lot of things going on and I wasn't about to go full on diva to make them all about me. I am not that conceited or that important, even in my own estimation. But it still did hurt.

But all this did get me to thinking on a lot of other holidays. It brought to mind Christmas gatherings, Birthdays; you name it. One thing a lot of them had in common was disappointment. Now I am not bemoaning a lack of gifts or that anything I ever received wasn't appreciated. I have always been happy to receive anything but over the years have come to avoid opportunities for others to give them.

I realize this will sound bad no matter how I say it, so, let me just try to get this bit out of the way. People have never seemed to take the time to really get to know me. It is not a biased view or opinion - it is a fact. This includes family, friends, pretty much everyone (with a few precious exemptions who know who they are).

People would always expect me to be exploding with joy that their gift was some prized jewel. Yet it wouldn't have any real appeal or value to me. I could care less about the money involved. What mattered to me was the heart of the gift, the intent. I can recall some of the most cherished gifts ever given to me and they all held importance in my heart because of who gave them, their meaning or some other arbitrary aspect. The point being; I could be happy with a free give away token or the ball out of an old-fashioned computer mouse. I am far from what you could describe as high-maintenance.

What I am trying to get at is that so many people don't think before they gift. And if they do think it is only some generic assumption that really only serves as a 'what will be convenient for me.' Instead it should be about deciding what might be meaningful to the recipient.

You don't even have to give someone a gift. Honest. But, and I can only speak for myself, when you receive a gift it is possible to appreciate the gesture, be grateful, and yet still feel guilty that you can't give the giver the big reaction they are expecting.

I don't know if this is therapy or curiosity or what but I'd like to try a little experiment. Let's see how well you know me with a little hypothetical holiday gift giving (this might be the best gift you can give and it is free). The rules are simple; money is not an issue, nor is availability. All you need do is offer up what you think might be a welcome gift and I'll see if I can reciprocate. Then we can compare notes to see if we both would have enjoyed it or not.

And go...

Drifting Anchors.

For each of us, we have our anchors; those very things that ground us and keep us focused. For me it has always been a deep seated routine and habitual nature. However, as a counter balance to this I have also always been driven by a knack for being consumed by a passion to the point of what I confess could be called obsession. It has been a strength and a weakness.

What makes me good at some of the things I do is this very ability to immerse myself in a project and so long as I have something like it to direct my efforts everything goes well for me. The problem therein though lays with my very nature. It is when I lose that project or activity that I can direct my time and attention on that I fall apart.

As an example; I have often fallen into a routine in my mornings where I spend a portion of my time working on a story or some other activity. Inevitably though, I finish the story off or something in my life happens that completely destroys my habitual pattern. It can be anything from an unfortunate surge in my daily deluge of drowsiness due to my Narcolepsy to my children falling ill. It doesn't much matter what the reason is; all that matters is the fact that once my pattern is disturbed it can be hard for me to recover.

This may be interpreted by some as an excuse or just a lack of commitment. I mean, let's face it; if someone said they couldn't complete a simple task because they were interrupted that would be some pretty weak tea. I am not saying by any means that if I have to step away from working on something that I am forced to completely forgo any efforts to complete it. Far from it.

What I am saying is this; if I begin working on a story or project and fall into a daily routine/pattern of spending x amount of time on it, completing a set degree of progress or doing a specific part of it at a regular interval then if something disrupts me I may not exactly be able to get myself back on track easily. There have been times where I had a completed piece of work before me, but as I was trying to revise/refine it something occurred that prevented me from resuming my regular routine. By the time I was able to whatever factors that had me in the appropriate creative environment were gone.

Imagine being in the mood for Italian food but all you can spare the time for is a street vendor hot dog or supermarket check-out candy bar. You can always eat it and go on but it doesn't necessarily satisfy you. For me it can be like that if the various circumstances behind the scene place me in the mindset for a science fiction tale when I had been working on something fantasy based. I may still be able to produce something but without that drive it never turns out quite the same.

I've said it before; a writer can always write something - even if it is just something about a cheese sandwich. A repair man can also patch up a problematic part. It doesn't mean that it is a perfect fix. Sometimes it is just something that will work and get you by.

Myself, I am a husband and Father of four children. My youngest son struggles with a generalized anxiety disorder as well as obsessive compulsive tendencies and my youngest daughter has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Even without considering their own problems, my health or the innate issues of four children interacting in a small house etc it should be obvious to grasp how easily life can disrupt your schedule.

Over the last few years I have had to have surgeries on my wrist, my neck and lost all feeling from the shoulder down in my right arm along with a good measure of function from it. And I am right handed. This hasn't exactly helped my productivity, I'm afraid.

However, with that said I have been working on a story I began some time back recently. Trying to jump back into it and get myself back into a routine to occupy my mind. Even with extensive notes or previous work to guide me it isn't without difficulty to drop back into a story in the middle and try to move forward without problems.

While working on this story I was contacted regarding another old story, or I should say an initial part of one. Albeit vague, interest was expressed in the potential continuation of the tale. A topic of which I can admit (like most of my stories) that there may exist more written about or at the very least some detailed notes covering the direction of things.

Even when things throw me off track that doesn't mean I have completely drifted free from my anchor. I may not be able to return to every story or project and for those that I do it may take some time. But I don't generally just start something without intending to finish it. I need something to direct my passion, I rely on a routine I can focus myself on. Sometimes I get blown off course and I have to engage in alternate tasks until I can find my way back.

I doubt I will ever be able to quit being anything other than what I am. To anyone else out there governed by a similar nature I can only wish that your own anchors, regardless of how much you may find yourself drifting away from them, remain tethered enough that you never lose them.

Stay anchored, stay driven and do what you love. Life will always be there to rock the boat.

Giggles & Good Times.

Giggles & Good Times.

Yesterday afternoon I did something that I haven’t attempted in so many years that I scarcely can hazard a guess at how long it truly has been. I must confess that I ended up at the short end of the struggling against sleep stick on the ride there, home and eventually found myself somehow still in my chair instead of my bed. It was a wonderful experience. Honestly, I don’t even regret a moment of it.

My Wife and I took all four of our kids, along with my father-in-law and did our usual 1^st of the month dinner at a local restaurant. However, we made one small change to our typical routine. We invited two old friends of mine and their daughter to join us.

And they did!

Now, for most people this in and of itself is probably a regular night out – completely without the merit of being worth mentioning. For us on the other hand it was a big deal. With the exception of my own immediate family we just simply do not do this sort of thing often for a variety of reasons. To put it bluntly; when you factor in my own troubles, our children, the size of our family, a limited financial flexibility and an innate avoidance for some of the more ‘normal’ activities people our age tend to gather for we just don’t get that many opportunities to go out.

That said the experience was altogether pleasant. There was a wealth of giggles all around and enough understanding to exclude any problems. It wasn’t anything special; mostly we just ate and shared some friendly conversation.

I hadn’t seen my friends since high school, aside from an occasional run in here and there. These were people I grew up that knew me well and I can say we instantly feel back into familiar patterns. Hence the abundance of audible amusement we all shared. I see precious few people who knew me from my childhood and even less who actually can tell you my name. For me, it was like winning the lottery.

The whole family had a blast. Even my Wife and children talked the whole way home and into the night about how much fun they had. In fact, my youngest daughter has already claimed that she has a brand new friend and was trying to set up more opportunities to get together with them.

I can only hope that we were not the only ones who had a good time but my gut tells me that I’m not far off by saying that we all probably did. Perhaps in the future more such events might be in store, who knows. Yet, should the chance not present itself for a repeat any time soon I know that I will enjoy the memory of so much laughter for a very long time.

An Open Letter Post.

An Open Letter Post.

To Whom It May Concern:

I have been scribbling stories for far longer than I can accurately calculate. My imagination has been jammed into the over-drive position for perhaps an even greater number of years. And, in all that time; I have enjoyed every story, every awkwardly constructed game or moment of pretending. Not because I think or feel that it makes me special, superior or needed by others. I have cherished all those endlessly connected tiny moments because woven throughout them are series of smiles, giggles, grins and heart-warming shared sincerity.

In recent years, I can humbly attest and/or admit that my own skill with which I apply to my beloved past-time hasn't been anything that can realistically approach the level of a professional. On the topic of telling stories I can concede that my own are anything but worthy of high praise or comparison to the likes that end up on best-seller lists. Nor can I claim that my work on role-playing games or programming projects is anything more than idle efforts of fancy or hobby/enthusiast interest.

All that being said, one of the greatest gifts I have received and a constant source of joy for me is when I see a string of traffic visiting my blog that displays even a single view of one of my stories in order of the episodes/chapters/segments released. It is rare that I ever hear a word of feedback, an opinion or admiration. Even so, when I notice a pattern of traffic that highlights someone even looking at the released parts of a story I am filled with a wave of accomplishment.

I can recall those first days of toiling to create a fictional setting that other might enjoy. It is nothing short of poetic irony that that self-same setting was the seed for so many stories; so much time spent enjoying entertaining others and produced a creation that I am still tinkering on to this day. Recently I realized that the fictional setting I had developed and used for a game focused landscape had become the backdrop for me to place short stories and novellas. Seeing the game that had given birth to that rich environment collecting dust made me realize it was something I couldn't leave laying idle. It was worth refining and reviving.

For me, the process of creating a story or working on a game is a labor of love. I do such things not for gain or to pursue the approval of others. I do them because they are worth doing and I have a story or something in me worth sharing. And as I look back there were simply too many memories, laughs as well as smiles that were experienced in the company of others over one of these creations.

So, I’d like reassure any who may have been interested in the past, still are or might be just starting to become curious; I haven’t surrendered to silence yet and never will. My work on the science-fiction role-playing game setting project I refer to as Requiem (or Requiem d20) is alive and well. In fact, it is currently being analyzed, improved and redesigned to become the kind of game that I know it can be with the level of quality it deserves.

There is so much room for improvement within the work that has already been done on Requiem. Alternatively there is also a lot to celebrate about it. Even if I find areas where I notice equal degrees of ‘what was I thinking’ and ‘there is so much promise here.’

The passion has always been there, the flame never really dies. It is just the focus that might have shifted from time to time. But there are more tales left in the tank, more ink yet in the silver pen and I am not in the ground yet. Until that day comes I can’t imagine not getting lost in my own imagination on a regular basis.

If you have ever enjoyed any of my work before or are just starting to stumble into it then know that more will come. Requiem isn't going to be forgotten. You can always ‘rent Earl’s bullets,’ order some Vernian brew and load your trusty Mark VIII while you get ready to enter a deal with Gideon Coromaur. I have written so many stories set within Requiem’s New Republic but there were countless others that came before – shaped by the hands of those who have played around there. The future can only hold the prospect of new tales to follow.

I can only hope that you keep reading them, playing, sharing and smiling. Enjoy.

Sincerely,

Matthew C. Gill

The Lunar Lady.

The Lunar Lady.

It has been often said throughout the ages that a woman shares much in common with the moon. It is both a poetic metaphor as much as it is a fundamental truth, in my opinion. They both can shine brightly even in the darkest of settings – seemingly reflecting illumination we might not otherwise know was there. Likewise they are also capable of mysterious beauty; a force powerful enough to drive us towards exploration, inspiring passion, poetry and so much more.

The moon has always held a special place in my heart for me. There is a subtle magic that resonates through it as it undoubtedly has been doing so since first any eyes were ever laid on it. However, even as wondrous as it is to behold the moon isn’t always around. It waxes and wanes, disappearing in cycles only to return in time.

That final aspect is one that now my youngest daughter has in common with said celestial body. At any given time in a day she may be as pleasant and beautiful as a bright full moon in the fall. And yet, just as the moon changes it’s phase so will she – removing her radiant personality from us.

My daughter is only five years old.

She was recently diagnosed with affective bipolar disorder.

I’m still struggling to come to terms with it, I think we all are. But as we look back, the pieces were all there, fitting together little by little. The only catch was that there was no way to see the bigger picture of what was happening back then. It took time for everything to become clear.

At first there were little outbursts; temperamental fits, defiance and the like that a parent expects to see in a young child. Those incidents gradually grew to become the kinds of things a concerned teacher or frustrated bus driver calls you about. Everything reached a climax recently that culminated in a series of calls home from the principal, required isolation and even restraint.

Terror now grips my chest at the thought that every time she steps out our door that I have no way of knowing what the world will hold for her that day. Will someone take advantage of her? Will it be a good day? Will she hurt someone or herself? As a father I fear even more for her now knowing not only can I not always protect her but that she may not always be able to protect herself.

In time I know that things will change. That is, after all the nature of things; to be ever changing. We have already started her on some medications to help her and therapy as well. I will always be her father. I’ll always love her and be there to support her no matter what. But, to me, she will forever be my little lunar lady. Every time she fades from view a piece of me will fade with her, eager for her return.

The road ahead will be rocky and not without challenges to be faced, of that I am certain. However, I am also certain that with love and support we’ll make it. Perhaps with such early treatment it’ll help her in the long run. Either way she will never have to face it alone.

Lying Little Signs.

I was recently passing through a nearby city where we drove by a business I used to work at. It isn't something that was unusual, far from it; we've gone by the place countless times. I haven't even worked there in years, furthermore this wasn't the first time I have seen the message posted on their sign. What it was though, was the point where I could take it no more.

The sign was a liar.

Let me start at the beginning; I was the top of my class in college and enrolled in a program that had already ceased being offered - in effect the last of a breed. I had just graduated and as part of a requirement had to sit down with the school's director of career services beforehand which inevitably started several wheels into motion. Prior to my graduation I had worked for the school in a variety of capacities as well as being hired by some fellow students and staff for odd jobs on the side. All this added up to a point where a local computer repair place not far from the school received my resume on behalf of the career services director they found I came both highly recommended and perfectly suited to their needs.

I was contacted for an interview, one I agreed to gratefully and attended. The details were fairly straightforward and exciting for me. They needed someone to take several dozen towers bought in bulk, identify what worked/didn't and then systematically bring them back to life to be resold. It was right up my alley as the kind of thing I was particularly talented at as well as what I had gone to school for. I loved hardware, I hated to see someone who couldn't say 'this is where the problem is,' and instead shrugged before swapping everything out with new parts without any appreciation.

The pay itself wasn't great but I hadn't expected anything major just out of school. I had graduated with various degrees, certificates etc. including an A+ accreditation but had not had the money to pay to take my A+ certification exam itself. One of the agreements of my accepting the job was that they would pay for me to get that very certification along with a variety of other certifications.

When I showed up for my interview I did so by being early, politely and dressed respectfully. Now, I will admit for the record that I did at the time have long hair and a goatee. However (and I must stress this) I kept that hair clean, well groomed and typically worn in a tight braid that ended about the middle of my backside. My goatee itself was likewise maintained, trimmed and neat. Both I was assured would be permissible for my job although I would have to purchase a wardrobe of dress shirts, ties and pants.

I did exactly that, even buying tools and things to use on the job. I even agreed to leave my current job at the time, one that I had held all through school along with my work for the school with less notice than I preferred but more than they had initially wanted me to give them. All in all I made a lot of concessions to take what seemed to be my first real job in what looked to be the beginning of my career. I even conceded to the awkward notion of being hired through a temp agency as a trial basis before becoming officially part of the staff.

The first day of showing up for work I was blindsided by the demand to shave and cut all my hair off. Something I didn't prefer having to do but as I responded at the time; "you can tell me what style you would like and that is how I'll cut it if that is what it takes for this job." My wife didn't enjoy the news herself either but we bowed to it and moved forward.

In short order I was cackling like Victor Frankenstein in a back corner with an army of revived machines cleaned and purring to life eager to be put into use. They struggled to keep me fed with new corpses to reanimate, autopsy or salvage. Before long I was pressed into service riding along to do service calls and then eventually sent out on my own. I was traveling across not just adjacent states but sometime 2 or 3 states away to do warranty work - even showing up quite to my surprise to be asked why I wasn't in the infamous little geek squad car. Little did I know that Best-Buy's Geek Squad didn't actually come out and fix things; that was what people like us were paid by them to do.

Things weren't perfect but they were going forward. The problem was I had already been witness to too many things that left me feeling dirty some of which I had to refuse to take part in. When a customer brings a machine in to get fixed there was a bench fee for them to even look at it. It was a mandatory requirement that you bring your restore discs, documentation etc. with it when you did. And, if it turned out repairs were more than you wanted to spend you could waive paying the bench fee and instead surrender your machine for parts. It would be given new life by me or parted out - any number of things.

This is where things started to get dark for me. If we didn't have the restore disc for a unit in the boss's collection then we were told to call the manufacturer and tell them we were the original owner of the unit to request a replacement. We were blatantly asked to commit fraud. Then came the infamous Microsoft Product Key. I was painstakingly instructed how to carefully remove a product key's serial number sticker and replace it on another machine. After which I was required to call Microsoft and claim that our machine's key wouldn't work because we had had to replace a hard drive or some such. [Side note/fun fact - You can only replace so many components on your PC before the operating system stops recognizing that it is the same system. Microsoft can authorize your key to work on your machine or issue a new one but stripping a valid key off one machine to reuse on another, especially for resale is a massive violation. Any vendor can purchase a license/keys to use instead, even at a discount.] The worst part of it all was that at the end of each day at work I was the one with my hand and name on those units. If anything ever happened once they ended up in a customer's hands it would all come back to me.

I started carrying a memo pad in my pocket recording every serial number, every product key, every detail, dates etc. on everything I touched. I wanted to keep the job and make it work. I wanted to get my certification and become exactly what I had hoped to be; a computer technician. But I refused to tell anyone that I was the consumer who owned the device. I refused to lie to customers or withhold my advice when they asked me. I did every job asked of me in the way it was worth doing; the right way.

One day after being gone all day (I was typically handed a pile of parts and service orders, shoved out the door into a car and told not to return unless the boxes were all empty. This was generally coupled with no map to where I was going or itinerary so I had to get very good at improvising my plan of attack.) I returned to receive the news that things had been slowing down. One of the two co-owners and the professional face who handled all the high end side of things was going to be having surgery so other technicians were being shuffled about. Unfortunately that also meant that since I was the last one to be hired I was the first one to be asked to leave. And, since I had been brought in via a temp agency there was no need for anything more than being told that and that was it.

Suddenly it all just stopped. I then discovered that since I hadn't officially been an employee there I couldn't even claim it for resumes etc. Next I saw the lot next to the shop get cleared and replaces with an improved parking lot, a new fleet of cars - even a small storage building transformed into a little business for one of the owner's friends. While I looked for work at the unemployment office a case worker even informed me with glee that a local computer repair place was looking for someone just like me!

Imagine my surprise. I had been hired to do a job just long enough to squeeze every benefit they could from me using false promises and then let go. Then I find things weren't so bad after all; quite the opposite. Now they were looking for a fresh young student hot off the assembly line to toss into the meat grinder. I smiled and politely waived the offer aside. "Something tells me that they wouldn't be interested in me," I explained.

But the biggest problem I cannot get over, like I mentioned at the beginning was their sign. It reads, in rather sloppy placement; We Fix Computers Here. Which, I can attest is a bare faced lie. The entire time I worked there I witnessed (even personally ordered at times) virtually no machine to ever be fixed as per the definition. I saw people lied to in order acquire their property. Customers were convinced to purchase new computers. There was even machines that were made of entirely new components and returned to the customer with a hefty bill. But almost nothing actually repaired. The only exception being the work I did in a small corner in the back. However even that I cannot call the entirety of the work being repair.

If someone brings me a problem and they ask me to fix it; I want to be able to hand them back what they brought me with the problem solved or an explanation as to what went wrong. That is why people bring you something to work on; they expect it to be fixed. Every time I see that sign I can't help but shake my head and ask how they can lie to people in such a manner.

I won't name them, nor do I generally go out of my way to bad mouth the business in question. But if anyone asks me I discourage them from using their services. You can make money without abandoning ethical, moral or legal behavior. You can also be a computer technician by just being the person people can trust to call when they need a problem solved. I'd rather keep that trust myself, I guess for others the feeling isn't necessarily mutual.

A Summer Of Silver Pen Surprises.

A Summer Of Silver Pen Surprises.

It’s been a bit since I have posted any manner or regular writing or musings of any kind. That isn’t an excuse or validation it is simply the truth. My summer has been an awkward one, it has brought with it a mixture of twists and turns that are in short best surmised by saying they have kept everything shifting around me.

We started my children’s summer vacation off by taking them to a local historical park complete with a civil war museum and still standing landmarks. It was a symmetry thing; the previous summer we ended by taking a family picnic to the same location and thought it felt fitting to begin this one by doing the same. Everyone had fun and it was the least we could afford to do at the time – a full blown vacation of any kind was simply impossible.

Later in the summer we were able to make a short jaunt up to another local place of interest; the Land Between The Lakes National Recreation Area. While there we toured the Nature Station seeing all manner of animals – a good number of which frequent our yard – in a natural and neutral way most people rarely do. After which we enjoyed a pleasant picnic at Hematite Lake where I literally stumbled on a beautiful silver Cross ink pen that still functioned (insert irony here). Then we followed it all up with a family hike around the perimeter of Hematite Lake, a trail some 2 ¼ to 2 ½ miles long.

By summer’s end we pulled together two final fun events to wrap things up. The first was a day at a nearby water park organized for families with children suffering from emotional or mental disabilities. We weren’t able to stay nearly as long as the kids might have liked but it was a little overwhelming. The last hurrah of summer was a huge surprise for my children. We woke them up early one morning, loaded up in our van and drove to a destination we didn’t tell them anything about. It turned out to be the St. Louis Zoo.

All the fun trips and events aside – which was infinitely more than we have been able to do for them virtually ever – there were other projects and things to tackle. There were repairs to be made on our van, things around the house to be replaced, fixed etc. We’ve been rather busy but it hasn’t been easy or all pleasant to be fair.

We lost my Grandfather back in June. It’s something I have talked about already and affected me greatly. I also finally relented from my months of hoping and trying to remain patient about seeing a doctor about my right wrist/hand. The surgery done last November hadn’t seemed to be showing the results we expected and unfortunately the doctor who had preformed the procedure had since moved on.

What I hadn’t been prepared for was a chain of events that would set off. First I was sent to an expert to evaluate my condition. He reluctantly confided in me that in his professional opinion he wasn’t sure there would be much he could do to help me as it looked like a circulatory issue. So, I was sent for some tests. During the tests there was some obvious difference between my arms but the results declared everything was still within normal ranges.

That returned me to square one with no real clue where to go next. At that point my Wife and I went back to my family doctor to try and figure out what we could do. Upon further observation he concluded that there must be something Neurological in nature that he would like me to bring up with my Neurologist. His concern was readily apparent when he could see better what I had been describing. My hand has been losing all color and taking on a blue-grey or purplish hue, even turning cold or seemingly absent a pulse. I can’t really feel anything with it and there is an issue of pain as well. To put it bluntly; I have almost no real use of my right arm.

My doctor finally asked a question that hadn’t quite occurred to me. He asked how far up the numbness went. Now, my immediate answer was that it was isolated to my hand and maybe partially up my forearm. But once he started pinching his way gradually along we realized I wasn’t feeling it even when he reached my inner arm stopping just at my arm pit.

I couldn’t feel it. My wife emphasized just how hard he was actually pinching me – hard enough to discolor the skin and leave red marks like when pinched by anyone who means it. His assessment was an obvious one; either I was far tougher than I let on or something serious is going on. And, if it was the later then there was a general fear that my entire arm might deteriorate further without action being taken.

I guess now all I can do is place my faith in my Neurologist being able to piece this puzzle together. Because, currently I struggle to write even a few sentences on paper or do more than brush my teeth or tie my shoes. Typing isn’t as bad but only in small bursts and only if I keep an eye on where my hands are.

This made it really awkward when I started getting calls to come help get my Father up out of the floor. It took some clever thinking I must admit, being effectively one handed. You see, he has been suffering from a heart condition most of his life and recently discovered he has been having seizures as well. Now, much like me he doesn’t drive and is rarely left alone. He’s had some close calls that have scared us all considerably of late but for him there is a ray of hope. They want to implant a device in his chest to help him regulate signals sent to his brain to help stop his seizures. We know it works because my older sister has one and has for some time. The issue; he already has a device that monitors and records his heart in place where they would like to stick the other. Further complicating matters is the fact that the doctor who installed the ‘loop recorder’ had recently passed away. That leaves them in limbo about getting permission to remove one in order to implant the other.

I guess it is true what they say; some people really do have all the luck.

But mark my words: I am not making excuses. This isn’t the end of my writing by any means. It is like I tell my own children; make solutions instead of excuses. That is precisely what I aim to do. With a little luck and some stubborn determination perhaps things will improve.

I hope you’ll bear with me in the mean time and if you’ve enjoyed any of my stories thus far then all I can say is that I’ll try to keep raising the bar from here on out.

The Wealth of Wisdom Not Found in Words.

Originally I hadn't intended to share this in this way. However, after it was read at the funeral for my Grandfather it has occurred to me that I owed it to him to share it with those who weren't able to attend. As such, I offer it here in this format for anyone so interested:

The Wealth of Wisdom Not Found in Words.

If you will kindly bear with me, I’ve never been very skilled at speaking – I’m used to being the one writing the words instead of the one speaking them.

Fred Howard is my Grandfather. Over the course of his life he has worn many different hats; he has been a carpenter, a soldier, a father, a husband and a friend. But at the very core of his being he is best described – in my mind – as a noble man. To those who knew him, I think you can agree with me that he would never ask for such praise or speak as highly of himself. My Grandfather was a man of humility, of honor and honesty.

There is a phrase he once told me as a child that I have never forgotten. In so many ways, you could say it was the closest thing to his personal motto and trademark as anything ever could be. What he said was this; “If a job is worth doing, then it is worth doing right the first time.” It was more than just how he approached every task, be it crafting a cabinet to building a box or even designing a dresser. It is how he lived his life. It is evident in how he lived every day. So I can say with absolute certainty that he can hold his head high, because as I look back I have no doubt that he did the job right as we all should endeavor to.

Growing up I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. I relished any chance to see something he was working on, to ride with him on any errand and to learn anything he could tell me about. For years I longed for the day when I would be big enough to learn everything he knew about working with wood and how to build things.

Sadly, health and circumstances prevented anything of the sort from ever being possible. However, thanks to my Grandfather’s influence there were other more valuable lessons that he imparted to me. He did so without ever having to truly lecture or make speeches. He did so by being an example of discipline, dedication and decency. Thanks to my Grandfather I saw a consistent image of what a man should always strive to be. He was humble, honest and honorable; all the things that make good men great.

I know that in his passing many will lament his absence; they will remember him fondly and talk warmly of him. But what we should all take the time to realize is that he will never truly be gone. He lives on in each of us, whether we realize it or not. Every time my little brother lifts a hammer to nail two boards together; it is with my Grandfather’s example behind him. When my Mother cares for someone who needs a hand she shows the same compassion and preservation of dignity that her Father has shown her. Anytime I encourage my own children to uphold their word and responsibilities I am passing on the same wisdom my Grandfather provided me.

My Grandfather wasn’t the most educated of men; he wasn’t rich or famous in most uses of the word. What he was, was a decent, honest and hard working man. He took care of his church, and led the singing there – not because he wanted to stand in the limelight or feel special – but because it was a job that needed doing and he could. To my knowledge, he never has been awarded any honors or acclaim. Even if he had been I doubt he would have ever made a fuss about the matter or wanted anyone else to. But if any man ever deserved to have their life honored and remembered it is my Grandfather. His legacy is a living one; of being an example others should strive to emulate.

In parting I would like to end with the words I wrote as a dedication from a story that was in part inspired by my memories of my Grandfather;

Dedicated to my beloved Grandfather; a more honest, honorable and simply strong character of a man I have never known. May we all be blessed to have such a handy hammer in our lives to help build us into a better man or woman.

A Litany of Life Lessons.

A Litany of Life Lessons.

Throughout the course of our lives we are granted any number of precious moments with which to treasure. Frozen little jewels that, much like seeds, imbed in us the cornerstones that will inevitably shape the foundation of what we will become. They can be as simple and innocuous as a phrase or as involved as a deep heartfelt discussion. Whatever form they take, we owe it to ourselves and those who made such an impact on us to reflect on them from time to time.

For me, I try to do so as often as I can. But try as you might there are those situations that prompt you to review the scope of influence that some important people have wielded on your life.

Right now, I find myself deep in thought about the effect my Grandfather has had over my life – and, by extension my own Mother as well. Perhaps it is only fitting with the impending holiday approaching. Truth be told; his rapidly declining health keeps my mind trained on the topic of his life.

For as long as I can recall my Grandfather has been an idealized hero to my eyes. In reality I am well aware that he is merely mortal and just as fallible as anyone else. However, even that logic seems faulty to me as an adult though. By my own reckoning he is the closest thing to everything a saint, a knight, even a kingly man should be.

I never was afforded the luxury of getting to know my Father’s father. Unfortunately, he passed away just shy of a year before I was born. That said the only knowledge I have of the man is from little anecdotes and insight others have offered me. In sharp contrast my Mother’s father was the only grandfather I have ever known.

As a young man I spent many weekends and holidays spending time at my Grandfather’s house. Around the age of 7 my family moved out of the city limits and into the county to put us just over 2 miles from my Grandfather if you go by road. Adventurous boys quickly discovered other avenues by way of woodland trails and the like to cut that distance over time. For us the whole experience of visiting my Grandfather was best described as something magical.

For quite some time we were limited from freely exploring all areas of the house – a decision I can respect in hindsight. Even so, with time our curiosity grew along with our trust and little by little we were allowed to sleep upstairs and investigate all manner of things. We rode to job sites with my Grandfather and watched as he put hammer and nail to use to make masterfully crafted things out of wood. We escorted him and his beloved German Shepherd Mack to the vet for shots. As both the Song Leader and Caretaker of our church we even joined him countless times and endeavored to aid him in his regular duties.

I have spoken before about being introduced to chestnuts thanks to the chestnut trees that grew on my Grandfather’s yard. I’ve even mentioned his dutiful service to his country when called during World War II. I may have even had a word or two to spare about his hard working nature and handicraft regarding building things from wood – especially his own home in point of fact. But there are a number of things I may never have taken the time to talk about.

In retrospect I don’t think I would have ever become a writer at all if not for my Grandfather. A single example is etched into my memory; an image of me setting cross-legged in his living room floor with paper and pencil. I was working on a story about a ‘white knight,’ all shining armor and pure hero. Now, my Grandfather isn’t the most educated man in the world but he is far from being anyone you might say is lacking in mental ability. He asked me a little about the project my attention was focused on, then with a smile and a nod encouraged me to keep up the good work.

That single passing instance was perhaps the first thing that provided me forward momentum to push myself. If he thought that what I was doing was good work then who was I to argue? It was his personal motto that if something was worth doing then it was worth doing right the first time. And to his credit I have never once seen or heard a single soul ever having to ask him to redo any of his work, much less complain about its quality. I have always tried to work towards the same standards, even though my own skills might not be equal to his.

When my Grandmother suffered a stroke my Grandfather stopped working to try and care for her. My Mother, a nurse herself, did likewise and they moved in with us. Without any real thoughts or complaints my Brother and I offered up our bedroom. We basically lived in a corner of our living room for a time, helping out in any way that we could. Sadly, during my freshman year of high school my Grandmother passed away. She did so with all of us by her side and as I watched on with her husband always there. He never once shirked from his duty, never once acted anything other than dignified and shouldered every burden without complaint or regret.

He never returned to work. Everyone thought that he might simply give up and soon join his wife – but much as he had always advised he never gave up. Once he returned to his home it was a daily task of mine to deliver a meal to him. It was a highlight to my day as I would sit with him for a stretch and just talk about anything he wanted to. Although he never was able to take me under his wing and teach me even a portion of the carpenter’s trade as I had often dreamed he always had the time to give me advice on how to build or fix something. He would even encourage me to borrow various tools of his to do so.

But even though he never was able to teach me how to be a carpenter like him he taught me something far more precious. He showed me how to be a man. He educated me in dignity and honor – even when wearing simple working clothes. From him I learned to never flinch from a smashed thumb, a stabbing splinter or a sore back if there was a job to finish. Even in the face of so much sadness at the loss of a loved one he taught me to hold my head high and show them the respect they deserved.

In summary, I have found that I may have said it best when I dedicated my book ‘Metal In The Moonlight’ to him;

Dedicated to my beloved Grandfather; a more honest, honorable and simply strong character of a man I have never known. May we all be blessed to have such a handy hammer in our lives to help build us into a better man or woman.

I am deeply honored, blessed and humbled to have ever had such a teacher and example in my life. To all who knew him or have been touched by his life I can only pray they value his influence in their life as I do. He deserves to be remembered and respected – even if he would never ask for any such attention.

The Day Wil Wheaton High-Fived My Son.

My son, Bryn, is 7 years old. He suffers from Generalized Anxiety Disorder. He takes medication, see's a therapist and is even in a special program to provide him with help learning to adjust and manage everything daily life throws his way. Bryn's hero is a well known geek and all-around respected figure; Wil Wheaton.

Yeah. He's more than kind of a big deal to Bryn. For my son he is more than just some celebrity 'cool guy', to him he is someone he can aspire to be like. My wife and I have kicked around the idea of reaching out to Mr. Wheaton ( I know, it sounds odd to refer to him in such a manner ) but often just wasn't really sure if we should or even if we could. For whatever reason this morning it just seemed right, like it was more than just a novel idea mentioned from time to time.

So this morning I fired off the following email with the subject 'High Praise From A Miniature Mouth':

Dear Mr. Wheaton,

I am writing to you not on my own behalf, but on the behalf of my seven year old son. His name is Bryn and, well, to be blunt he looks up to you so very much. He suffers from Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which at times can prompt him to have panic attacks as well as bouts of depression. You should see his face light up anytime he sees you talking about some game, on a T.V. Show or just basically being you. Don't even get me started on what happens when we mention the infamous "Booty Mine" song. When his doctor mentioned medication he remarked about how he didn't mind it or having to go for therapy if it helped him because that is what Wil Wheaton does. When his therapist made mention of how therapy dogs can be of help he again rationalized that Wil Wheaton has dogs too and that they seem to help him. Now he has a 4 month old German shepherd/lab mix puppy that a Army Veteran with ptsd had to give up due to moving.

My point is, that you my dear sir are an inspiration and role model to my son and to me as a father. I've been a geek and a gamer all my life and had my own struggles as well. Anytime Bryn is down, or anxious about something all I know I have to do is mention the "Booty Mine" or your name and he smiles. Of all the awards, accolades and trophies that anyone could offer you the only one that I can give you is my gratitude and the knowledge that you have made a huge impact on someone so small. Someone who like you struggles everyday. Someone, who because of you knows that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Thank You.

Sincerely,

Matthew C. Gill

We never expected in a million years to get any reply. To us we just hoped that the message might inform Mr. Wheaton of the powerful impact he has on others, even little ones. We were both shocked and somewhat overjoyed to recieve the following response a couple of hours later.

Hi Matthew,

Please excuse any misspellings in this email, I have something in both
of my eyes.

If you would, please give Bryn a high five for me, and tell him I said
that I want him to be kind, be honest, be honorable, work hard, and
always be awesome.

Thank you for sharing this with me. I struggle to various degrees every
day, and you've restored all of my HP and mana today.

All the best,

Wil

Needless to say, this afternoon I will have a young man who just might explode. I cannot wait to tell him and provide the High-Five via proxy that might never be forgotten.

Great men do exist and they deserve being made aware of it from time to time. Thank you Mr. Wheaton.

The Reality Of Ridiculous.

The Reality of Ridiculous.

Have you ever felt ridiculous? Ever had someone point out that you looked ridiculous? Perhaps you have, yourself told someone else that an idea they proposed was ‘simply ridiculous?’

We’ve all heard the word in use in our daily lives at some point or another. Everyone on the planet by virtue of living among our fellow examples of humanity and/or members of society has experienced feeling or being made to feel ridiculous. Many of us have less than favorable memories stashed away in our mental vaults that we’d rather pretend didn’t exist that involve that very word as a center piece.

What does the word even mean though? If you look it up in a dictionary it might say something like: ‘deserving or inviting derision or mockery; absurd.’ I suppose on a technical level that is an appropriate explanation of the term itself. But, to me, the real true meaning of it is something a little different. In my opinion ridiculous is more along the lines of meaning any identifiable or noticeable difference perceived as being separate from conforming to the greater general majority.

I’ve had more than my share of first hand experiences with the word ridiculous over the course of my life. I won’t lie about it, for a long time I let people make me feel ridiculous on a regular basis. For example as a child I had a pair of denim overalls the spitting image of some my father wore every day to work. I would put them on and help him with things around the house/yard/garden. For me I took pride in my overalls, they made me feel good about myself.

Then one day I wore them to school oblivious to how other kids may perceive them or react. I quickly discovered that I had just painted myself as a prime target for ridicule. Regardless of the fact that our school was a small rural district among a collective of small rural districts that made up – you guessed it; a rural county. The majority of students all had grown up on a farm, around a farm or completely immersed in farm culture. But that didn’t matter; I was the one kid who showed up one day wearing something completely different than anything else the other kids were wearing. So they made me feel ridiculous, and I in my ignorance let them.

Years later on in my education, somewhere near the end of elementary and perhaps the early days of junior high I recall attending my first school dance. It didn’t leave me with a lasting desire to make a long tradition of repeating. Once more I was oblivious with regard to my attire and showed up in dress pants, shirt, complete with tie and vest. My first clue was when my cousin arrived at my house in infinitely more casual clothes.

When we reached the dance itself I found myself instantly engulfed in ridicule and feeling the full brunt of what that can impart onto you. To make matters worse I had no concept of how to dance or any comfortable facsimile thereof. Some friends of mine convinced me of trying to make use of some physical comedy gags I had improvised like waddling in place like a penguin and calling it ‘penguin dancing’ as well as sticking one foot spaced far in front of the other almost in a straight line and rocking back and forth like a rocking horse.

Ever heard the phrase most often used to try and console someone after they have reached new heights of ridiculous; they’re laughing with you instead of at you? I heard that one a lot – almost in a chorus stereo format style even. You can honestly tell a difference even as a kid between good spirited humor and people making a mockery of you. The entire rest of the night I spent being a repository for people’s pity or more pointed proclamations of being ridiculous.

As I grew up I eventually discovered the truth of the matter; that feeling ridiculous is something that solely rests with you. Some other kid once tried to mock me by pointing out that my T-shirt didn’t match a flannel shirt I was wearing over it. In fact, they (as I recall) tried to claim that I had to be color blind. Truthfully, I am not color-blind at all but I do happily concede to being color-stupid. I can tell one color apart from another without much trouble, but when it comes to instinctively knowing what two colors compliment and what ones clash I am woefully ignorant. Which I must point out doesn’t really matter much to me.

In retaliation and armed with my burgeoning understanding I started making it a point to wear mismatched color schemes of the same sort – often resorting to the most obvious pairings I had available. I would put on a bright blue shirt and then throw on a vibrant red flannel with it. In the face of any attempt to make me feel ridiculous I would simply smile and reply with comments along the lines of ‘I like how I look,’ or ‘what does it matter if I don’t match,’ etc.

Over the years as I grew up I found more and more that no body could make me feel ridiculous unless I allowed them to. I also started to see more and more the unmistakable association between what everyone else expected of you based on conformity and those they directed ridicule towards. Even as an adult it continued – and I don’t foresee it is something that will ever completely vanish from society.

That doesn’t mean that we should keep propagating it. That doesn’t mean we need to live in ignorance of how we allow it to affect us. It is our choice alone to permit it to make us feel bad or deny it any power over us.

I worked a job at local manufacturing plant for years holding a respectable job operating machines that were responsible for providing every other aspect of the production process with the raw materials they needed to build about everything they made. It wasn’t easy, it was long hours working from just before midnight to just after noon constantly moving and trying to pay attention to hundreds of moving strands of fiberglass and dozens on spools of woven fiberglass matte cloth as it was being pulled into a heated metal die, coated in thick sticky resin and coming out as a solid beam on the opposite end. It didn’t take much to have the process come to a crashing halt leaving some horrible messes on par with a gooey Gordian knot still heated to triple digits and an entire plant of other people depending on the flow of the materials we made to enable them to keep working.

The very first day I showed up for that job, I did so wearing a comfortable pair of old overalls. Worked in them every night too and didn’t give a hoot what anyone else thought or said on the matter. Although it is a little difficult to make a grown man feel ridiculous no matter what he is wearing if you watch him run over to a river of moving fiberglass mattes and strands of fiberglass string to start sewing thing together while it is still moving to keep it from crashing.

Point of the matter is that if you spend your days letting everyone make you feel ridiculous then you’ll never give yourself the time to show those same people that it doesn’t matter if you don’t dress the same or act the same. Just be yourself, be comfortable with who you are and don’t ever feel guilty about finding out who that person is (or is going to be). You can even be ridiculous if you want to be – but never let anyone make you feel that way.

Because if you ever stop and take the time to sound that word out it tells you all you need to know about anyone who tries to make you think you are being it

Re – [explicative deleted] – you – us; they’re trying to reinforce the difference between you and the rest of ‘us.’ And in the process all they are reinforcing is that they are the omitted component of that word themselves. Why don’t we all make an honest attempt to pay a little less attention to what others are saying is ridiculous and a little more on who we are as individuals. There is plenty more value in people that we can prize as precious without pointing out where we think they don’t fit in.

The Rewards Of Reboot.

How much do you know about something as simple as a transistor? What about a neuron? The two things are more similar than you might realize. In fact, our brains share a comparable quality to an electronic device is some aspects. Let's consider this for a moment, shall we?

A transistor is a basic device that that in its most primitive form only allows things to flow through it in one direction. Depending on how it is implemented it can act as a switch or as an amplifier of sorts. Taken together in large groups transistors are actually what make up the memory component an electronic device uses to store all the things it needs to remember.

Starting to sound familiar? Without trying to teach you an entire class on the subject, let's just establish that it is in transistors that all those ones and zeroes exist as either off or on. It is the most basic building block of any electronic device we have ever devised.

So, how does that compare to neurons then? Neurons are the biological equivalent of the transistor. Within our minds, billions of neurons mimic the way billions of transistors work in a device. Signals are transmitted through them, things are stored and the overall collective result is a complex array of neural activity that we call intelligent thought or memory.

And just like in an electronic device something has to keep cycling through all those tiny transistor-like things to keep them all alive and active. If you turn the power off from an array of transistors they can 'forget' any information that they had stored inside them. Take the memory inside your computer for instance or the radio in your car. Disconnect the battery or unplug it from the wall and anything that was stored there is gone.

Now, that doesn't mean that other forms of storage doesn't exist to keep up with things that are needed for long term retention. If we go to sleep we do not forget our names or how to walk. Just like every time we turn our car off it doesn't forget what time was on the clock. That stuff stays stored ( in the car's case that bit is true as long as the battery isn't drained).

But let's say for instance there is some damage to transistors or our neurons for instance. Perhaps something get's loaded into them in the wrong order or, due to a hiccup isn't stored at all. What could happen then? There are any number of resulting effects that could come from it. It could be from us having a stroke that damages a segment of our neurons. We might have something 'misfire' so to speak. Whatever the cause it can leave us - much like an electronic piece of technology to become best described as malfunctioning.

So what do we do?

The answer is so simple that we generally overlook it. We reboot.

When we shut a machine down, we empty it of all those temporary stored values. We dump out every transistor of any electric current flowing in it and let it all return to its base state. As it comes back on it is them reloaded with the right values to begin anew. If anything was mixed up before it has by the very process of rebooting become reset.

Every single night when we close our eyes and go to sleep we give our brains that very chance of doing the same thing. It can in essence reboot itself, resetting a whole array of abnormal neurons, resting overworked areas and allowing things to renew itself. Too tired to remember clearly? Get some rest. Everything feeling foggy as you try to concentrate or think about something? Perhaps some sleep is in order.

For me I have a unique outlook on which to grant me perspective. Sometimes my own internal transistors get all twisted up - often by the very act of sleeping. Its as if instead of storing the right values things get shorted out. In time even my mind can sort it all back out but often enough the best thing for me to do is to simply allow myself to reboot. We take so much for granted about the magical marvels our bodies are capable of - much like we do technology.

Next time there is trouble give rebooting a try and then enjoy its rewards. Just try and appreciate some of what is going on behind the scenes to make those wonders work for you.

An Introduction Of Sorts.

My name is Matthew. I like to write/tell stories. I'm a husband and father of four. Every day I battle the sinister shackles of sleep and its demons of dream.

Sound strange enough? Do I have your attention, or at the very least your curiosity? I'll settle for your passing glance to be honest.

My point here is a rather mundane and simple one; to establish some idea of who I am to those just discovering me. And for those who have known me for awhile this can serve as a refresher course. There may be a test on this in the near future.

My initial introduction is a fairly boiled down base of the myriad of aspects I suppose one might use to describe me. But they are all true - even the waging the war for being awake. As surreal as it sounds I spend the majority of my day dealing with the monumental effort of remaining conscious. In that attempt I have my share of victories and defeats. I never quite know if I've drifted into a waking dream or if that tingling feeling in my left side is a chill or the fact that I am in the process of becoming paralyzed.

Around 2009 I was diagnosed with Narcolepsy with Cataplexy. Over the time since then I have had to come to grips with some uncomfortable concessions. For one, my day always begins with a cup of coffee and 40mg of Ritalin. Around four hours later I rinse and repeat. What that means is I take the medically allowed maximum of a commonly recognized stimulant just to give me a fighting chance of not being a zombie.

In case you need to further punctuate that little point, consider this: I can take as much Ritalin in one dose that some people take over an entire day. And right after, rather easily I must add, I can quite honestly take a nap. Let that sink in for a minute.

Added to that constantly nagging pull of drowsiness I have to accept that my left side can go limp at any time. I've used a cane so much with my right over the last few years to support myself while dragging my left leg when I have trouble that I believe I have passed my wrists serviceable limits. I just had Carpal Tunnel Release surgery on it the past November (on my birthday in fact - poetic irony anyone?).

Now I don't drive anymore. I don't work anymore. I very very rarely do much of anything alone either.

But don't get me wrong; I do have a life.

I enjoy reading (or writing) a good story or book. I walk my kids down for the bus every day and get them off the bus. I check the mail, my wife and I go to the store - there are lots of ways for me to spend my time. Even if there are times things manage to get the best of me, I try not to let depression win.

It isn't easy, I won't lie. But I have a wonderful wife to support me and a family the likes of which would make saints jealous.

So if your ever curious where these stories come from, they come from an imagination that never stops. It comes from dreams that aren't content to remain to the nocturnal hours. They are born of a brain that must be kept busy. So I keep it busy and if I am really lucky I get to make someone else smile.

I do it for the happy.

Making people happy makes me happy.

Are you happy?

If so I'm happy.

Tea Thinking.

Tea Thinking

I’d like to illustrate a very simple point, one that I think too many of us overlook or outright ignore. To be blunt; every single human being on planet earth thinks differently from their counterparts. Each person has some method of doing an action, even something trivial during the course of their day that sets them apart from the next. Does that mean that the way in which they go about a task is better or worse than someone else? Is the way they think about a topic any more profound than the next stranger they meet?

No.

In fact, there is a reason the word individual is used so often to describe someone. Because, let’s face the facts here; we are all individuals. Period. Let me demonstrate what I mean by way of a very basic example. The following is how I make tea:

Tea Making Procedure -

First, I take out a small pan and turn on some hot water in the faucet. I rinse it out with hot water by swishing it about before pouring it out and refilling the pan. With my pan now about ¾ of the way full of hot water I place it on an eye and set the heat on high to let it start to boil.

While that is heating up I get me three tea bags out and remove them carefully from their wrappers. Placing them into a neat stack I collect their strings and lift the bundle by their tags. Holding those tags I begin to flick the bags themselves into a spin, allowing the strings to entwine until they form one tight strand almost like a braid. I then proceed to take the twisted length of string and tie a quick knot somewhere near its middle before sitting it atop the tea bag wrappers.

Once the pan has come to a good strong boil I hang the tea bags over it by grasping their tags and dip them in. Dragging them in a few circuits I circle them about allowing them to sink in and then wrap the trailing string around the pan’s handle. At this point I generally reduce my heat as well down to around medium or just bellow.

I allow the tea to continue to boil for the next 3 minutes, and take the time to place two cups of sugar into the bottom of a gallon pitcher along with a long handled spoon. Once those 3 minutes are up I remove the pan from the heat (making sure to turn it off mind you, safety first) and allow it to steep for about 5 minutes.

After those 5 minutes are up I then unwrap my tea bag’s tie off and lift them just over the top of the liquid. By this point my twisted bundle typically begins to start to spin while the swollen sacks drip dark fluid. Patiently I wait for the steady drip to slow until it becomes almost non-existent before I remove the tea bags and relocate them into the trash can.

The still quasi-hot liquid is then poured ever so carefully into the pitcher where it is stirred to mix with the sugar. Cold water is added to the pan and dumped into the pitcher before I place the pitcher directly beneath the faucet or continue to ferry water with the pan. In fairly short order the pitcher is filled and the stirring slows to a stop, leaving the only remaining necessities being a lid and storage in the fridge.

Now, I can honestly admit that my tea making technique is not the one on the side of the box. Nor is it the precise method my mother taught me regarding how to make it. I could explain away every reason behind some of my various steps (like the twisting and spinning of the strings to prevent hunting around for individual strands or how it helps me spin out the bags afterwards) but then I could be at this all day I am afraid.

There are countless other ways to make tea; possibly you’d find new ones being developed every day. And, for the record, my way doesn’t make my tea any better than another’s. You could even argue that my tea making technique has virtually zero impact on the end result. But for me it makes sense, it works and it is how I always do it. If I watch someone else I puzzle over their own process. I won’t deny I may occasionally offer advice or mention how I do it differently.

But despite how you do it, or the way you think about such things the truth is tea is still made. We all have our ways, our methods and each one of us looks at things differently. You may plan out your story one way or start a project in a manner alternative to another. But we all end up with some result. My way might work well for me but not for you, doesn’t make it better or worse – just different.

Kind of like how we all are.

November.

November.

November has always been a special month for me; it holds a unique place in my heart for so many reasons. For starters it’s perhaps the highlight of my favorite season: Autumn. Then there is the fact that it is also the annual celebrated National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo for short. Not to mention that it is also home to my yearly “Date of Manufacture.”

But sadly, I must confess I’ve never ever taken part in NaNoWriMo. Nor did I have any desire to do so this year. This as a writer, even a humble hobbyist one, does leave me with a fair measure of shame. But it is a reasonable argument, easily understood that any writer suffering through some rather unpleasant Carpal Tunnel might shy away from attempting any such feat.

Now, I am going to be honest here – I am not writing this as an excuse or even an explanation to make me feel better. The simple point I may be stumbling my way towards is that the first two letters in November form a very basic word; no. That being said I believe that anyone who found themselves suddenly limited in all that they could do for themselves might find the word ‘no’ a blaring, nay, a blinding focus for their thoughts.

How easy it is to loose sight of so much by simply narrowing your gaze to look upon all that is beyond you. Our van’s power steering pump died on us; I was powerless to repair it one handed. The washing machine’s clutch finally failed us – no roaring to the repair on that one either. Open a brand new pickle jar for my 4 year old daughter before bed? Nope. It was yet another task demanding a pair of working hands.

Yet, as humorous and frankly overly punny as it might sound – there is light at the end of the Carpal Tunnel. And the irony is nothing short of poetic. Monday morning, on my very “Date of Manufacture” no less I’ll be going in for surgery to release the pressure imposed by my Carpal Tunnel on my Median Nerve. This means that in a matter of time I could very well be on the mend.

Furthermore, there have been far too many blessings bestowed upon me and my family to dwell on any limitations of limbs. While trying to place what limited funds available to me onto a prepaid debit card a regrettable error occurred leaving me with just under what I needed to order a part for our washer. When I tried to recover I discovered myself painfully short – possessing the “minimum amount” but a dollar or two shy of the $3 loading fee. A kind hearted stranger provided the missing amount warmly, and while I fumbled to thank her she was gone before I could reinforce my gratitude.

And that is but one testament to the aid I have received. My devoted Wife herself has helped tie my shoes daily and open pill bottles. My loving Mother has brought me drain cleaner when our kitchen sink defied us and helped me find solutions for problems just out of my own reach. I’ve been blessed with so many supportive figures and generous souls that it is truly difficult to not smile and be grateful.

I guess you might say that for me at least, there just is no no in November. May we all be so fortunate.