Lyrics: Something's Missing

More John Mayer - sorry!

Another track from Mayer's album Heavier Things. He certianly doesn't pull any punches in trying to work out the world. (I've posted about the 2004 Song of the Year, Daughters, before.)

The story here seems to be his own: as an artist, he has everything he ever wanted, everything the world says he needs, but something is missing. Something is not right within himself, and he can't work out what it is. The lyrics that really got to me form a kind of outro. He's trying to identify what could be wrong. The last two lines are the clincher.

Friends? check!
Money? check!
Well slept? check!
Opposite sex? check!

Guitar? check!
Microphone check!
Messages waiting on me,
when I come home? check!

How come eveything I think I need always comes with batteries?
Oh! What do you think it means?

Click the post title to see all the lyrics..
I'm not alone, I wish I was.
Cause then I'd know, I was down because
I couldn't find, a friend around
To love me like, they do right now.
They do right now.

I'm dizzy from the shopping mall.
I searched for joy, but I bought it all.
It doesn't help the hunger pains
and a thirst I'd have to drown first to ever satiate

Something's missing
And I don't know how to fix it
something's missing
And I don't know what it is
No I don't konw what it is at all

When autumn comes, it doesnt ask.
It just walks in, where it left you last.
You never know, when it starts
Until there's fog inside the glass around your summer heart.

Something's missing
And I don't know how to fix it
something's missing
And I don't know what it is
No I don't konw what it is at all

I can't be sure that this state of mind, is not of my own design
I wish there was an over the counter test, for loneliness.
For loneliness like this.

Something's missing
And I don't know how to fix it
Something's missing
And I don't know what it is
No I don't know what it is
Something's different
And i don't know what it is
No I don't know what it is

Friends? check!
Money? check!
Well slept? check!
Opposite sex? check!

Guitar? check!
Microphone check!
Messages waiting on me,
when I come home? check!

How come eveything I think I need always comes with batteries?
Oh! What do you think it means?

On Greatness...

Troy is a dear friend of mine, living and working in Madrid, setting up a church with an arts basis. I've posted about them before. The more I explore writing, and read Troy's and Heather's blogs, the more respect I have for them as a man and woman of God, and how they have been gifted.

On Greatness - a letter to a friend.

No, its not me, but its still applicable. In a corporate environment its something I meet everyday, and get so easily am frustrated with. Learning to live how God has gifted me, without the comparison, the grab for power, or self-derogatory dialogue, is learning humility.

Flash Fiction: OffWorlder Guide

"Flash" fiction (less than 500 words) is something I'm really interested in. How do you create engaging characters and plot, so completely and yet so compactly. This one was inspired by the ideomancer site.

The morning sky was tinged with red. “Is that ‘shepherd’s warning’?” Temaya asked.

“Yes. We’ll have rain today. It’s not looking good. Time to move on.”

We packed the camp into sizable bags, lifting them one by one onto the portagrav. Slowly it raised itself a foot from the ground, and I lightly tapped the end to start it moving towards the sun.

Being an OffWorlder Guide was a curious thing. Now a few years after Contact, they still lived simply, even primitively. Many trekked across the hills and mountain ranges, experiencing our land in an attempt to understand us. In many ways I felt superior. Technology abounded, even permeated, our world, and yet they had contacted us.

Temaya preferred to walk rather than ride the portagrav. Out of courtesy I lumbered alongside him. ‘The OffWorlder is always right. Do not offend.’ was the rule. Besides, the ’grav probably couldn’t support us and the gear. It was a few paces ahead now, cruising towards the peak we were beginning to climb. Suddenly, it disappeared. Moments later a crash disturbed our silence. Temaya looked at me, curious. I ran for the peak, fearing the worst. It began to rain.
Click the post title to continue reading...

Sure enough, the rise gave way to a sheer drop – too steep for the portagrav to recoil from, and the drop too far for it to withstand. Our gear lay scattered like the spitting rain. I looked worriedly at the wreckage. We were miles from anywhere, and without our gear we wouldn’t survive the night, much less the trek to civilization. Temaya clambered up in his slow, dependable manner. He didn’t acknowledge me, but quietly turned and climbed down the cliff face.

There wasn’t much to be salvaged: some food, a bag, but none of the gear. The locator might be repaired. “This is bad”, I said. “We need to find shelter, and work out what to do next.” He smiled at me, and started walking again toward the sunrise. “Hey, come back”, I shouted, but not knowing what else to do, I followed him.

We covered twice the usual distance that day, even in the rain. I’d never realized how the ’grav slowed us down. That night Temaya dug a shelter, his huge hands quickly angling a hole for the two of us. Once inside he plunged his arms deep into the soil, time after time looking at the dirt he pulled out, murmuring in dissatisfaction. Eventually he pulled out something approving, smelled it, and, for a brief moment, he smiled. “Here,” he held it out to me, “Drink.” I tried not to laugh. This was dirt! He gently grabbed my hand, and poured some of the cool soil into it. Then he spat on some of his own, made a smooth paste, and licked at it.

We survived like that for the rest of the journey. Eight days in all. I never did get the locator to send a signal. After a while, I even gave up trying.

Lyrics: Have A Good Time, Paul Simon

I've been listening to Negotiations and Love Songs: The Best of Paul Simon 1971 - 1986. Fabulous tracks, wonderfully simple tunes with engaging lyrics. This tune also has a great bass part to it. Another added to the 'to transcribe' list.

But more than that, Simon is commenting on the 1970's hedonistic, laid-back vacuity. Everything is going to be alright as long as I'm having "a good time". There is some recognition that something that might be wrong, but it doesn't matter, as long as all is well with me. How far have we really moved on?

The song closes with an incredibly complex, fast moving, angular sax solo, contrasting with the laid-back, easy groove. Two worlds collide.

Have A Good Time.
Paul Simon, from the album "Still Crazy After All These Years", 1975

Click the post title to see the all lyrics.
Yesterday it was my birthday.
I hung one more year on the line.
I should be depressed, my life's a mess,
But I'm having a good time.

Ooh, I been loving, loving, loving and loving.
I'm exhausted from loving so well.
I should go to bed, but a voice in my head says,
Aah, what the hell.

Chorus
Have a good time (Good time, baby)
Have a good time (Good time, child)
Have a good time (Have a good time, baby)
Have a good time (Have a good time)

Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland,
But I think its all over done.
Exaggerating this, exaggerating that -
They don't have no fun.

I don't believe what I read in the papers;
They're just out to capture my dime.
I ain't worrying and I ain't scurrying.
I'm having a good time.

Chorus
Have a good time.
Have a good time.
Have a good time.
Have a good time.

Maybe I'm laughing my way to disaster.
Maybe my race has been run.
Maybe I'm blind to the fate of mankind,
But what can be done?

So God bless the goods we were given.
And God bless the U. S. Of A.
And God bless our standing of living.
Lets keep it that way.

And we'll all have a good time

Chorus
Have a good time (Good time, baby)
Have a good time (Good time, child)
Have a good time (Have a good time, baby)
Have a good time (Have a good time)
repeat

mad sax solo

Coffee...

Well, no surprises here...

You Are an Espresso

At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energetic At your worst, you are: anxious and high strung You drink coffee when: anytime you're not sleeping Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Immutable.

One my hobbies at the moment is experimenting with writing. I've had a few "how to write" books out of the library, and this is an exercise from one of them. Write an eight line stanza inspired by the word "Immutable". I wrote this whilst mowing the lawn. Whilst I'm not really into writing poetry, and this is probably way too "artsy", I like it.

Immutable.
Unchangeable.
Impossible.
Immovable.
A man who is true,
Though his chosen words be few,
In a world that is pushing and demanding him
To change.

Books, books, books

This last six months I've managed to finish a number of books - I just haven't written about them!
Here's a list of the books I've managed to complete this year so far. Click on the post title to for short synopsis and opinion.

1. Wild at Heart, John Eldridge
2. The Purpose Driven Church, Rick Warren
3. Too Busy Not to Pray, Bill Hybels
4. Einstein's Heros, Robyn Arianrhod
5. A Bridge Across Forever, Richard Bach
6. The High Impact Church, Linus Morris
7. Hamlet, William Shakespeare

Currently Reading: Inside Indonesian Society: Cultural Change in Java, Niels Mulder

Click the post title to continue reading...

1. Wild at Heart, John Eldridge

I've posted on this previously. Whilst at times Eldridge goes a little off track, I still think this is a vital read of Christian men.


2. The Purpose Driven Church, Rick Warren

At the time, I was preparing to lead a (new) home group in The Purpose Driven Life. I'd previously studied PDL with (old) my home group, and this time felt the need to get some more background on Warren's ideas. As it turns out, PDL is really just the personal application of the PDC. I'm not sure that all of the growth potential of PDL can be realised without the support of a PDC.

This is mostly good stuff. It is fairly American based, drawing on and being most easily applied to American society. However, he does encourage exploring how best to reflect the purposes using your own societal, cultural, and church expressions. Useful stuff.


3. Too Busy Not to Pray, Bill Hybels

This was our home group study before the 40 Days of Purpose began, and I continued reading it alongside the PDC. I think its what they call a "modern classic".

Hybels writes in a very easy style. At times he is instructive, at times he reflects on personal experience, whilst acknowledging that what works from him, may not work for me or you. This is sensible as much as it is useful, and make the book far more worthwhile as both a discovery in the need for paryer, as much as of prayer itself.

Hybels presents many different methods of prayer, including life, journaling, and ACTS: Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, and Supplication (or Stuff, as I like to call it!) I have found this most useful, especially as Hybels goes on to the very important next stage: Listen. Once you have poured your heart to God, listen and look for His response. Prayer can be, but is often not, a two way communictation.

Very worthwhile. You may be put off by the lack of instruction, and emphasis on discovery.


4. Einstein's Heros, Robyn Arianrhod

My sister-in-law gives me the most interesting books. I hope she appreciates how important she is to me, and how well I regard her. We haven't had much of a chance to do so, but I'd love to sit down over a good beer (or something stronger!) and solve the world's problems. It would be a fun conversation.

Apparently Einstein had on his study wall pictures of the great and influential physcists that preceeded him. They were his heros. This book is not about Einstein himself, but about these men and their discoveries.

Popular science books have to tread a fine line of scientific accuracy and general appeal. Too technical a book, whilst accurate and encompassing, will not be embraced by the public. Yet if the science is presented too simply the meaningful impact and ramifications will certainly be lost. Arianrhod treads this line very carefully, having at least as much historical context and anecdontes as scientic content. At times she goes far into details, but only long enough to give an awe-inspiring appreciation for the work these men have done, and how they have shaped our modern world.

A good read. Don't be concerned about the physics; it is well explained.


5. A Bridge Across Forever, Richard Bach

Years and years ago I read Bach's breakththough title, Jonathon Livingston Seagull. This book is a few down the track, and chronicles the search for this soul mate and eventual marriage. Although autobiographical it is mostly written as story rather than fact, making it an easily approchable light read.

That is, until the last part of the book. Bach starts off self absorbed, self centered and he knows it. He openly warns his lovers that he will only look after himself, and not to be too concerned should they never see him again. It's his way. For the 1970's west coast Amercian setting this makes perfect sense. How he eventually comes to commit to a (standard) exclusive marriage is the bulk of the story. The last part describes his and his wife's exploration into alternative lives, spiritual oneness and other New Age fantasies (although not acknowledged as such). At this point, I just wanted him to stop. The tone moved from story telling to preaching, and I found his lack of credit and explanation both frustrating and annoying.

A nice read, ruined by the last 50 pages. Richard Bach is a fruit cake.


6. The High Impact Church, Linus Morris

When we lived in Amsterdam we were members of Crossroads International Church. Being part of that body of believers was one of the most enriching and growing experiences I've ever had. At one time we even looked into joining their parent missions organisation, Christian Associaties, the president of which is the author of The High Impact Church.

This book is similiar in intent to The Purpose Driven Church. Both attempt to answer the question, how do we present Christ to people today, in a way that they will understand? HIC answers this by looking at church structures and programmes, as well as the underlying philosophies of reaching people, and the way to "do" church. I felt that this book, whilst useful, was sometimes too ingrained in a particular mould or set of expectations. At times Morris seemed to allow for local interpretation but more as a variation of the standard theme, than a different expression of the same theme. He seemed to often get bogged down in details of structure.

I'm sure that in many churches this will be a useful tool. It does give a lot of good "kick off" points for transforming a church into a more modern, approchable, relevant community. Worth taking a look at it.


7. Hamlet, William Shakespeare

I posted on this one a few days ago. A wonderful read. Shakespeare is so enriching. If you've studied Shakespeare in high school, I'd really encourage you to pick it up again. I think as you learn more about life, your appreciation the characters situations and how they chose to resolve them changes and deepens.

Well, that's about it. I may at some point expand on each of these - particularly The Purpose Drive Life and The High Impact Church. A comparison of thier approaches to modern church life and structure would, perhaps, be quite interesting.

Blessings,
pk

Playing with templates

Not really a very interesting post. More of a time marker for myself. What the "cool" kids call a meme, I think..

I've been playing with my blog template today, trying to incorporate an easy way to get the post summaries to work, and not having to edit too much HTML.
Click the post title to continue reading...
It looks like I might have actually succeeded. From now on, I'll try and keep the post summaries at useful level. Those interested enough can always click on through for the Big Picture.

pk

Books 2: Hamlet, William Shakespeare

Actually, this about book 7, but I haven't had the time to write up the others to my own content. Even this is a bit rough, and not fully thought out. Sorry!

The last time I actually read through some Shakespeare was back in high school. Over five years I think I must have looked at more than a dozen plays, between English (and English Literature for graduation), and drama studies. Of course, Hamlet featured strongly in my final year. Our teacher was an ex-university Literature professor whose passion was clear but communication was poor. Despite having a very literary, annotated version of arguably Shakespeare’s greatest work, if not his most well-known, at 16 I don’t think I really “got it”.
Click the post title to continue reading...

So, after seeing it on my bookshelf out it came. At more than double the age at which I first read it I think I understand more of what Hamlet is going on about, and whole point Shakespeare is trying to make.

Firstly through a few thoughts:

• I didn’t realise that Hamlet contains so many quotations and “proverbs” we use today, even without knowing it. (It’s quite possible that they were common in Shakespeare’s day as well.)
• There is an enduring debate about Hamlet’s motivations and madness. Until this rereading I was quite content to believe in Hamlet’s madness as the source of Shakespeare to allow him to do anything he wanted. Now though, it’s not so clear cut. I don’t actually think that Hamlet goes mad at all during the play. He gets mad, most certainly, and he acts in rash ways that any of us could, under the pressures placed on him and he places on himself. However I don’t think he actually crosses the line into irrationality. He is very clever.
• The play is over very quickly. Sure, it’s long, but that’s not what I mean. There is a big, big build up to the climax – the sword fight – but it arrives almost out of nowhere, and as soon as it’s over, so is the play.

Whilst all of this is interesting, I want to look in depth at another aspect of the play – what it is that causes Hamlet so much grief in the first place. At the outset, a ghost appears claiming to be his father, the old king, who died not long before. His mother (Gertrude) has since remarried his uncle (Claudius), who just so happens to be the new king. Understandably, Hamlet is upset at this turn of events. The ghost tells Hamlet that he was murdered by his uncle, and that he must revenge his father’s death.

Ok, stop right there. What would you do? In Shakespeare’s day revenge was perfectly ok, a natural part of life and death. Would you revenge your father? Would you wimp out? It is, after all, killing the king, too.

Much has been made of Hamlet’s delay and considerations. He chooses to verify the ghost’s claim, and then act on it if necessary. In the meantime, he ponders the meaning of life and death – what does it mean to be alive? So many expectations and pressures have just been placed on him. Is life worth this much trouble? Eventually he feels caught by the situation, he wants to avenge his father’s murder, but he does not want to kill.

Hamlet’s response is to go through with it. He takes out his anger and suspicion on a head of state and friend of the family (Polonius), and eventually in the dual that gets him killed. However, I think there are better responses. At least, I think there is a Christian response that must be considered.

Jesus said, Give to Caesar what is his; Give to God what is His (Matt 22:17). Jesus was talking about money here. The implication being that we must pay our taxes, be good citizens, and uphold peace and order. Likewise, we need to honour God, love and serve Him, and do that all He expects of us. However, God is god of Caesar, too.

The same might apply to our morals and duties and the expectations of others that have sway over us. There needs to be a pecking order, so to speak, of the people to whom we give our time and energies. As with Jesus’ instruction, God is at the top of that. Underneath fall the government and those who are in positions of power over us, our employers, our family members and other people who speak into our lives.

Hamlet’s tragedy is that he lets his society, and particularly the ghost of his father for whom he longs dictate his path. He talks about it. He talks about the uselessness of all talk and no action (another major theme in the play). He eventually falls into action as it overcomes him, rather than seeking it out himself. Without a Godly perspective he looses sight of better options. The only ones he has lead to death, and guilt, and more pain.

Doesn't that still happen when we lose sight of God?

Questions, questions, questions!

Ok, so I stole this from my friend Heather's blog. But at least it's an entry that is not going to take the usual 10+ hours of writing, rewriting, thinking and reworking. I really should learn to be less precise!

1. How old where you when you had your first kiss?
   I honestly can't remember. I probably received my first kiss when I was a few minutes old. I probably gave my first kiss when I was few years old. My first romantic kiss would've been more like 16, I think.
   
   
2. What do you think is your best feature?
   My mind.
   
   
3. What is your favorite breed of dog?
   Jack Russell Terror. But they take a lot of work!
   
   
4. If you could attend only one Olympic event, which would it be?
   Hmmm... Probably swimming.
   
   
5. If you could invite any movie star to your home for dinner, who would it be?
   Probably Sidney Poitier
   
   
6. If you where a car what kind would you be?
   I'd love to have a MGB. It really is my dream car. However, I think I would probably be a station wagon of some kind. Practical & reliable. Everything the MG isn't!
   
   
7. What is your favorite number?
   16. Not surprisingly my birthday.
   
   
8. Which Disney character are you most like?
   I don't know enough about Disney movies to really comment. Perhaps Marlin, Nemo's dad.
   
   
9. If a movie was made about you, who would play you?
   Why would somebody make a movie about me?
   
   
10. Have you ever been out of the country and, if yes, where? (list all places)
    Lots of times. New Zealand. Indonesia. The Netherlands. Belgium. Germany. England. Scotland. Switzerland. Spain. France. Portugal. USA. Australia.
    
    
11. How many times have you flown in an airplane in the last twelve (12) months?
    Zero. Zip. None. Nada.
    
    
12. If you were in a car sinking in a lake, what would you do first?
    Take a deep breath.
    
    
13. If you where stuck at one age for the rest of your life, what age would you want it to be?
    About 30. Just enough wisdom to be out of my arrogant youth. Still enough energy to make a good fist of things.
    
    
14. What is the weirdest thing that has ever happened to you?
    Hmm... interesting. Lots of things crop up as strange, but nothing really as the weirdest. Perhaps having our luggage gone through numerous times by customs, for no apparent reason, at various airports.
    
    
15. What is the "coolest”" (or most unique) thing you have ever done?
    Planning to live in Europe for two years. Staying for seven. Making the best friends I've ever had, deepening my relationship with God, and having a child all along the way.
    
    
16. What is the scariest thing that has ever happened to you?
    Being in a car accident. The back end of a tow truck scraped along the drivers side (*me*) of our car, bending the chassis, and breaking both axles. Glass in your underwear is not a pleasant experience.
    
    
17. Have you ever gone skinny-dipping?
    Yes. Its not as fun as its cracked up to be.
    
    
18. What is your favorite restaurant to eat at?
    As we don't really have the funds to go out at the moment, I don't really have one. Perhaps eating a really good meal at home. With good friends, lovely food and wine, and great conversation.
    
    
19. What is your favorite non-alcoholic drink?
    Coffee. Virtually anything with caffiene.
    
    
20. What is your biggest pet peeve?
    Bad driving. Particularly people that pull up next to you when you're trying to cross a dual carriage way. Its just plain rude, not to mention dangerous.
    
    
21. What is the weirdest thing you have ever eaten?
    African cuisine. Small piles of indescribable delicacies, all on a kind of thin bread / pancake base. You'd tear off a bit of the pancake, scoop up some topping and eat. A wonderfully social way of eating.
    
    
22. If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what song would you want it to be?
    Only one? That would be torture. So many to chose from. Probably one of the following: Brahms, Cello Sonata in E; Steely Dan, Peg; Paul Simon, Kodachrome; or anything from Sting, Oscar Peterson or Paul Kelly.
    
    
23. If you had to change your name, what would you change it to?
    xan
    
    
24. What is the best book you have ever read?
    The Bridge of Birds, by Barry Hughart.
    
    
25. What is the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
    Their height.
    
    
26. What is the one thing you want to do before you die?
    Record an album. Mostly bass solos and my own songs.
    
    
27. What is the most outrageous thing you would love to do?
    Record and play with any number of very talened musicians, and go on tour.
    
    
28. What is your favorite board game?
    The Settlers of Catan.
    
    
29. If you could have any job, what would it be?
    Running a church arts ministry. I used to limit this to just the music side, but I realise that my interests are so much more. Especially in terms of integrating the different arts.
    
    
30. What, in your opinion, is the worst way to die?
    Alone.
    
    
31. If a genie granted you three wishes, what would you wish for?
    1. Never to have too much, nor too little. (Proverbs 30:8-9)
    2. To always be assured of a friendship I can rely on. (Joshua 1:5)
    3. To continue to learn and improve myself.
    Hang on, aren't these God's promises? ;-)
    
    
32. If you could go anywhere in the world where would you go?
    Back to Europe. And live there. For good.
    
    
33. What is one thing you could not go more than a week without?
    Coffee!!
    
    
34. In the last three years, what is one thing you would have done differently?
    Not sold our apartment in The Netherlands.
    Stayed in The Netherlands.
    Got a job I wanted, rather than one I needed.
    
    
35. What is, in your opinion, your most appealing quality?
    My mind - although that is fairly arrogant!
    

If you'd like me to interview you, and ask you a few questions, add a non-anonymous comment to this post and I'll send some questions over!

Zoe Alina

Ok, so here's the little thing that's been keeping me from blogging the last month. Zoe was born 9 June, at 9.38pm. All is well. Praise God for a wonderful little girl!


Zoe Alina


Pappa, Xander and Zoe


Three day old feet

Books 1: Wild At Heart

Part of my goals for 2005 is to read and review 12 books. Here's the first one, completed in January. Writing the review was the hard part!

Wild at Heart. John Eldridge.

I was originally put on to this book by my pastor and friend Brian Newman, back in Amsterdam. It was the “book of the month” at our current church sometime last year. Only in January did I have the take the time to work through it.

I think Wild at Heart is a valuable book in the discovery of authentic Christian masculinity. Eldridge recognizes that masculinity in general is at a crossroads. In our efforts to recognize the importance of femininity, and embrace equality between the sexes, we have removed the need for the differences of the sexes. It could be argued that Masculinity has been ravished at the expense of Femininity. As Eldridge puts it, “We teach boys to be soft and kind and caring, and then complain that there are no real men. Where are all the men, we ask. Why, you asked them to be women.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the Equality movement. I do earnestly believe that women and femininity hold a very important place in the world; but only in balance with men and masculinity. The two must go hand in hand. I’m not talking about gender roles here, or societal stereotypes. I’m talking about how God made the male and female psyche different and unique. We need to recognize and value those differences, rather than dictate that everyone need necessarily become an undefined mix

As is not unexpected, Eldridge has come under criticism for open theology, unbiblical views of manhood and womanhood, simplicity, and a whole host of other attacks. What he attempts is to free the idea of manhood of preconceived ideas, and wonders what it could be like if fully placed under the authority of God. I don’t agree with all that he has to say. However too often we find ourselves conforming to the expectations around us, rather than placing receiving our worth from God, and those He loves. This is just another arena which requires salvation.

Well worth the time, even if you disagree.

The Music In My Head

I’ve just realized that something I do may not be all that normal… (OK, so maybe its not just the one thing. Please, no snide remarks!)

It’s very natural for me to sing my way through a day. A song gets stuck in my head, or perhaps snippets of a song. A couple of lines, the chorus, part of a verse that leads into it, the bridge perhaps. Often I really only know that section well enough to be comfortably assured I’ve got it right. Or it might be new lyrics I’m toying with, trying to mould them into some kind of basis for a song. Under my breath, whilst I’m doing something else or trying to concentrate on something more dutiful, there, in the back of my mind, a song keeps repeating, like a needle jumping on an old 33.

At the moment, its John Mayer’s "Daughters":

Fathers be good to your daughters
They learn to love like you do
Girls become lovers, who turn into mothers
So mothers be good to your daughters too.

Beautiful, concise and meaningful. As we move towards our second child, I wonder whether I’ll need to take this to heart.

Caving

(An experiment in descriptive prose)

I’ve just replaced the CD in the player. “Idea of North” – a cappella and finger snaps in soft, relaxing jazz. Music with real tunes, and beats content to keep time and to play a part in a much larger whole, without the need to dominate and control. Being on holiday is such a restful change.

Alice and I went caving today. It was more of a whim than a plan. We were passing the entrance on our way to looking for something to do and decided to stop. As we pulled into the gravel road I was amazed how different and commercial caving had become. When I was there more than ten years ago there was only a simple, locked gate and a warning sign. Although I’m sure we could’ve jimmied the lock, we moved on to some other cave for classical guitar and semi-spiritual experience. Eddie Brickel, actually, I think it was. Me, I’m a part of your circle of friends…

But today was different: toilets to the right, reception straight ahead. Reception? At a cave? Through the portal cut into a simple wooden shed, a woman greeted us with a genuine smile, honestly asking if she could help. I explained we were interested in the entering the cave, and she ran us through the procedure: hard hats; torches; no food or drink. Keep to the path; don’t touch the walls. Fine, I said, and she grabbed a pen to write a receipt for our entry. Since when did you have to pay to enter a cave?

The path to the gate was easy enough; the steps further down into the cave a little steeper. At the platform were signs. One reminded us of the rules, one had a map, and one described the cave’s opening. Go left first, she had said. There are more natural light holes. It gives your eyes times to adjust. So down we went, to the left.

The next platform showed us the abseiling area. A round wooden target, placed somewhat beneath a gap in the ceiling, barely large enough to scramble through. The dark further down started to encroach on the faint light our torches threw out.

The paths were wooden and steel, and they made little sound beneath our sneakers. At times the waist high hand rails left the path and it’s occupants to their own devices, only to catch up later when (ironically) the going became easier. The rails sank with the ceiling, at times only knee height, if that. When crouched, they weren’t much use, except perhaps to sit on and admire the view.

At first the torches seemed useless: far too dim to be of any real use in the dark. But as our eyes adjusted, the faint electric light grew to be appreciated, even loved; their power magnified by the absolute lack of any other source. How drenched we are in illumination!

After scrambling up and down, high and low, we reached the civilized cave’s end. A small, static merry-go-round of benches invited in the darkness. Yet another sign echoed my thoughts: Sit. Turn off the light. Listen. Experience the originality of a cave.

The utter pitch is hard to describe. Even black paint has a shine and reflection that a cave surpasses. Closing your eyes brought only a physical change – the sensation of eyes being shut – there was no difference in their record. “Blackness”, “darkness” do not describe it adequately, such was the complete lack of light. Eyes became superfluous.

But sound was constant. The only way to navigate, to place yourself amongst your surrounds, was by the ever “drip, drop”, as stalactites edged their way towards their stalagmite children. Here. Now behind. To the left or the right. The sounds of the droplets pierced the darkened silence like a magician stabbing swords into a box containing his quietly terrified assistant. Each dropped alone – not to be repeated for hours, perhaps days, as the water seeped through the soil and rock above. In between, the dark engulfed all other senses.

Turning on the torches we were eager to see the cascade of droplets, as though the sound was not satisfying enough. But it was easier to wish than watch. We’d concentrate on globules surely heavy enough to warrant the trip, and to our amazement they hung to their pillared parents for grim life, whilst all around their siblings dared rush down. Eventually our patience paid off, with a fraction of a second’s joy, and the complimentary ‘drip’ as our adopted droplet plunged to its fate. Alice commented how they sounded as finger tips on the edge of marimba notes. I was just awed at another symphony of nature.

English with Mr. Brown

When I was 14 I had a Science teacher named Mr. Brown. He was your typical mad scientist - and yet as stern as could be. As a teacher he was a total control freak! On top of it all he spoke with such a thick Scottish accent that it was sometimes hard to understand what he was saying. We all called him "Ma Brun".

On one particular day my English teacher was away sick, so Mr. Brown took us for English. To this day I have no idea why. He even had the class relocate to his science lab. We were discussing the English language - its size, parts thereof and so on. One question he asked was, "How big is English? How many words do you think there are?" Some kids said 10,000, 100,000 or maybe more, and Mr. Brown just kept telling them they were wrong. I suggested that English really is infinite. New words are being invented and used every day; words that didn't exist years ago, or even yesterday. It’s a growing, moving, changing language.

I was so berated by Mr. Brown that at the end of the lesson I left the classroom virtually in tears. I thought my answer may have appealed to his scientific mindset. Evidently not.

Ma Brun went on to tell us how stupid we all were. He guessed that there were about 50 million (or some such number) words in the English language, and that we probably only knew a few hundred thousand.

TC&GB, pk

Boiling Water

This is based on a real event, although nothing nearly as an antagonistic! It's also an experiment in really short fiction. I set myself a maximum of 500 words here.

He insisted on re-boiling the kettle.

“It’s only just boiled”, I said.

“I know”, he said, yet he continued to hold down the button, forcing the overworked element to reignite within the already bubbling water. I wondered what it was he was trying to achieve. I mean, how much more boiled can water be? It obviously believed it was hot enough for his waiting tea bag. I stood and looked at my brewing coffee. It was all I could do not to point out his obvious lack of confidence in the kettle.

“You’re in the IT department, aren’t you?” he asked. He continued to hold the button down as the water raised its voice.

“Yeah. I’m working on a new version of the Package Manager.”

“Oh great. It’s not doing what it should be doing. The calculations are broken. I can’t get it to agree with my numbers.”

“Oh, I see. Well, can you send me through an example? I’ll have a look at it, but I can’t guarantee anything. Everything gets checked before it goes out, you know.”

“Yeah sure, but I hope you find the bug soon – I can’t really trust it, you know?”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know if I find anything.” I left. I couldn’t wait for this guy to re-boil his water.

The coffee renewed my brain cells. Ah, sweet ambiance of caffeine, what would I do without you? Moments later an email came through from Mr Faithless Technology:

Just met you in the kitchen. Can’t find figures at the mo, but please check car
insurance calculations. They don’t add up.

And that was it. No name, no details, no examples. Just, “It’s wrong.” Thanks very much.

Nevertheless I looked at the program, running a few of my own tests as well as the official testing script. No problems. It made me wonder what was going on. Was there a special case we might have missed? How was he calculating the figures? The method wasn’t simple, but it was well known. I decided to let it go; discretion is the better part of valour, and all that.

A couple of days later we crossed again in the kitchen. He was still holding down the kettle’s button.

“Hi. Did you find that problem?”

“No, nothing yet. I’ve run all the usual checks. I was wondering if you had a chance to find your calculations.”

“Oh, no. I’ve moved on from that to the health insurance group. I think there might be some problems there, too.” He finally relieved the kettle of its boiling.

“Ok. Well, same deal: send through an example and we’ll have a look at it.” I decided my coffee could wait.

“We really need to get a new kettle, you know”, he called out as I opened the door.

Enjoying Worship

Phil's note: This was kindly published here, with some additions and alterations. Check it out for a version I'm happier with, but still not really complete!

At music rehearsal on Monday night, we had quite a discussion about what our expectations were when we come to play at a service. It was an interesting exchange of ideas. Concurrently, and totally unrelated, another interesting discussion has been going on in ChurchBass about Performance vs Worship. (I need to read more of that thread!) Here are a few ideas.

Worship is not about you. It's about God.
How many times have you said, or heard said, "I got a lot of the worship today", or "The worship didn't feel that great today"? Sorry, but that's entirely the wrong attitude! Worship is for God - to proclaim Him as God. Its not about getting a nice, warm fuzzy feeling. Its about putting God in his rightful place, regardless of how we feel about it.

Sometime I think that we expect the order of events to be:

Worship -> Good Feelings -> Presence of God

That is, if through our worship we get good feelings, and deduce that we have sensed the presence of God. I think this is the wrong way around. What is the purpose of worship? To raise up another, not yourself. Do you cheer on a football team to feel good about yourself, or to encourage and raise up the team? So:

Worship -> Presence of God -> Good Feelings

That is, our worship should remind us and instill in us the presence of God, out of which flow the good feelings.

Compare this with James' theology of faith and works.

NOT: works-> salvation -> faith
BUT: faith -> salvation -> works

By our faith in Christ we are saved. God himself came to us. It is out of our salvation that good works come. The works are our response to God, they do not justify us to God.

So I think it is with worship. The goal of worship shouldn't be the nice feelings, it should be putting God in His rightful place. However, out of that adoration of God good feelings may come. But if they don't, that's ok, because our feelings are not what worship is all about. We are secondary. God must be put in his rightful place.

This has a couple of ramifications:

Worship is not just music!
This first point is very important. Anything that puts God in his rightful place in our lives is worship. So often we've (I've!) restricted the idea of worship to just music, or even a particular style of music. But if worship is about God, then its more than what we do, or how we do what we do.

Style becomes irrelevant, and may even be an hindrance!
Me, I'm a jazz / funk man, myself. I get great enjoyment through playing and listening to that kind of music. Worshipping through that style is great fun for me. However, in doing so, I can actually focus more on the music, and less God. Hence, my worship becomes of the music - not God. Any music, or dance, or reading, or anything, that puts God above all, where He belongs, is worship.

Worship is much more varied than I have ever experienced!
The last point I want to make is this: Any way that I can put God first in my life is worship. It doesn't have to be singing. It doesn't have to be in a Church, or in a service, or even amongst other believers. I can worship God by remembering His attributes whilst driving. I can worship by evaluating a sitcom on TV, and reflecting on how it matches up with His plan for my life. I can worship by stopping writing in my blog, and getting back to doing some work!

Explore different ways of worship, and let me know how you get on.
pk

Goals: Scriptures 3 of 12

Worship: You were planned for God's Pleasure

Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all you mind and with all your strength.

Mark 12: 30

(This is the second of the memory verses from the 40 Days.)

The Vicious Circle - a new ending

Over at InFuze they've run a competition to provide a new ending to Matt Bronleewe's story, The Vicious Circle. Here is my new ending to the story. Its not as polished as I would've liked, but it will do. I guess this counts as my first piece of fiction for the year. Yay! Warning: its not particuarly "Christian". In fcat, you could see it as a tradgedy, of sorts. And it kind of makes fun of the whole pulp fiction genre. There are some seriously corny lines in there!

Really, you should go on to InFuze, and sign up. Its free, and is a wonderful mix of arts: interviews, reviews, writing, poetry, art. The only thing its missing is a music section! ;-) (Then again, I might be biased...)

Hank looked away. “Sid.”

“Hank”, said Sid, spitting out the word. His anger burned within his overcoat. “How could you, Hank? I’m your life. You can’t throw me away.”

“Sid, this isn’t the time...”

“Oh yes it is Hank. You and your precious Circle are all here.” Sid looked around the group. “Thirteen isn’t so lucky, is it?”

F.R. smiled charmingly. “Well now gentlemen, I’m sure we can sort this out later. Tell us about yourself, Sid. Something perhaps, we don’t already know?”

“Alright, old man.” Sid twirled around as he spoke, ensuring he was the centre of attention. “But let’s start with what you do know. Sid Little: investigator gone bad; loner; thief; murderer. Murdered. What don’t you know? You don’t know what’s next, do you?”

For once the group was silent. Hank moved cautiously to P.R.’s side, leaving Sid alone. He turned to B.Z.

“Let’s see, how did you kill me?” B.Z. cowered like a bad theory exposed for its flaws. “I remember: electrocution! ‘Quick and painless’ you called it. Don’t be so sure, B.Z!” In one smooth action, as he had performed before to Hank’s amusement, Sid shoved a taser at his throat. B.Z. lurched forward, arching his back, and slumped down lifelessly.

Those beside B.Z. jumped out of their seats in shock. I.L. rushed to his side, hoping something could be done for him. P.R. began to softly whimper.

Sid moved his attention to T.L. “And you T.L.? Let me tell you hanging is not quick, and not painless, and not a very nice way to kill. Even the hardened criminal you made of me.” He moved to H.P. “Flattened by an anvil? Surely H.P., you could come up with something more original!”

One by one Sid reminded them of their murderous methods. Steamroller. Train wreck. Car crash. Finally he came to P.R. His hands moved to the coat’s deep pockets.

“Ah, P.R! A bullet to the heart.” He stepped back to the centre, keeping his gaze firmly on her. “Let’s see what you think!” He pulled a revolver from his pocket and fired cleanly at her. P.R. grasped her chest and her heroine within swooned, falling gracefully to the floor. Hank gently cradled her to the floor, but the fire in his eyes leapt at Sid, who staggered in the circle’s center. P.R and B.Z.’s deaths were clearly affecting him. Hank’s body followed his eyes, and another shot echoed amongst the tomes. Hank fell, bleeding from his stomach.

Sid ran to the shelves, hiding himself again amongst the pages. C.K. and T.H. pursued, but the long, dimly lit aisles were easy to hide in. Returning to B.Z.’s body they silently comforted one another, cherishing the experience for literary advantage.

“Sid,” cried Hank. “Get out here! This is no way to behave. I know you. I wrote you! You’re no coward.”

From behind the group gathered around B.Z. came a slow creaking, and the eventual cascade of wood and books. Panting, Sid stepped out of the dust, kicking away hardbacks. Beneath a pile of “Who’s Who”’s, and “Literary Journal”’s, lay I.L., T.L., T.H., C.K. and H.P. – flattened like a pancake. The weight of their success had finally proved too much. Surveying the bodies Sid faltered, each death making him frailer.

P.K. rose from attending to Hank and P.R. “This has gone far enough, Sid.” He ran towards him, and Sid retreated once more to the library’s obscurity. P.K. lunged and managed to grab his coattails. Blow after blow fell as they struggled for control, but P.K. was no match for his younger opponent, despite his apparent exhaustion. Sid picked him up and shoved him through the window, into empty space.

F.R tried hopelessly to alert security. He turned to Sid, hoping to bluff him. “I’ve contacted the police, Sid,” he said, holding his mobile aloft, “There’s no way out now. And,” he added thoughtfully, “We’ll profit from this experience. You’re every writers dream!”

“Consider this your nightmare!” Sid staggered towards him. Grabbing one of the empty chairs, he broke it across the old man. F.R. crumpled like a fresh rejection slip.

Sid fell too, and his gaze fixed firmly on his author – the first and final.

“What’s happening to you, Sid? You’re fading. I can’t see you real well. You’re barely an outline!”

Sid looked down at himself. Each of his writer’s deaths sapped something from him. Still, he was resolved to finish what he came for. What he had written himself into those other, pitiful scripts for. If Hank wanted nothing more to do with him, then he would have no more of Hank. He would not be a minor player in some other plot!

Sid let out a scream of rage, and pummeled into Hank. Blow after blow fell. Finally, when he could issue no more, he fell to Hank’s side.

“Why, Sid? You’re just a character, no more.” Hank slurred. Blood trickled from his mouth.

“I am more.” Sid protested, “I’ve got to be more.”

“Sometimes Sid, you’ve got to let go of the past.” Hank slumped, leaving his last breath behind.

And Sid vanished. The Vicious Circle was closed.

The Vicious Circle

Over at InFuze they've run a competition to provide a new ending to Matt Bronleewe's story, The Vicious Circle. He has gracioulsy given me permission to repost the original story here. My new ending is in the next post (above, given Blogger's ordering!) Enjoy.

Really, you should go on to InFuze, and sign up. Its free, and is a wonderful mix of arts: interviews, reviews, writing, poetry, art. The only thing its missing is a music section! ;-) (Then again, I might be biased...)

"Everyone," said F.R. Tillenbaum, chairman of the Vicious Circle, New York City's most notable collection of fiction writers, "I'm happy to announce we have a new member."

A man stood, his red flannel shirt standing in sharp contrast to the wash of autumnal browns and grays of the other twelve people in the room. "My name is Hank Henegarde," he said, scrubbing the spit from his glasses with his fingers and the tip of his untucked shirt. "I'm from Montana. And I'm very excited to be here."

"What's your pseudonym?" asked P.R. Remmington, a sullen, young wisp of a girl that had just managed to land the Man Booker Prize for her debut novel: All's the Trouble that's Trouble with Trouble.

"I'm sorry, miss, do you mean a pen name?"

"Yes."

"I don't use one. I want people to know that it's me, that I'm a normal person, just like them."

"Well, you're going to want one now," said P.R., gazing at her colleagues for support. They nodded, concurred. "Manhattan is best enjoyed under the gauze of anonymity," she concluded. The Circle smiled in unison, hundreds of teeth glowing white in the dimness of the SoHo coffeehouse they had abducted for the evening.

F.R. rushed to Hank's aid, not wanting their newest and biggest-selling author to leave after only his first night. "There, there, P.R. I doubt we need to give advice to Hank. After all, his last ten novels have collectively sold over twenty million copies." He turned to Hank. "Is that right? Twenty million? Good golly, man! Why bother coming to New York? You could have built your own city right there in Montana!"

Hank took his seat again, hoping the initiation would end soon. "I'm here because I want to take my career in a new direction. I'm writing the eleventh and final book in my series, and... " he trailed off, a tension-artist at work.

"And what?" asked T.L. Blakely, a stately chap whose love for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had influence both his writing and his fanciful, if anachronistic, attire.

"And..." Hank held the note like a soprano. "I'm killing Sid Little."

Everyone gasped.

"You can't possibly mean that," said P.R., masking her glee in having a front row seat to Hank's career destruction. "I've never read one of your thrillers," she said, giving the word 'thrillers' as much disdain as she could muster. "But even I have heard of Sid Little. You know that killing him off is suicide, right?"

Hank felt for a minute that P.R. was actually beginning to like him. "Yes," he said. "It's exactly that. It's my way out. Sid dies and I'm done. El finito. Off to greener pastures."

A shaved-head Philip K. Dick apostle named P.K. Richards leaned forward into the light. "Does this 'greener pasture' have a name?" he asked.

Hank unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and rolled it up. There, tattooed across his bicep, were two words: AMBULANCE BREAD.

"Ambulance Bread? Is that a book title? Is that your 'greener pasture', as you put it?" postulated T.L., in a brilliant stroke of deductive reasoning, if he didn't say so himself.

"Bingo! Ambulance Bread is a complete departure from anything I've done in the past! It's not a thriller. No one gets shot or beheaded or pistol-whipped," said Hank, who held a certain penchant for doing all three in the course of a single paragraph. "There will, however, be a horse that falls out of a second-story window and breaks all of its legs," he added parenthetically.

"Well, that sounds just great, Hank!" chortled F.R., not remembering ever witnessing an author in both the glorious zenith and twilight of their career. "I bet you'll have a lot more to tell us in the months ahead. Now, on to some unfinished business from last week..."

The meeting lasted another two hours, a mixture of caffeine and apathy. Hank left after shaking everyone's hand, the expressions on their faces bearing the same likeness as the mourners at his father's funeral. He wondered on the way to his dime-sized apartment whether or not he was making the right choice to kill Sid Little. Stripping down in front of his bathroom mirror, seeing the tattoo on his arm, he realized that the choice had already been made; he simply had to follow through.

The month that followed was grueling. Sid Little stood like a barrier between Hank and the Canaan-land of Ambulance Bread. To get there, Sid had to be slaughtered, burnt like an offering. The pages of Book Eleven: Deathwish Granted! slid by at glacier speed, Hank relishing the moment when he could finally vanquish Sid from the literary world forever. And then, to his utter amazement and joy, it happened, on page 287:

Sid reached to open the door, knowing that the person waiting on the other side was THE ONE: the person responsible for ruining the last decade of his life. It could end. Tonight. Sid opened the door. "It's you!" he cried.

BANG! The shot rang out like a cannon.

Sid fell to the ground. Dead.

The typewriter felt like a dagger in Hank's hands. It was complete. The next hundred pages practically wrote themselves, a mishmash of familiar faces from the ten previous adventures, all huddled over the mounded dirt of Sid Little's grave.

Hank sat back in his chair and breathed the air of a free man. The flowing milk and honey of Ambulance Bread was close at hand. He would begin in three months, after a brief sabbatical to study up on ambulances and bread.

The next meeting of the Vicious Circle met in an inner sanctum of MoMA, home to some of the most beloved specimens of creativity in the world. The chairs -- which numbered thirteen -- were again set in-the-round, though B.Z. Quain, the group's resident fictional-science-as-social-commentary writer, reminded them it was actually a triskaidecagon.

"And thanks again for that dazzling insight, B.Z.," began F.R. "Now, why don't we begin with Hank telling us how things are going for Sid Little?"

Hank beamed. "He's dead."

The room was flooded in a lush sangria of applause and bravos: everyone was elated at the news. It was as if the very notion of the thriller novel had been extinguished in that instant, its replacement the heady tomes of oblique metalinguistics.

"So on to, what was it? Ambulance Bread?" asked P.R. coyly. She was beginning to become enamored with Hank, a man who was willing to throw everything away for the sake of higher art.

"Yes, yes, Hank. Tell us how Ambulance Bread is coming along," said P.K., rubbing his stubbled head like a man who'd just been shaved for lice.

"Oh," said Hank, sorry to disappoint, "I haven't started yet. I'm taking a short break to do some research."

"On what?" inquired T.L., who appeared to be wearing a monocle.

"On ambulances and bread, of course."

"Very funny!" said F.R., slapping Hank's leg. "Good one! Best be getting on to other things. But keep us updated, Hank."

The meeting slogged on until midnight. The MoMA nightwatchman walked them out, locking the door behind them. Hank said his goodbyes and hailed a cab. He stepped inside to disembark when B.Z. popped into view.

"Care to share the ride?"

"You're the triskaidecagon guy, right?" Hank said with a grin. "Sure. Couldn't hurt to save a few dollars."

The taxi bolted from its position, causing both men in the back seat to grab at the handles above the door.

"There's something I need to tell you," said B.Z. "It's about Sid Little."

Hank looked puzzled. "What about Sid?"

"He's... I'm not sure how to say this... he's in my book."

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I," said B.Z. "Let me backtrack: I've been working on a new story for the better part of the last five years. It's about the seminal data that spills out from distant black holes, but it's really about moral ambiguity. Anyway, my main character is a MIT grad named Bob Zamber."

"I'm guessing that's what B.Z. stands for?"

"No. The B.Z. doesn't stand for anything."

"Really?"

"Really. But here's the problem," said B.Z., "this morning when I turned on my computer to do some revising, my story had a new chapter. With Sid."

"And you didn't write it?" Hank asked, already mentally dialing the number for his attorney. "Sid Little is my intellectual property, you know."

"Yes! Of course I know!" B.Z. said, becoming quite animated. "It gets worse. Sid wasn't as nice as he was in your novels."

"You've read my novels?"

"Everyone in the group has. Though they would never admit it," B.Z. said, flushed. "Hank, listen to me. Sid did something very bad in my book."

"What?"

"He killed my main character. He killed Bob Zamber."

Hank leaned up through the plastic barrier running through the middle of the taxi. "This is my stop," he told the cabbie. He settled back into the seat, gathering his things. "B.Z., I'm not like the rest of you guys. I'm plainspoken. Normal. I say it how it is. So, if you want Sid to be in your book, I suggest you take it up with my agent. Or my lawyer."

"Hank, you don't understand. I didn't write him in, he just appeared!"

Stepping out of the vehicle, Hank hesitated for one final suggestion. "Then why don't you do what I did? Kill him."

"I'll try that," Hank heard him say as the door slammed shut.

The month that followed exceeded Hank's greatest expectations: mornings were spent in a Guggenheim-designed bread factory located in New Jersey, afternoons were spent in an ambulance that wove like a jetfighter through the bombfield of New York traffic. Hank scribbled notes furiously, each detail providing a new steel girder for the colossal story he was erecting. He'd never been happier, and to that end, as a mental buffer, to ward off any sense of guilt in his newfound pleasure-monging, he imagined that he hadn't killed Sid Little, he'd simply left him behind to wander the wilds of Montana for eternity.

The Vicious Circle chose a meat packing plant as its next meeting place. The floors had been scrubbed spotless, the remaining carcasses hung in neat rows against the back wall. Hank remembered hearing the myriad examples of the significance, none of which came to mind as he entered the room to the pungent odor of cow's blood. He was the last to arrive, and seeing the forlorn visages of the other members, he got the distinct impression there was a reason as to why.

"Hank," began F.R., "we've all been talking, and I've got some bad news."

"What is it?" Hank asked, running the possibilities through his mind, wondering if he'd forgotten to pay the club's quarterly dues.

F.R. hung his head low. "You can't be a part of the Circle anymore."

"I don't understand," said Hank, addressing the group. "I thought we were all becoming... friends. I love it here." Hank gazed around the room, all hooks and beef. "Actually, I don't love it here. I mean I love being a part of the Circle. Did I do something to offend all of you?"

T.H. Ornasis, an esteemed neo-Norse mythologist, spoke first. "The problem isn't you, per se. The problem is Sid."

"Sid? That's preposterous! Sid is a work of fiction!" said Hank.

"Some have said that we are nothing but the fiction of a higher power." P.K. stated, an armchair sage. "Preposterous as it is, your benevolent hero is wreaking havoc! Two days ago, I discovered that the Big Brother of my latest dystopian distillation was none other than Sid Little."

Tears in her eyes, P.R. made her own confession. "I've been writing romance novels on the side. The money is really good!" she said, a preemptive defense. "Last week, Sid showed up as the third member of a love triangle. My heroine is falling for him! My editor is threatening to stop my advance."

"Everyone has had similar experiences," said F.R., cutting the emotional tirade short.

"Even you?"

"F.R. hasn't written a word since his Pulitzer in '68," whispered C. K. Templeton, an F.R. protege.

"We have no other choice but to ask you to leave," said F.R.

"You're wrong," he said. "There's another choice. But it will require all of us working together." He chose his next words carefully. "We all must leave, right now, and write Sid Little out of our lives forever."

"You mean, slay him?" asked T.H., already mentally sharpening his battleaxe.

"Slay. Exterminate. Kill. Yes."

"I'm writing a fictionalized treatise on my dysfunctional childhood," said I.L. Pinkmouth, who hadn't spoken since the day he'd joined the Vicious Circle five years ago. "Last week, Sid turned up in my book as a fifth grade bully. He's a horrible character, but you can't possibly expect me to kill a ten year old!"

"It's the only way," said B.Z. "I should know. I've done it."

The news that B.Z. had murdered Sid - if only fictionally - stung, a knife in his back. But you told him to do it! Hank reminded himself. His own personal destruction of Sid was treasonous, but reconcilable. Involving others, though, brought a new atmosphere to the situation: they were gods, laying waste to an ill-conforming creation.

F.R. took a quick poll. Everyone agreed, by next month, if Sid wasn't gone, Hank had to go. The party disassembled, wordless, only nods and glances exchanged as they disembarked to carry out their dirty deed.

Over the next seven days, Hank's apartment turned into a command center. Phone calls, faxes, and emails came in from every quadrant. Sid was on the run, but they were finding him, cornering him, cutting him off at all borders. Thus far, Sid had been hanged, quartered, hit by a train, struck by a car, electrocuted, knifed by a mime, and, Hank's personal favorite, flattened like a pancake by the cartooning satirist H.P. Joyce. The war was being won, and its primary constructor, five-star-general Hank Henegarde, could feel in his bones that soon Sid's white flag would rise.

Ten days had passed, and no one had heard from Sid. Hank toyed with the idea of writing him into Ambulance Bread, marginalized as a side character, a bum on the street, a carnival barker, a lone tenor in the church choir, but decided against it: a kindly notion but a lousy idea. Maybe I'll dedicate the book to Sid, he thought, notating such in his journal.

The ordeal had opened the door to a relationship with P.R. Her guilt-ridden admission as a closeted romance writer (penned under her actual name: Tiffany Kimbersoul) softening her to a pillowy pulp of her former self. She'd even been spotted wearing pink while out on a date with Hank.

The New York Public Library seemed a fitting setting for the post-war edition of the Vicious Circle. Hank and P.R. entered as a couple, sparking a murmuring din that swelled until F.R. announced the beginning of the meeting.

"Good evening, everyone," said the chairman. "I have two announcements tonight. The first one is this: after ten years of service, I am stepping down. My replacement will be the man who has done more than anyone else to solidify the image of this assemblage: Hank Henegarde."

Hank was stunned at the statement, as was everyone else, though they could not deny its truth. For the first time ever, the distance between the thirteen seats had been bridged, the circle made unbroken. For better or worse, they needed each other.

A consummate gentleman, Hank rose to meet F.R. at the center of the Circle for a handshake, a passing of the torch. Hank could see in the old man's eyes that the act was not entirely selfless. I'm returning to my typewriter, he thought he heard him whisper.

"Wait!" said Hank. "You haven't made your second announcement. What could it possibly be?"

"My retirement from this illustrious body leaves a void to be filled. We have, and always will have, thirteen members." F.R. raised a hand toward the back of the room. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

All eyes turned toward a man walking down the dark hallway of books. He stopped at the edge of the Circle, a tiger about to enter the ring. Hank stared at the man. The man stared back. The two of them bore a striking resemblance: it was as if skilled artisan had taken Hank and chipped away all the bad features to create the man.

"What's your name?" asked Hank.

But he already knew the answer.