Quote #1

Russell looked at him with new respect. “I'm glad to meet your acquaintance.”
“I didn't introduce you to my acquaintance. After all, I think you're my only real acquaintance here, so you're essentially saying that you're glad to meet yourself,” Kyle said.

~From one-of-many-unfinished-stories
P.S. If you think this quote doesn't make any sense, you're not the only one.


NaNo WriMo

Anyone else ever heard about NaNo-WriMo? It is a website designed for National Novel Writing Month. The idea is to write 50,000 words in one month - the month of November. My older sister convinced me that it would be a really fun thing if we did it at the same time, so I signed up for it, wondering what I had just gotten myself into.

It is now the 23 of November, and as yet, my word count reads barely 10,000, a whole 5th of the desired goal. As far as the novel itself goes - well, maybe it would be best to not mention too much about it.

First of all, I started with almost no plot. As I started writing, the plot began to grow in my mind, and I was very satisfied with the direction the story was taking. But then, my characters rebelled against this very basic plot, and all began to fall apart. As I mentioned above, I am a 5th of the way through the novel, and so far, no exciting actions have taken place, the flow is extremely choppy, and, worse, I am no where near touching upon the plot I had in my head.

So why am I wasting valuable time I could be using to write my novel by writing this dismal blog post?

Simply because, despite all the negatives I have encountered, I wouldn't miss the experience I've had, and I think I might be easily persuaded to do it again. My reasoning? Well, just wait until you have tried it yourself....

Excerpt from story:
"Sometimes one can't say all that he thinks," Jeremiah said. Roger turned just at that moment, abandoning a conversation he had jumped into.
"Can't say all that he thinks?" he said thoughtfully. "That's what Ruby, she's my wife, you know, is always telling me! She says, 'Roger,' she says, she always does call me Roger, 'Roger,' she says, 'sometimes it's better not to say what you think.' And I always say, 'but If I'm not to say what me thinks, than I'll be telling a lie!' and Ruby, she's my wife you know, she always says to me, she says, 'Roger, you don't have to say a word!'"
"Your wife is a very wise woman," Jeremiah said.

(c) copyright - November 2009 - Curious Cognitive Content.
(hint: Roger likes to talk.)



In the care instructions for a pot holder: "Iron on lowest setting as needed."
Two questions; first, why would anyone want to iron a pot-holder? And second, if it can't handle the highest temperature setting on an iron, how will it survive handling hot pans straight from the oven?


From the Notebook....

FrA flood of golden leaves pour down,
And cover stone and grass and ground
Till all unseen seems to drown
Beneath that shower of Autumn.

I stand in a forest sparse and bare,
The trees are all shorn of leaf and color
The wind blows now with chilly air
And branches musically bounce together.

The deep, dark blue of the autumn sky,
Is fading now to a vacant grey,
Reluctantly, I turn aside; why
Did autumn have to go away?
Copyright - Curious Cognitive Content (CCC) - October 26, 2009



Have you ever been aware that you think in words? For instance, if you saw a dirty pillow that had to be washed, this recognition would probably not come as a vague impression on your mind, but rather as a sentence, "Gee, this pillow is dirty! I need to wash it!"

What would happen if you were deaf and blind - you had never read English and you had never heard English? Would you think in English? Would words actually be voiced in your thoughts?

I find it very hard for my mind to grasp the concept of thoughts using no words. I am sure that the very thing that makes one thought different from another thought is the way the thoughts are expressed with words in one's brain.

If this were the case, than a person with no knowledge of any spoken language might invent his own language and think in that! What would sound like gibberish to us would make total sense to him, because he has always thought in it!

And now I'm left speechless as I wonder at the gift of speech.....


Walking on a treadmill

There is nothing more discouraging than a day that doesn't seem to get anywhere. I call these the "treadmill-days." I sit down to do school, and I can't seem to make a dent in my pile of homework; I wash the dishes and ten minutes later there's fifteen cups ready for washing; etc.

Today was one of those days. It made me contemplate a real treadmill, one on which one runs and runs to get seemingly no where. And then it hit me; it was only seemingly no where. The person on the treadmill may not be moved through space, but he is moved through time. And if he is diligent to continue on the treadmill day after day, his muscles will slowly become firm and strong.

Those treadmill-days may be wearying, but they are the tools that slowly shape us into the person God wants us to be. If the man on the treadmill said, "Forget this! I'm going to go watch TV!" he might be content for a month or so, but a year later, he might look at himself, and say, "I'm fat! If I only had stuck to that stupid treadmill, I could be lifting boulders by now!"

Am I giving up? Am I busy watching TV instead of persevering in the seeming monotone of life? Could I be lifting boulders right now? The thoughts assailed my mind like bullets from a gun. Then a scripture softly pushed them aside to make itself prevalent.
"And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up...." (Galatians 6:9)



September 11, 2001.

"Two planes just crashed in the the Twin Towers!" Mum broke the news to us as we sat at the dining room table working on school. She had just received a phone call from her mom, who got actual channels on her TV instead of snow storms.
My head looked up in amazement. I had no idea what the Twin Towers were then, but I was pretty certain that a tall white building we always passed on our way to Church was one of them. I couldn't even begin to guess what the second one was.
Mum tried adjusting our radio to a news channel, and as the static cleared away, we heard the grim voices of news reporters. A commercial popped on, I think for some sort of "zone alarm," but the station interrupted it, and its music fell flat. The radio station viewed this news as more important than its main source of income? Everyone knew at once (including stupid little me) that there would be no more school today.

The rest of the afternoon we spent over at my grandmother's house (the one with great TV reception), watching the news as it replayed the pancaking towers, over and over again. I remember seeing the plane crash into the tower, and I watched as the building melted down like paper mache in the rain. I was horrified when I learned that certain specks of flying material were actually people who had jumped from their windows in the hopes of escaping the approaching horror and doom.
I saw a battered fire engine and a melted ambulance, and I'll never forget the scene described by a reporter: walking through a river of blood that was thickened by bodies blown up beyond recognition or belief.

Sometimes silence is better than a carefully thought-out-and-phrased ending. I think now is one of those times.

P.S. For anyone who was curious about the white building I mentioned in the first paragraph, I needn't have worried; it was a comparatively short nursing home quite a few hundred miles away from NYC. We pass by it every Sunday on our way to Church, and probably will for many Sundays to some (God willing).


The Truth in the Lie

I had the weirdest dream last night. But it brought up an interesting question, which I'll get to in a moment.
Basically, in the midst of a whirl of confusion that always comes with dreams, I needed to get some information out of some odd-looking aliens. The problem was, these particular aliens spoke in lies; nothing they said was true - nothing, that is, unless you knew the code. Apparently, if you ignored certain words in just the right pattern, other words would stand out and form a sentence that told the truth. Thankfully, someone knew the right pattern, and was able to teach me, after which I woke up.
So now I am wondering, can someone tell the truth and a lie at the same time? And were these aliens actually bad , or was their intent to tell the truth, but they had to get it out in code?
And if you're wondering why I'm dreaming about aliens, let's just say I watched an old StarTrek movie before bed....


The Mushrooms

When the ground is moist and a warm breeze is blowing over the ground, an odd type of folk begin to grow out of the soil and in every sort of crevice of every sort of stone; folk with curly yellow hair, and wide-brimmed hats. If it sounds at all unusual, that's because it is: these people are mushrooms. I like wandering amongst them and imagining how they would act if they were truly alive.
This summer has been very wet. But where are my little friends hiding?


On the nature of my brain

I rather like to think that I have two blogs for two different sides of me. There is the one side of me that likes tackling math and investigating science and logic, and there is the side of me that enjoys music and art.

And in some ways, I am very correct to think this way, seeing as the division I have made draws a line through my brain, the math/science part of me being my left brain, and my art and music side being more right brain. Or was it the left brain that had musical awareness? I don't remember any more!

So here I am on my right-brain blog. It just so happens that I posted on my left-brain blog earlier today about a very special event that took place 40 years ago. And now my left-brain is overshadowing my right-brain by making it post on its blog as well about this very important anniversary.

All that to bring me to a point (but if this is not technically my left-brain blog, then does it matter if I do illogical rambling at times?): today is the 40th anniversary of the first Moon-walk. I have heard that moon-walking is a type of dancing in which you pretend to move forward, but actually move backwards. But this sort of Moon-walk had no pretense and actually did move us foward - hurtling forward into the century of space flight.

Sadly, there had not been as much space travel as there ought to be (in my left-brain opinion) due to its expensive nature, but NASA is planning on working towards a serious of missions to Mars, so that will be fun.

And here ends my left-brain monopoly and this right-brain muddle of a post.


Don't write anything unless you have a point/plot!!!!

Don't write anything unless you have a point/plot.

This can apply to anything: essays, articles, stories, and - yes- movies. An essay is pointless if it doesn't have a point. If you there is nothing you are trying to prove, no knowledge that you are trying to reveal, your essay will be worth nothing more than rambling. The same applies to articles; why would someone want to read a nice long article, and afterwards, not be able to tell you what the point of it was?

Though essays and articles are occasionally written without their vital nucleus, I find that stories and movies are the worst violators of number 1. Trust me, don't write a story without a plot, or at least a theme that will make an impression on your readers! And don't think that special effects and people falling in love and falling out of love in muddling ways will make up for the loss of a basic plot in a movie. When your audience leaves the theater after a movie like that, they might just possibly be carried away by the thrill of the moment, but that thrill will soon dwindle, and the movie will be revealed as having been worthless. Others of the audience might feel confused and bewildered at such a waste of time, or they will be utterly emotionless having been deadened to this sort of movie as it is so unfortunately common.

So, please: "If you're going to make a statement, make it a good one!"


Our Visitor

We watch it as it flies about, bits of dry grass and twigs in its mouth. Back and forth it goes with more and more loads. It brings the little bundles to a comfortable hollow in our window box, so we can watch its progress close up, through the window. The little structure it is so intent on building gradually grows....

It is tomorrow now. We spot three speckled, round objects in the very base of the structure. She who built the structure is no where in sight. We hope we have not scared her away. We hope she will come back soon. We hope the round objects stay warm...

It is tomorrow again. She has come back. She is sitting low in her little structure, hiding the round objects from view. And if we stand at a careful distance from the window, so as to not scare her away again, we can see her body rise and fall in a steady motion as she breathes. Her head is down, curled up on her chest. No, now she is looking nervously around, her small, beady eyes looking for danger. We can see clearly her yellow beak contrasting with her grey body.

The question is, will she stay or will all hope for those helpless round objects be lost?


Using the SM: Step 1

Here I have applied step one of the Snowflake Method (SM):
Step One: "....write a one-sentence summary of your novel."

An old, crippled farmer must stop the world-conquest of a vicious tomato.

"Worthy" Writing...

I am surrounded by windows on my desktop. Word processors to be exact. I have picked up writing again as school begins to wind down, and have become fascinated with a new method of writing called the "Snowflake Method," introduced to me by my sister who is equally enthusiastic about it.

Of course, I had to start applying it right away to all of my previous writings, and it is going very well, despite the fact that I have not gotten past step 2 yet.

I found step one most amusing and challenging: "...write a one-sentence summary of your novel." For some people, this might be easy, but for me, trying to condense a novel into a sentence seems a bit difficult. After all, if you can explain a novel in a sentence, what is the good of writing the novel?

Anyway, my sentences kept turning into ads:
"A group of evil aliens are invading planet Earth. Can Richard Jones stop them and save planet Earth before its too late, or will he fall victim to molten lava? Find out for yourself by reading this great new book about an all new adventure: Molten Rock, coming to a book store near you!"

I just made that up for an example, but... you see the picture. And now I am taking a break from aliens and epidemics and huge volcanoes to write this blog post and get some better ideas. I will be taking up journalism, meaning that I will give posts periodically showing how each step was worked out using an example plot. That will be fun. I hope you think so too.



  • Plants spring up out of the ground;
  • Clocks spring forward an hour;
  • The springs of water that run along the sides of the road spring up due to melting snow;
  • The smells of our septic tank spring up out of the yard;
  • The pollen springs up out of flowers,
  • And the tears spring to my eyes as a result;
  • Bugs spring out of everywhere;
  • And the temperature springs up and down.
Now I know why this season is called Spring.


A Post

I'm not sure if any of my dear readers are acquainted with Linux - and if they are, I doubt they know much about Unison. Unison is handy in file sharing. If you edit a document on one computer and run Unison, the changes will be made on all other computers holding that document. This program is essential to me. Especially sense I have no idea how long my (what is it, 8 years?) old laptop will last. All of this said to get to the point....

Last night as I lay in bed, I appeared a peaceful sleeper, breathing softly with not a care in the world. Little did people know the truth....

I was agitated and worried - my adrenaline levels extremely high. I was moving my hands as fast as I could, trying to get my stupid laptop to stop producing extra monitors, and trying to prevent my email from deleting all of my emails, and at the same time thinking that if I rebooted the computer, it would help a lot.

The major crisis, though, was that I had edited a long list of documents and had yet to run Unison! Apparently, rebooting the computer would delete all of those documents, and the changes I had made earlier would have been in vain. So I was trying to run Unison and it wouldn't work.
In desperation, I got dad and tried telling him the whole thing, but he wasn't listening!!! I told him I thought I had a virus, and he said, "It's Linux, not Windows" and that was all.

I awoke from the nightmare in a sweat and looked around my bedroom with sleepy eyes. A deep sigh, and a quiet resolve: I would be certain that I ran Unison today.

At breakfast, I told dad part of my dream. He said it sounded like my computer had a cancer with the way it was producing monitors. A computer with cancer could be very profitable.
Maybe so, but I'm still glad it was a dream. And I ran Unison today. :)


I put what in my hair?

How often have you looked at the back of your shampoo bottles? Okay, how often have you looked at the ingredients on the back of your shampoo bottles?

So it happened that I peered curiously at the ingredients on the back of the shampoo bottle. It started out simple enough with the word WATER, but began to get a little scary when I read AMMONIUM XYLENESULFONATE. As I proceeded, I stumbled upon METHLCHLOROISOTHIAZOLINONE, and METHYLISOTHIAZOLINONE. The heat rose in my face, and I re-read the words. There was no doubt about them.

Anxiously, I scanned the conditioner. The same two fearsome ingredients harboured there, too! There was also a STEARAMIDOPROPYL DIMETHYLAMINE.

Now tell me, why would anyone even consider putting these unknown chemicals in their hair? I was able to locate two of them on Wikipedia, and even then, one of them was very secretive, saying only that it was something sometimes found in some conditioners . . . !

So, what do you put in your hair?



[this post will take residence here as the most recent post until after Friday; this does not mean, however that I will cease posting to any extent - unless I find myself too busy to do so. :) ]

Friday, April 17, 7:30 pm
Victorious Life Christian Church
Please join us as the Forever Faithful Youthgroup [FFY] presents this musical drama in commemoration of the 10th anniversary of the Columbine Tragedy."
"...Free admission..."

If anyone knows more about the play and happens to see this post, I would greatly appreciate it if they would edit/expound upon it in the comment section if need be. Thank you!

From the Scrap-pile

"If one thinks they are the ideal 'grown-up' after they think a particularly deep thought, and then remembers that a true 'grown-up' will never consider themselves 'grown-up,' as the more that 'grown-up' learns, the more they discover they have yet to learn, does the very fact that they have know this truth make them a 'grown-up'?" [~ from Thoughts That Get You Thinking; author unknown (by some, that is. Clearly, the author is known by someone: the author. For, can an author write a book without knowing it at least at one time?)]


Facebook: a decline in beauty

Facebook is a social network fad that nearly everyone is familiar with. It is useful to connect with long-lost friends, and to learn more about those friends. If this were the only feature of Facebook, it would all be very well, but it isn't. The serious drawback is stated in the title of this post: a decline in beauty.

I first came to realise this as I examine my change in thought. As I have noted in earlier posts (or at least, I think I have), one of the best times to think is while washing dishes. In the past I would use this thinking time for more extensive things worthwhile, such as a comparison of too unlike objects (math and lemons, or cheese and turtles, for example). More recently, however, my thought patterns have been "status-message-tized." Literally. And once I realized this, my brain stuck my thought into a status-message form: "Ahh! I'm thinking in status messages!"

Of course, having identified this problem, I had to figure out whether it really was a problem. After all, could not this sort of thinking style eliminate useless chatter?
But, my brain cried, what happens to all the lengthy articles written over time?
What of them? I respond. Most people hardly read those things anyways.
For the sake of beauty were they written! My brain replied.

For the sake of beauty? What was that supposed to mean? Oh, surely there are books like Pilgrim's Progress and the like that are beautiful due to their many allegories and metaphors.
Those would be kind of hard to compact into status messages, would they not? And what of the Psalms even? What of Job and Isaiah in the Bible? What of hymns and poetry? What of Homer and Milton? What of Shakespeare? On and on the list goes.

The decline in love of the fullness of writing (also known as reading) is becoming inevitable. But now I am wondering, does this have anything to do with Facebook? I sat down with that goal in mind, but my argument has slowly evolved into an encouragement to read. I suppose one might call this post "free writing," for I have simply been following the chain of thoughts flowing through my head, and they have brought me here.

It would be bad form to end this post, or any other post for that matter, in this way: half-finished and unresolved, but it will have to do for now. I have yet to straighten out my thoughts and come to a conclusion, but I hope that conclusion will come soon.... maybe while I'm washing the dishes later.


A Post

I pull up my blog and notice that it is in a sad state. It has been neglected since the 21st of last month. I heave a sigh and press the "new post" button that glares at me through the dust (okay, so maybe it wasn't dust-covered, but it would have been if it wasn't protected by the glass shield of the monitor screen).

I hastily scan the format, hoping I remember how to correctly write a post. I push against my forehead twice, but my memory isn't any sharper. It dawns on me that the forehead-thing came from a story I wrote - ages ago. Too bad it wouldn't be of any benefit to me. I swallow my jealousy of Jeremy, and shake my head to clear my thoughts.

Focus. I begin to see a light shine through the hazy fog, and my blogging skill returns in a flash. Hurrah! my brain cries with joy. At last I am ready to begin writing. I pose my hands over the keys with new, returned vigor, and straighten my shoulders triumphantly. Ready.

Almost. The set determination in my face contrasts with the jumble of my thoughts. What was it I was going to write about? The weather? Schoolwork? How many dishes I washed and dirty diapers I'd changed? None of it fit.

And suddenly I knew what to do.

And this was my decision: for all you readers who managed to suffer through this lengthy post with no point what-so-ever, I am letting YOU choose the topic. Post your idea in a comment below, and I'll see which one (if I get any) is the most interesting and random. That topic wins. And my blog will cease to be postless for a time.


Giant Volcanoes; three of them, or two rather, with a third to blow.

Giant Volcano one: The unpopulated region of America is fertilized by the eruption of a giant volcano. The volcano forms clouds; the clouds from rain that in turn falls to earth and collects in large bodies of water called oceans. This theory has been supported by various scientists, it not being my theory.

Giant Volcano two: wipes out the Mayan population in the Americas, causing the mysterious disappearance of the Mayan civilization. Fills sky with dark clouds that spark the Dark Ages in Europe. This is my theory; the biggest problem is that the dates don't seem to line up.

Giant Volcano three: Old Faithful, the geyser in Yellow Stone National Park. This fellow either hasn't blown yet, or was the one that blew in the two earlier instances. This theory is mixed; part of it is mine, part of it isn't.

Why I am thinking about volcanoes and how they could have affected the world, on this gloriously sunny spring morning with not a cloud in the sky, I don't know. I do know, though, that it is fun to be able to get out my speculation on here........


We had a visitor today. Actually, 3 or 4. They looked dignified as they strutted about the yard, pecking at the muddy, brown grass for food. Their blue-grey wings hung at their sides, and their red breasts were puffed out proudly. The delicate sound that came from between their yellow beaks announced their coming as something to be recognized with joy.
What were they trying to say?


A shocked well - and household

Our water source is an underground well. It is rich in minerals and nutrients, and tastes better than purified water in cities and neighbourhoods - except at a certain time of year. That certain time of the year happens to be spring. And here is the reason:
Every spring, we shock our well. This means pouring a gallon or so of bleach into the water of our well, and letting it circulate through all the hoses, sinks, bath tubs, toilets, etc. The reason? To purge our water of bacteria.
Here is the pattern:

DAY 1: Bleach water around sunset. Run water through sinks. Smell water. Wonder why it doesn't smell like bleach yet.

DAY 2: Run more water. Reel at the reeking smell of bleach. Circulate water through bathroom by taking shower. Compare the new scents created by various soaps mixed with bleach-water. Come out of shower with sense of smell blasted out of nose. Smell bleach in hair (when smell comes back) for the remainder of day. Water at this time is undrinkable.

DAY 3: Feel sick at the scent of bleach. Perhaps the scent is fading a little bit?

DAY 4: Depending on water usage, bleach may have been entirely flushed through. Or the house still reminds one of a laundry room.

DAY 5: Either water bears slight trace of bleach, or water clean and pure.

DAY 6: Water tastes good. If bleach-smell continues to this day, you have added too much bleach to well. Go buy a new one.

This is the cycle, if memory serves correctly. This is day 2, right now. It feels like day 50.


Q and A: Interview with Rodney Richards

Rodney Richards is a brilliant author of books about science for elementary school-aged children. Among his many works is his most famous book, Hidden on a Prairie, a book about prairie life. The thirty-two year old claims to have written it in only two months, with absolutely no research. The quality of the writing is unbelievably excellent, and has won him a place in every child's heart.
He has taken time out of his busy schedule for an interview. I would like to welcome Rodney Richards; thank you for joining us today!

Richards: Yeah, yeah. That's okay. I was just dropping by.

Tell us, Rodney, what does it feel like to be big and popular? How do you feel about being a hero to all those school teachers and parents out there?

Richards: Well, it's an okay life. I do pride myself on my large audiences. But you know, life as a movie star isn't as great as being out on the prairie, feeling the nice cold wind and hearing the swishing branches of the trees. I kind of miss the penguins, too.

Just a moment, I want to ask you about what you just said there. You mentioned being a movie star; did you star in a movie too?

Richards: He, he. almost. National Geography wanted me to stand in for one of their programs on seals, but for some reason, they decided against it.

I see. What's National Geography?

Richards: Everyone knows about them, stupid!

Um, of course. Do you mean National Geographic?

Richards: Same thing.

Right. So what prairie did you write your book on? You said there were trees on it, and most prairies are characterized by their lack of trees.

Richards: I never actually went to a prairie. I figured that one of those place like the rain forest in the Blue Mountains of Australia was good enough, so I wrote the book there. There's nothing so good for an author than to be in the exact place he's writing about. You know?

Yes, quite. Now you did absolutely no research in writing this book?

Richards: None whatever. When I was younger I used to read a lot. By now I have, like, an encyclopedia for a brain, so it was an easy affair to write a book. It's just transferring thoughts onto paper that's the difficult part.

So, you have an encyclopedia brain. If I asked you a question, could you answer it?

Richards: Of course! Fire away.

Okay, what can you tell me about the founding of America?

Richards: Oh, you're getting smart on me! You didn't say it would be history question. Okay, so the founding of America.... The Indians found it first. They sailed over in their motorboats and established the USS Constitution. I think it was an airport of some sort. Then Christopher Columbus came over with some of his men and they set up a Bell of Rights.

A bell? I thought it was the Bill of Rights.

Richards: Well, it certainly cost them a bill to make that bell. I think that's why they had a big fight with the cardinals.

Cardinals? Who were they?

Richards: A type of bird; haven't you ever heard of them? Christopher Columbus and his gang called the birds red coats because the birds looked red.

Yeah. Most cardinals are red.

Richards: I thought you didn't know much about them.

Anyways, what happened next?

Richards: Well, clearly there was a big fight and Columbus won.

Against a flock of birds? Who were upset over a bill?

Richards: You would be upset if your bill was taken away, wouldn't you?

I suppose, if I was a bird. But why did they take the bill away in the first place. I mean -

Richards: You aren't paying attention! It was because the Bell cost so much, remember?

Alright. Enough with history. What can you tell me about math?

Richards: Oh, I'm quite handy with math. It taste good, too, what with the pie and all. It's also good with temperature. There's these sines, you see, that warn you when the temperature is too hot or cold. And if it's really hot, it turns into a tangent, abbreviated, tan.

Indeed? That's, um, useful. Now tell me, where exactly did you learn mathematics?

Richards: Math-a-magnets? What are those? Oh, you must be referring to Polar functions.

Never mind!

Richards: Sorry, I didn't realise polar functions upset you. You must have had a bad experience with them.

Um, yeah, I guess so!

Richards: Well, it has been wonderful to be interviewed by you, but, as I am looking at the time, I see I'll have to go. I've a meeting in five minutes.

Yes, I understand. Any last words you'd like to say?

Richards: Yes. I was positively thrilled to do this interview. Is there a chance we could do another one soon?

I'll have to see. Well, thank you again, Rodney! And to our readers, I highly suggest you read Rodney's book, Hidden on a Prairie, a great book written by a great guy.


Lost memory continued

I awoke one morning to find the streets and trees outside simply covered in light, fluffy snow. It was about time, I mused. The calendar had been reading December for quite a few days now. I hastily turned the radio to the news station, and grinned with glee as it listed off my school as being closed for a snow day.
This was going to be a great day, I thought. I went into the kitchen to find mom sitting at the table.
"Hi, mom!" I said cheerfully. "School's closed for today!"
"And no wonder," mom said, "We got 4 inches of snow last night, and more coming. The rate at which the snow is falling is amazing!"
"Indeed," I said, half-listening. I was already planning my day. I would read a couple books online, build a snow fort - maybe even work on a Christmas list.
"Oh, Jeremy," dad said entering the room. "You have the day off from school, right?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Could you shovel the driveway sometime today?" Dad's words shattered my plans.
"Shovel?" I gulped. "But couldn't you just get a plough to do it?"
"Well, we could but -" Dad hesitated. "In case you haven't noticed, the economy's been bad. We need to save money wherever we can, and $50 for a plough job is kind of expensive. Besides, it will be good exercise for you."
"Yeah, I guess so," I replied in flat monotone. But why was I so downcast? After all, shoveling would only take part of the morning.
I sighed, and quickly gobbled down breakfast. If the driveway had to be done, then it better be done as soon as possible. I grabbed for my hat and coat, and pulled on my mittens and boots, still wet from yesterday's trample in the slush.
I took one step outside, and breathed in the fresh, cold air. The snow looked so light and fluffy. I saw the tip of the mailbox peeping out of the snow bank at the end of the driveway. Just shovel to the mailbox, I told myself. It will be done in minutes.
I was halfway through the job when one of my classmates, Sarah, came running down the side walk. She made a sudden turn into our driveway, and gasped out, breathless,
"The school gymnasium on fire!"
"What?" I cried, dropping my shovel. The gymnasium was the new attachment to the school, and everyone was proud of it. The school had even worked up some small debt somewhere in order to have it made. If it burned down -
"There was some malfunction with the furnace," Sarah continued. "I overheard one of the firemen talking about it with the principal!"
"So there's firemen there; that's good," I said with relief.
"Yeah, well they aren't having too much success though," Sarah added glumly. "The wind is spreading it fast."
"What? No. This is winter; there's snow everywhere. I mean, fire's are supposed to be dangerous in droughts, right? Not in the middle of a blizzard!"
"Jeremy!" Sarah said in annoyance. "Outside maybe wet, but the inside of the building, where the malfunction first occurred, is still dry."
"Oh, true. So the fire is spreading inside the building, and the firemen can't put it out," I said.
"Oh, you're hopeless!" Sarah rolled her eyes. "Come and see for yourself!"
I propped the shovel up on the side of the house and followed Sarah to the site of the fire. There was a large crowd there already, and everyone in it was pushing and shoving and yelling. I could barely see the building. I heard one loud cry from the hundreds of people around me, some who could see the fire, and others that just took up the cry anyways, and gathered from it that the building was collasping. A loud crash affirmed my theory, and the sound of several police whistles indicated that they were trying to keep the crowd in order.
I turned away sadly; the beautiful new building, the pride of the school campus, was gone, and there was no chance of rebuilding it for a while. There was nothing more to see. I dragged my feet on the way home.
"Mom!" I called as I entered the house.
"Hush, Jeremy! I'm watching the news! Did you realise that the school gymnasium is burning down?" Mom said. Her hands were visibly trembling as she tensed herself before the TV. I sighed and shook my head sadly.
What more could I do?

A week later, as I came out of my math class, still dwelling on thoughts of sines and cosines, Sarah came running to meet me again. She like to run, I noticed, being a very nervous sort of girl, and needing an outlet for her energy.
"Jeremy!" she cried. "Did you hear the news?"
"What now?" I asked, grinning. "Is another building burning down?"
"Jeremy, that's not even funny!" Sarah pouted.
"I'm sorry. What is it?"
"The school's selling it's large collection of books in the library to the museum!"
"Why?" I laughed. Of course this was some joke.
"Because hardly everyone reads books any more, and almost all the books you can find online, and the books contain a certain amount of lead that is harmful to children, and by selling them to the museum, the school will raise enough money to effectively repair the walls damaged in the fire," Sarah stopped for a breath.
"Wait! Wait a second!" I held up my hands and laughed. "The school is going to rebuild the gymnasium based on the sale of a few books?"
"Rebuild the gym? Are you kidding? Of course not! But they're not selling some of the books; they're selling all of the books."
"What? No. This is the kind of crisis that only happens in books."
"But this is a book!"
"No, this is only a section of a story on a blog!"
"But Jeremy! Anything can happen in a story! Especially one about some kids in a public school, written by someone who's never been inside a public school!"
"Are you indicating that the authoress is one of those homeschoolers?" I gulped in dread. Anything could happen in a story written by a homeschooler. Yes, things were beginning to look grave. "Couldn't we try and tell her that schools are supported by taxes, and that they don't just sell their books like that, completely demolishing their libraries?"
"But we're nobodies! Only characters from some weird story she decided to write!"
"Then maybe we should stop arguing and try to please her, lest she make more horrible things happen. I'm already stuck with a memory problem," I said, trying to calm Sarah down.
"A memory problem?"
"It's complicated. Don't bother," I said in an undertone. "Now then, where were we?"
"The school is selling all its books in order to repair the wall and fix the furnaces so that the students will be warm during the cold winter while they're in classes, and -"
"Okay! Okay, so now we have to figure out what to do."
"We could sell popcorn to raise money for the school, so they wouldn't have to sell any books," Sarah suggested.
"Popcorn?" I made a face. "That will make us just rich!"
"You think so?" Sarah's face lit up. She didn't understand sarcasm.
"Um, well, maybe we could instead put on a play, you know?" I said hurriedly. I don't know why the word "play" came to mind, since I'm not an actor by any stretch. But somehow, this plan excited Sarah, and she was bouncing all around me with delight.
"Amy!" She called to a girl halfway across the campus. "Come quick! Jeremy's got the most wonderful idea to raise money!"
Amy came running, and so did half the school. Sarah explained the plan to them, with several (meaning here a couple dozen) of her own additions. The students all agreed to the plan with great enthusiasm, and thus began the evolution of a play....

To be continued in another section.....


Lost memory

I banged my head against the wall in despair. I had done it again. I had messed up everything....
I rubbed my sore head as I gazed out the window at the floating snow. It looked so fresh and white and clean in brilliant contrast to the deep green of the pine trees. I stared at the pretty scene with a smile slowly curving my lips. No! I cried inside of myself. I must not get distracted!
I tried to focus back on my problems. After all, I had done it again.
Done what again?
I rubbed my head slightly confused. That whack from the wall had driven the memory straight from my brain!
I gasped in dismay. Who was I? Where was I? Why was I here?
A tall young woman entered the room and said, "Jeremy, what is this I see?" she held up a slip of paper, her eyes narrowing into slits with anger.
"I don't remember," I choked. Was my name Jeremy?
"Don't remember?" the woman said sarcastically. "You're not going to get out of this that easily!"
"But really! I have amnesia!" I don't know how that word managed to stick in my mind, but it did. Perhaps my memory was returning?
"Amnesia!" the young woman said sharply. "Cut it out! I'm being serious!"
"So am I! I don't even know who you are!" I persisted.
"Jeremy Greg Flipper!" the young woman said sternly, her hands on her hips.
"Oh, hello, Jeremy," I said politely.
"What?" the woman's face was slightly confused. She couldn't tell if I was mocking her or not.
"Sorry, I thought that's what you said your name was," I confessed. I gulped hard. The woman was very angry now. She opened her mouth to scold me, but changed her mind and left the room in stormy silence.
Uh, oh. What should I do now? I was stuck here, completely unable to recall any scrap of information, except for the name of the disease I had. Or was it a disease? I couldn't remember.
I wandered around the room, and felt the couch, the shelves, and everything, trying to remember them. I flopped on the couch at last, stretching my long frame across the cushions, and shook my head in dismay. Nothing was returning to my mind. I groaned, and closed my eyes.
The next thing I knew, I was just waking up from a long, refreshing sleep. I sat up and yawned. It was then that I became aware of a shadowy figure in the doorway of the room. It was the shape of a man; a man who was staring intently at me. I rubbed my eyes and he became clearer. It was very dark, and I knew that it was after dinner, because the faint scent of meatloaf still lingered in the air.
"What do you want?" I asked the man in the shaky voice of one just awoken.
"Jeremy, I heard you were giving your mom some trouble earlier," the man said, coming into the room and sitting beside me on the couch.
"She's my mom, then," I said softly to myself. The man overheard me, and I saw his eyes glaring in annoyance.
"Of course she's your mom; who else would she be?" he said sarcastically. Sarcasm. The woman - mom - had that problem too. They must be related.
"Who are you?" I asked curiously.
"What?" the man said in surprise.
"I knew your name once; what is it?"
"Jeremy Greg Flipper!" the man said sternly.
"No, that's mom's name," I said and then stopped. Why had they both said that name? It must be of importance.
The man was furious now. "Look! We just want to know why your grades when down on your school record! Why do you have to act so stupid?"
"Because I am stupid?" I asked hopefully.
The man stood up and looked at me. He opened his mouth to yell, but changed his mind, and stormed out of the room in angry silence.
Great! I was doing just great! Sarcasm, I realised with a start. I must be related to the two strangers here. One was called mom, and the other - dad? That sounded right, I reasoned.

I slept on the couch that night. When I awoke, light was streaming through the window. My head was aching dreadfully. I rolled off the couch and stood up slowly, rubbing my eyes. It was to my undoing. I couldn't see where I was going, and walked right into the wall, banging my head pretty hard. The amazing thing happened; I could remember things!
I stood stunned for a moment, before deciding to try an experiment. If I banged my head again, would the memory leave it? I banged the side of my head against the wall. Nothing happened. Maybe I didn't bang it right. I banged my forehead against the wall. I was plunged once more into a haze in which only the most recent occurrence was remember-able.
Then I banged my head again and remembered everything. What was going on?
I reached up timidly to my forehead, and pressed hard against it with my hand. Poof! went my memory. So I didn't have to go banging it all the time; that was useful to know. Hopefully I could remember that when my memory was gone. I pressed my memory back into my head and chuckled to myself. I must be dreaming.
I sat down at the breakfast table to eat. Mom and dad were already there, eating in stony silence. I grinned cheerfully at them, and tried explaining my discovery, but they only stared blankly at me. At last mom said,
"Jeremy, really! You're too old for these games!"
That shut me up for the rest of the meal. I was too old for those sorts of games. But what happens when "those sorts of games" become reality? I needed to think things over.

School went just as it always did. I sat down in my history class and stared at the test before me. It was full of hard names and dates. I pressed twice on my forehead, once to erase my memory, and twice to make it all return to its strongest capacity. I A-ced the test.
No one would believe me when I tried to tell them about it, and so I didn't bother telling them any more.
A couple weeks passed and I was able to discover more about my hidden ability. When I erased my memory and brought it back within seconds, my memory was always stronger than before. While in my state of no-memory, I could remember the last phrase, or action done before I was plunged in the state. It was thus that I could remember how to bring back my memory.
If I failed to bring my memory back after erasing it for more than five minutes, I forgot how to bring it back, and would go thrashing in the difficulty of a lost memory until I accidently banged my head, or pressed my forehead in my hands.
It was tricky, but I was getting used to it.

To be continued in another section.....

P.S. No, it is not your imagination; this story is the corniest I've done yet. But as always, it results from overloading my brain with school.... :P


Time....... (Part 18)

My deepest apologies for all those imaginary persons who have long since lost interest in this story, for taking so long to post this. :)
Other previous sections can be seen here.

Frank watched the computer screen closely. No one had passed through the doors leading outside or inside. He could see the swarm of red dots moving this way and that in preparation for the expected attack, and they reminded him of bees in a beehive.
He tapped his fingers on the keyboard impatiently, and gasped in alarm as the screen he had been observing changed suddenly.
"Oh, bother it all! I've lost the correct window! Now how do I get back to it?" Frank groaned. He investigated the screen and saw that he had put on the setting that looked for UMO's. Curiously, he searched the fort for the blue dots and found two of them. He had recently received a number of his own, so he knew that he could not excuse one of the dots as being himself.
The dots were located on the North wall, he noted, and were swiftly making their way along to the West wall. He knew there was an entrance there. No doubt these blue dots were intruders, either people or robots, sent by the Nagars, and were probably the ones responsible for the weakening of the wall.
He had to contact the leader quickly, before the UMOs could escape. He hastily set the signaller he had been given to on and told his message quickly.
"Leader? This is Liftun speaking. Two UMO's spotted North wall making for West wall. Moving fast. Over."
"This is your leader. We read you. Will send men to investigate. Stand by. Over."
Frank took a deep breath to calm his shaking knees. Perhaps he was finally doing something to help the fort. Maybe the leader would think better of him after this. He hoped so.
Five minutes had passed when he heard a noise at the gate. Fromere entered the ITC in a hurry, and came over to the computer.
"How is it going, Liftun?"
"Good, sir," Frank replied.
"Is that a 'polite good' or a' sincere good'?"
"Um, I think it's more a polite one," Frank sighed.
"That's what I thought. You're looking green," Fromere said. "What's the trouble?"
"I think I messed up the computer. I'm not sure how to get it out of the UMO setting."
"Oh, here. Just press that button, see?" Fromere went to press the button he indicated but paused and stared at the screen. "Those are the two UMOs you warned us about?"
"Yes, sir. Why? They aren't anything important?"
"Important! I'll say it's important! They're using a passageway I didn't even know existed!"
"But it's right here on the computer. I don't see how-"
"It's on here now. It wasn't before. I've got to contact the leader right away!" Fromere grabbed the microphone and began talking furiously into it. Frank couldn't catch all he said. When the conversation had ended, Fromere turned to Frank.
"The leader's sent men to locate the area shown on the computer. He's coming up here himself to see."
"I don't get it. Why is this important? So there's an extra tunnel. And there's two foreign objects in it. And it's right under the North wall that was recently mysteriously weakened," Frank said thoughtfully. "Do you think it's all connected?"
"Do I think it's -! Oh, bother, Liftun! One minute you're a genius and the next, an idiot! Of course it's connected!" Fromere choked.
Frank looked down at his feet. Why were people so hyper here?

Peter sighed in dismay. The whole plan of escape - ruined. And they might never have another chance. He looked at Kevin, standing beside him.
"Have you come up with anything?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, I - think so," Kevin said slowly. "Look, we can go along with the Scallions and try to get out at, like, a red light, or something and -"
"What if they don't stop at any red lights?"
"Then we keep on with them till they do stop. Then we can slip away while they're busy and no one will notice."
"But, wait! The machine! What will we do with the machine? We can't bring it along, and we can't go back for it, because by the time we walk all the way back to the hideout, the robbers will be done and returning. Then we're right back where we were, only possibly in a worse position."
"True...." Kevin said thoughtfully. "You live in NYC, don't you?"
"I used to. I'm not sure were I 'live' at the moment."
"Well, aren't there any means of transportation we can hire for a quick return?"
"Hitch-hiking," Peter suggested. "It won't cost us a thing, which is good because we don't have any money on hand. We can ask someone to take us to the -" Peter paused to think, "the gas station on Higher Street. It's a little street that's more like an alley than anything else, and isn't in the best of environment, you know, sketchy neighbourhood. But it's not much better here, and the gas station is only about 1 mile from here," Peter figured quickly.
"Wait! How do you know this neighbourhood so well?" Kevin interjected.
"I took note of it when me and Henry picked up the machine from the jail. Now we just have to climb in the trucks and act normal, okay?"
"You mean normally crooked," Kevin clarified.
"Yes," Peter grinned. He saw Henry watching him out of the corner of his eye. "He won't stop looking at me," Peter sighed.
"Do you think he's suspicious?" Kevin asked softly. Their conversation had not been overheard due to the commotion the robbers were making as they loaded and boarded the trucks. Nevertheless, Kevin suddenly felt the need to be more careful.
Peter shrugged in answer to his friend's question, and began walking bravely towards one of the trucks. Kevin followed him at a slight distance.
"Hey, youngster!" Henry clapped Peter's shoulder.
"Ya still feeling sick?"
"I'm feeling better, thanks."
"Ah, very good, very good." Henry looked pleased. "What were ya talking about with that other boy; what was 'is name again?"
"Ah, ya. Kevin. Ya looked intense."
"I'm just a little nervous. You know, first big robbery and all," Peter said casually.
"Ha, ya'll get over it!" Henry said in his booming voice. "Ya better climb on now. It would be bad to get left behind!"
"Indeed," Peter wished he could roll his eyes. He wished he could be left behind. But Henry wouldn't let him, he felt sure of that, as even now, Henry was watching his every move as he climbed into a large truck. Kevin managed to push his way next to Peter.
Peter grabbed his friend's hand and found that it was cold and shaking slightly. "Don't worry, Kev! We'll make it!" He whispered, though he doubted Kevin could hear him. He had forgotten Kevin's "remarkable ears."
"Of course we'll make it!" Kevin said hastily. Peter detected a note of anxiety in his friend's voice.
The truck started up quietly. It began to move. This was the beginning - or the end.


Tip #1

Don't retain bitterness. It could start a world - war.


"Only the wise can write a truly witty saying, but only the foolish will try to."
~R. Richards


The Stuck Truck

The door bell rang gently. I opened the door a little bit and peered out at the visitor.
"Hi, is this number 170?" the middle-aged man in a leather jacket and baseball cap asked.
"No, this is 178, I think," I replied. I could never remember our street address.
"Oh, this isn't the residence of Philip R.?" the man asked. (R. substituted for full last name.)
"No, it's not," I glanced at the clip board, pen and camera in his hands. Tax assessor, maybe?
The stranger puzzled aloud over the street numbers and was clearly annoyed at the seeming absence of Philip Somebody on the entire road.
I noticed that my grandparents, who lived just next door and bring us the mail from our little country post office box everyday, had just pulled into the driveway, as well.
After expressing his apology, the stranger hopped back into his large, tan truck, and backed out of the driveway. Or tried too. He got stuck in a snow bank at the base of the driveway. His wheels spun and caused a light powder to fly up, but the truck insisted on remaining where it was.
After that, everything was a blur. My grandmother was inside drinking tea and my grandfather was helping to shovel snow and tug at that stubborn truck. My brother brought out ashes from the fire place and we got sand, too. At last, after a good workout of a couple of hours in 15 degree (Fahrenheit) weather, the truck pulled free.
The stranger expressed his desire to pay damages done to the little sign that used to bear the numbers "178," and left his number. Apparently, his GPS led him to the wrong street, and consequently, the wrong house. He seems to be a very nice sort of stranger, but I wonder why he God had him show up today?
That was my morning.


The Tragedy of Tiffany Red.

Tiffany Red was a red blood cell. She lived in the vast expanse of Blood Vessels, and enjoyed frequent trips through the heart.
One day, as she was making her daily rounds to provide organs and other cells with oxygen and nutrients, she caught sight of a handsome white blood cell. He was carousing lazily along when she spotted him. Tiffany gazed in admiration at him. But she couldn't stop. She had a job to do. As she passed through the liver and heart again, all she could think of was the handsome blood cell she had seen.
As Tiffany reached the end of her round, a dreadful cry went up. Some invading bacteria threatened to take the life of the body they all worked for. If the body died, then that would be the end of the blood cells, too.
Tiffany gasped in alarm at the news. She saw a menacing capsule of bacteria making its way towards her. There was no time to redirect her course!
Out of nowhere, the handsome white blood cell she had seen earlier swooped down and killed the bacteria. A great mass of the bacteria's friends rushed at him in anger, but he stood fast. When the invaders had at last been terminated, he engulfed them and toppled over in death.
His self-sacrifice drove Tiffany to tears, and stirred the very nuclei of his comrades.
The Army of the White Blood Cells swore to never forget the brave white cell or the bacteria that destroyed it, and prepared to execute vengeance on the bacteria should they ever return. They never did forget. Always were the antibodies circulating the blood, watching for the moment when they could avenge their brave white blood cell friend.
Tiffany drooped sadly as she carried out her job. The tears had cost her the whole supply of water she had held, and she was caught by the liver on her next round and sent to the spleen for dismantling.

Disclaimer: this is my biology-book's fault. I don't even like learning about anatomy.


"The Dumbest Generation"

The book sat in the pile of other library books my dad had borrowed. Its title was composed of the encouraging words: "THE DUMBEST GENERATION (by Mark Bauerlein)." Intrigued, I lifted the book and opened its cover. Inside, I was greeted by a host of statistic; "this many 12 graders failed this test," "this many college students couldn't name the three branches of government," you get the picture.
So what was the point of this book? It was to encourage more people under 30 to read and be involved in more activities other than TV and video games. A worthy cause to write a book on. But there seems to be a disconnect in the head of the author. Why would some one encourage reading due to the lack thereof, in a book form?
Either the poor guy is part of that dumb generation and doesn't realize it, or he wrote it for the concerned parents of nonreaders? Let's hope its the latter.


The inconsistency of truth

Truth is whatever you want to believe is true. Therefore, you can interpret Scripture anyway you choose. Truth is always changing, therefore there is no definite truth.

You pause a moment and reread what I wrote above. "What is wrong with this girl?" you ask yourself in alarm. Before you click that reassuring red "x" at the top of the window, to make this page completely vanish from all but your memory, please allow me to explain.

The sentences I wrote were ones I concocted after reading various books. A science fiction series, a history book going through the separation of science and religion and the developing of cults, and a book I am reading by Martin Lloyd Jones, not to mention my own observations of the world, were what inspired me to write those sentences. So why did I write them?

I was suddenly annoyed after seeing the phrases repeated all throughout the world. I observed them, and realized the contradictoriness of the phrases. If truth is always changing and there is no definite truth, than what do we call that which we have just determined? We claim there is no truth, and in that, have declared a truth.
Suddenly, my annoyance disintegrated. I felt so moved for the people who are constantly living on the basis of the shifty phrase. I wanted to do something for them; show them where they are wrong and point them to the real, unchanging Truth; the Source of hope to a bleak life.

But how is one to reach into the lives of people across the world? The only way I know of is.... through this blog. So here is this post. I pray that this post was not a jumble of words, and that it helped you, reader, saved or not.