Walking Raven

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A Few Firsts

My initial attempt at writing this novel occurred in the spring of 1999. By then, the only major modification to the plot or characters mentioned in these entries to date was that John had become Johanna for reasons that will be explained in a forthcoming post. All I needed was the right apocalyptic event and I felt as though I would have enough material to begin the book. So one fine morning in March I put a new cartridge in my sweet little Bordeaux Mont Blanc fountain pen (medium point), pulled a brand-new yellow ruled 8 ½ x 11 legal pad from the file drawer, and opened my copy of The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha (NRSV) to read, for the first time ever from beginning to end, The Revelation to Joh[anna] (hereinafter “Revelation”). [I’m sure it has escaped none of you that I have just used a technique called “foreshadowing.”]

I trust even the most Bible-shy of you have at least heard of Revelation, the last book of the Bible. Even though I took copious notes of both the text and accompanying commentary, and I had to get up a few times to pace around the room to calm my growing excitement, I finished the task in a matter of hours. But what productive hours! In addition to the apocalyptic event, I settled on the novel’s working title, its setting, and glimpsed, for the first time, its structure. I was overwhelmed with the realization that I just might pull this off.

The first verse of Chapter 4 gave me my working title. It reads, “After this I looked, and there in heaven a door stood open! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, ‘Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this.’” The commentary identified “the first voice” as Jesus Christ and brought to mind the opening verse of The Gospel According to John, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” I already had in mind that the novel would in some respect address my life-long struggle with the middle personage of the Holy Trinity which is comprised of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost/Spirit (I prefer “Ghost,” so does Don McClean, American Pie).

I’ve never really had trouble with the idea of a life force. After all, I predicated what cell phone provider I would choose on whether the vendor could procure a phone number with 5334 as the last four digits; i.e., JEDI. Calling or thinking of such a force as “God” or even “The Holy Ghost” has never been terribly problematic either. As for The Son, however, it has been difficult, having read other myths and religions, to ignore the many common threads they share in this regard. Since emerging from the primeval soup, we humans have encountered or invented any number of beings who would qualify as a first voice. See, e.g., Campbell, Joseph, The Masks of God: Occidental Mythology.

A number of creation myths recount how a divine being spoke the world into existence. I knew of a few at the time I first read the above-cited verse in Revelation and my research for this novel has yielded several others; e.g., Yahweh. Jesus (in his capacity as The Word). Thoth. Hasch'ethi (Navajo for “Talking God”). I started to think about what role such a concept might play in an apocryphal thriller, and came up with the idea of a heavenly Council of The First Voice that would be comprised of all the various candidates who had held the position through the ages. From there, The First Voice rang true as a working title. [As I was editing this post, I took a lunch break and stumbled upon a Discovery Channel show hosted by Carl Sagan entitled, One Voice in the Cosmic Fugue. All together now, “plate-of-shrimp.” See August 12, 2005 Post]

I continued to read and take notes until I reached Chapter 7 and the marking of the 144,000 with the “seal of the living God.” Given my affinity for the mark of Cain, it is understandable why that particular passage engendered one of those instances of deep breathing and circling the room. See September 22, 2005 Post. I barely had time to catch my breath before reading, for the first time in context, the opening verse to Chapter 8, “When the Lamb opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour.” About half an hour. Can this person write or what? Or maybe, something actually got found in translation for a change. [At this juncture I would encourage each of you who has not already seen the film to take a break from reading this post and either migrate to Netflix and add The Seventh Seal to your queue, or head to your favorite video store and rent it. Fabulous movie -- as is the short film parody of said same, Le Dove. Imagine playing badminton for keeps with Death.]

And then came Chapter 18 and Babylon. A city of kings and merchants; shipmasters, seafarers, and sailors; minstrels and artisans; and “the blood of prophets and of saints.” I hadn’t really been all that keen on having Israel as the setting for my novel, and as I read this chapter it occurred to me it could just as easily take place in my beloved Manhattan and the surrounding Burroughs. If Elfredge succeeded, New York City would be transformed from Babylon into the New Jerusalem. Listen, e.g., Let the River Run, Carly Simon, Working Girl Soundtrack.)

Things were indeed coming together, but I had yet to come across what I had hoped to find when I first sat down to read -- the reason to write this book. And suddenly, there it was, the opening verse of Chapter 20:

Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, holding in his hand the key to the bottomless pit and a great chain. He seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the Devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years, and threw him into the pit, and locked and sealed it over him, so that he would deceive the nations no more, until the thousand years are ended. After that he must be let out for a little while.

The Phantom Zone leapt into the memory section of my brain. For those of you unfamiliar with Superman, the Phantom Zone is the planet Krypton’s equivalent to a maximum security prison where super villains, after due process of course, are, if convicted, banished. Essentially, they are flattened into what was visually portrayed in the comics as a two-dimensional entity and sent into orbit around the planet. And so I had it. The book would recount the means by which Satan, if all went well, would be consigned to the equivalent of The Phantom Zone.

In half a day, I had a title, a setting, and a plot. Best of all, I definitely needed to take an extended trip to Gotham.

Back Back Story: Cain

A Wrinkle in Time and The Lord of the Rings hold the top two spots for the most influential books I read during my first sixteen or so years. Several candidates vie for third, including Demian by Herman Hesse. It had such an impact on me that I can remember being so restless after finishing the book I needed to take a walk. It was the “magic time” of day, Maxfield Parrish twilight, just after an autumn rain shower in Minnesota. I strode through the alleys of Madelia in my Hang ‘em High poncho and bumper tennis shoes, deeply inhaling whatever brand of cigarette I had managed in my minority to procure – probably a Winston. Reading Demian began a life-long fascination with Cain, or, more appropriately, the Cain archetype – now that I know Cain merits archetypal status thanks to the Google search I conducted for the term “synchronicity” in connection with my August 12, 2005 post.

The biblical story of Cain is set forth in Genesis, Chapter 4. Cain was Adam and Eve’s first born, “produced,” according to Eve, “with the help of the Lord.” (Hmmmm, who else was produced with the help of the Lord?) After Cain, Abel arrived, apparently without any help. Cain grew up to be a farmer. Abel grew up to be a shepherd. At one point, Cain offers God “the fruit of the ground,” and Abel offers “the firstlings of his flock, their fat portions.” What ensues is yet another example of God’s arbitrary behavior. See Earlier Posts, infra. In the narrative, we get no clue why God “had regard for Abel and his offering, but for Cain and his offering he had no regard." I’ve heard a few tortured sermons on the subject, and I’ve read Steinbeck’s East of Eden, but I’ve yet to be satisfied with a reason that bests the “flies to wanton boys” explanation. See September 9, 2005 post. In any event, having no clue why God adjudged his offering and himself unworthy upsets Cain. The next thing we know, in a variation on the “Mom always liked you best” theme, Cain rises up against his brother and kills him. After ordering Cain into exile, God, again without satisfactory explanation, pays heed to Cain’s fears of retribution, and, instead of “an eye for an eye,” sets a mark upon him and vows “sevenfold vengeance” on anyone who kills him.

Cain receives very different treatment in Demian. In Hesse’s novel, Max Demian befriends the young Emil Sinclair whom Max recognizes as one of his own, being marked, as Max and others are marked, with the same sign he believes the biblical figure Cain bore. Max doesn’t believe God gave Cain the sign to prevent others from taking vengeance on him for killing his brother. To Max, Cain’s mark identified him (and his progeny) as an individual of “intellect and boldness” with “courage and character” that normal, run-of-the-mill folks would, understandably, find “sinister.” Demian (Bantam Books ed.), pp. 24, 25

I so wanted to be Emil Sinclair. I wanted to bear a mark that would enable the Maxes and Evas of this world to know me as one of the chosen. Up until the time I read Demian my fondest desire had been to reach the age of majority, so I could take my smoking inside a bar where I would sit, nursing a drink, while quietly observing the other clientele, and having brilliant, alcohol-inspired insights which I would record from time to time in a small notebook. [Before moving on to real cigarettes I had practiced smoking candy cigarettes for years. I’d also practiced drinking by pouring Coca Cola into a souvenir shot glass acquired at Mount Rushmore and tossing it down in a single gulp. (Mind you, this was still in my “when I grow up I want to be a cowboy” days; I’d only just started reading O’Neill, Williams, Fitzgerald, and Hemingway – imagine the effect Long Day’s Journey into Night and The Ice Man Cometh had in continuing to foster this fantasy.)]

On a related matter, I had a plate of shrimp experience in connection with this post. See August 12, 2005 post. The Writer’s Almanac for Tuesday, September 21, 2005, commemorates the birthday of the poet Donald Hall. The entry goes on to relate that Hall's first literary hero was Edgar Allen Poe. As a result he “wanted to be mad, addicted, obsessed, haunted and cursed; I wanted to have eyes that burned like coals, profoundly melancholy, profoundly attractive." Yeah, what he said.

Thanks to Demian, at least I grew up wanting to be “cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café” only until such time as a preordained stranger would walk into the bar, notice me sitting at my regular table in a dark corner, and realize who and what I was. Mitchell, Joni, Blue, "The Last Time I Saw Richard." He or she would come over and join me. At the conclusion of our conversation, this individual, having recognized my intellect and boldness, would offer me a tenured position in the English department of some prestigious college or university. And I would live happily ever after. Talk about magical thinking.

Demian’s influence showed in other ways, too. For instance, since I started reading “serious” literature up until the time I completed my M.A., I never read a book without a yellow highlighter in hand. It had to be a yellow highlighter, not any other color, and not fluorescent yellow, either. If I were to go through these highlighted volumes today, I would be able to collect all the allusions to Cain, the mark of Cain, and his mythic and artistic progeny including, but not limited to, the Wandering Jew, the Flying Dutchman, the Ancient Mariner, and Longinus. I toyed with the idea of one day writing a scholarly paper on the subject of Cain, which I would, of course, be asked to read it at an MLA convention, thereby sealing my reputation as an academician. I had a few papers like that in mind. Instead of writing any of them, however, I went to law school. So much for magical thinking. (Come to think of it, no one ever offered me a tenured position at a prestigious law school either. I would, of course, have been asked to teach Law in Literature; e.g., “Moby Dick: Agent or Principal,” or “The Jury in Camus’ The Stranger: A Really Good Reason to Abstain from Smoking at your Mother’s Funeral,” and the like.)

I’m posting this entry to explain, in part, why Cain (the very one) has been chosen to play a major role in the novel. A future post will relate how in my imagination Cain has managed to hang around until the present time. I’m rather pleased with his back story. So far, at least, my research has uncovered no other source that even suggests the tale I intend to tell. Could be, I’ve actually had an original thought.

We're All Alone

“Nobody reads this shit,”
You proclaimed, 
Handing me a book written
For no reason other than survival.

Publish or perish.

“Nobody reads this shit, either.”
I muttered,
Handing the judge a brief written
For no reason other than comfort.

Eat what you kill.

“Will you read my nonshit?”
I asked again, this time
Handing you pages written 
For no reason other than need.

I was not worthy.

“Obviously I’ve mistaken you for someone who cares.”
I thought, almost appreciating the irony and
Retracting the pages
For no reason other than regret.

I can endure the sweet ache of your flustered rejection.
It is you who will miss the seamless web.

September 15, 2005

Us

Ever wondered about God’s use of the objective case of we, as in, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness?” Genesis 1:26. The appearance of the term “humankind” instead of “man” in this quotation signals my switch from quoting the King James Version (KJV) of the Bible as I did in my earlier posts to quoting the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV 1991). Even though it will take way more than rewriting the Bible using inclusive language to even begin to address the sexism inherent in the Judeo-Christian tradition, it is an important first step. I received a copy of The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha as a gift on June 3, 1991, and it has proved an invaluable tool in this literary endeavor. (Thanks A.) The footnote associated with Genesis 1:26 blithely speculates that “[t]he plural us, our (3.22; 11.7; Isa 6,8) probably refers to the divine beings who compose God’s heavenly court.” (Emphasis in original.)

The above-cited cross-references identify other instances in the Bible where God has had occasion to converse with these beings (hereinafter “Us”). For instance, shortly after Adam and Eve eat from the forbidden tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thereby committing Original Sin, capital “O,” capital “S,” God expresses his concern that “the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil; and now he might reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life, and eat, and live forever.” Genesis 3:22. To prevent such an eventuality, God drives Adam and Eve out of Eden and places “the cherubim, and a sword flaming and turning to guard the way to the tree of life.” Id. at 23-24.

I was always taught the serpent lied to Eve when he told her she would not die if she ate the forbidden fruit. On the contrary, it appears that God, rather than the serpent, is the liar. Specifically, when Eve meets the serpent in the garden, he asks her, “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree in the garden’?” Eve answers that God told her, “[y]ou shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.’” The serpent, apparently quite truthfully, assures Eve, “You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

So, why hasn’t anyone bothered to point out that Adam and Even could have achieved immortality had they simply managed to eat from the tree of life -- an action that was, apparently, not forbidden – before eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil? Well, I suppose one could say that technically God told Eve the truth, since by his omniscience he would have known that she and Adam would eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil first, and he’d be able to kick them out of Eden before they could get to the tree of life. (And you wonder where we lawyers learn our tricks.)

Us also figures prominently in the story of the tower of Babel. Genesis 11:1-9. Following the flood, “the whole earth had one language and the same words.” And humankind said one to the other, “let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves; otherwise we shall be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.” For reasons left unexplained in the narrative, just the opposite proved to be true.

That is, the footnote accompanying this passage compares humankind’s architectural aspirations with Eve’s quest for the knowledge of good and evil and bills the story as a further example of how “God frustrated another attempt to overreach human limitations.” God, accompanied by Us, comes down to “see the city and the tower, which mortals had built.” God observes, “Look, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let us go down, and confuse their language there, so they will not understand one another’s speech” -- in other words, take the necessary action to thwart humankind’s (and here I’ll quote from the footnote) “Promethean desire for unity, fame, and security.” Picking up the narrative again, “and from there the Lord scattered them abroad over the face of all the earth.”

Given these events, especially if one ascribes to the chaos theory, it sort of gives a whole new meaning to the quote Walt Kelly first used on a poster for Earth Day in 1970:

Imagine

Of Rosemary and Flies to Wanton Boys

In 1988, I decided to read the Bible cover to cover. Before that, of course, I’d read (or heard read) a good bit of it. I made it midway through The Psalms before abandoning the effort. I discovered that reading the Sunday School stories in context often resulted, to quote Paul Harvey, in getting to “know the rest of the story.”

Take, for instance, the story of Noah. Genesis 5-9. I trust everyone knows that God, having become disenchanted with humankind, commanded Noah to build a really big boat and to load his family members and two of every kind of animal onto it, after which God caused it to rain forty days and forty nights. As a result, “every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark.” Id. at Genesis 7: 23. How many of you, however, remember the details of the next two verses? Specifically, Chapter 7 ends with the pronouncement “the waters prevailed upon the earth an hundred and fifty days.” I, for one, was dumbstruck the first time I actually read the opening words of Chapter 8, to wit:

“And God remembered Noah.”

Let’s see, 150 days, that’s about 5 months before God thought about the fellow he had chosen to repopulate the earth after The Deluge. Now, I don’t know about you, but I was taught that God was an omnipotent, omnipresent grandfatherly type who would know every time I used a swear word. Based on the above, I’ll just say, NOT.

Then there’s the story of Job. For those of you who don’t already know, Job “was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil.” He had seven sons and three daughters. He was also quite rich. He had “seven thousand sheep, and three thousand camels, and five hundred yoke of oxen, and five hundred she asses, and a very great household.” He was “the greatest of all the men of the east.” Job 1: 1-3. And then, as is so often the case when things are going exceptionally well, the other shoe dropped. (Maybe, it’s because of Job we experience the free-floating angst that harbingers the undropped shoe.) As with the story of Noah, sitting down and reading the account of what actually led up to the dropping of Job’s shoe also left me dumbstruck. Id. at 6-12.

It seems that “there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.” Seeing him, God asks Satan, “Whence comest thou?” Satan answers, “From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.” God inquires whether Satan happened to run into his “servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil?” Satan retorts with something to the effect of, “Well of course he’s perfect and God-fearing, he doesn’t have a care in the world, ‘but put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face’.” To make a long verse short, God replies, “Wanna bet?” God then tells Satan, “Behold, all that he hath is in thy power” with one exception; God forbids Satan to kill Job. The next thing you know, “BAM,” Satan kills his entire family. And we’re off and running.

Given the foregoing, you can now understand why, in the novel, I intend to portray the God of Noah and of Job as a somewhat out-of-touch compulsive gambler -- at least metaphorically speaking. (And now you also know the answer to why bad things happen to good people.)

Oh, and if you haven’t yet connected the title of this post with its content, brush up your Shakespeare, or, alternatively, search Google. For continuity, you’ll also need to add the following parenthetical to the end of Gloucester’s lament: (or at least, our families).

Back Back Story: The Immortals

As a child, Catholicism fascinated me. In sixth grade, I had one of my Catholic friends teach me the Hail Mary. I also liked the idea of being able to ask God directly for what was wanted instead of leaving it to “Thy will be done.” You want a million dollars? Ask for it. And if it didn’t happen, well it wasn’t that the prayer had gone unanswered. No prayer goes unanswered; it’s just that sometimes, God says, “No.” Later in life, when questioned about how a Lutheran knew so much about those idol-worshipping, transubstantiating Catholics, I would explain, that, like Luther, I too believed there was only “one true Church.” Despite the above, I hope no one will be surprised to learn that these days, I’m incapable of supporting the Church’s position on almost any issue. For instance, Catholicism (and for that matter, all of the Big-Three -- Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) is beyond redemption from a feminist perspective – it will take a whole lot more than using gender-neutral language, that’s for sure.

Even so, St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, continues to play a role in my life. In 1987, I had the privilege of beginning my life as an attorney by clerking for Justice Mary Coon Walters, the first woman ever appointed to the New Mexico Supreme Court. As the appointment lasted only a year, obtaining an associate position with a law firm provided more than a few anxious moments during my tenure with The Court. At the time, few firms were looking for new associates, and after a couple of courtesy interviews (in deference to Justice Walters), I began to despair of finding gainful employment.

Cora, Justice Walter’s secretary and a devout Catholic, came to the rescue. She told me I had to go over to the St. Francis Cathedral during the lunch hour and light a candle to St. Anthony to help me find my “lost job.” I did as she told me to do. The next day a fellow named Joe Sturges from Sager, Curran, Sturges & Tepper, P.C. called to set up an interview. I had sent my resume to the firm on the advice of Justice Walters, who told me Stan Sager was “the best mentor I could hope for.” I went to said interview, and the rest, as they say is history. I accepted Stan’s offer to join the firm. Six years later, I made partner. (And Justice Walters was right about the mentor part.) Since that fateful (if one ascribes to such notions) afternoon in Santa Fe, Tony has come through for friends, family members, and me on many occasions. At the moment I’ve got him working on my lost novel and lost lungs.

Another aspect of Catholicism that I thought about every once in awhile, especially during the time when so many priests were leaving the priesthood, was the edict that, no matter what, “once a priest, always a priest.” Somehow or other I learned that this precept stems from the biblical figure, Melchizedek. In the Hebrew Bible, Melchizedek was the king of Salem who rode out with the King of Sodom to meet Abraham “after his return from the slaughter of Chedorlaomer.” It seems Abraham and his personal army had come to the rescue of his nephew Lot who had been taken prisoner during a battle involving several kings and kingdoms. Following the victory, Melchizedek “brought forth bread and wine: and he was the priest of the most high God.” Genesis 14:18. And so was celebrated the first eucharist (small “e”) (from the Greek word for “thanksgiving” or “thank-offering”).

Melchizedek reappears in Hebrews 7 where he is described as the “King of righteousness, and after that also King of Salem, which is, King of peace.” In Hebrews, we discover that Melchizedek is “[w]ithout father, without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days, nor end of life; but made like unto the Son of God; abideth a priest continually.” Hebrews 7: 2-3. I remember, the first time I read the above, saying to myself, “Self, what if Melchizedek is indeed still here, hanging around awaiting the Second Coming?”

The Hebrews reference to Melchizedek triggered a vague memory of another biblical character who might also be hanging around. The final verses of the Gospel of John set forth an exchange Jesus has with Peter. John 21:20-25. Specifically, as Jesus and Peter walk along, Peter turns around to see “the disciple whom Jesus loved following; which also leaned on his breast at supper.” For reasons that are not entirely clear, at least to me, Peter asks Jesus, “which is he that betrayeth thee?” Then, without awaiting an answer, Peter goes on to ask, “what shall this man [the disciple whom Jesus loved] do?” Jesus answers Peter’s question with a question, “If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?” At this juncture, the narrator steps in to explain the ripple effect of Christ’s statement; i.e., “[t]hen went this saying abroad among the brethren, that that disciple should not die.” The narrator then takes some pains to explain, “yet Jesus said not unto him, He shall not die; but, if I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?” We then learn our narrator is none other than “the disciple which testifieth of these things, and wrote these things: and we know that his testimony is true.” In plain English, the writer/narrator is the beloved disciple himself, John.

After re-reading the above, my inner conversation continued, “Self, what if Melchizedek and John are both hanging around awaiting the Second Coming, and the two of them meet up somewhere in Israel because they have learned the earth is threatened by an apocalyptic event?” (Rough beast slouching toward Bethlehem, anyone?) And so the seeds of the novel were planted.

Back Back Story: Elfredge

I think it was sometime in 1982, but it could have been even a few years later, that my dad and I drove over from Forest City, Iowa to my hometown of Madelia, Minnesota. We stopped in at Luther Memorial Home, where he had served as the administrator from 1967 until the spring of 1973. While there, we ran into Julie Anderson’s mother who was employed there in some capacity or another. Julie had been one of my good friends during high school. I remember looking at her mom’s nameplate that to me read “Elfredge,” and thinking, “what a great name.” After all, I am a child of The Lord of the Rings. I am now fairly convinced I misread the nameplate. I still don’t know Mrs. Anderson’s name for sure, but I think it more closely resembles “Althea” – it could even be “Althea” -- than “Elfredge.” Ever since that encounter, though, I knew if I ever wrote a book, I had a name for my hero.

Elfredge can currently be found on “Xbox Live” endeavoring to kill her fair share of Spartans and Avatars as she traverses the various maps of Halo 2’s Rumble Pit. Look for her emblem, on a triangle field, vert, valkyrie, azure-argent.

Soon, however, she will meet her greatest foe. And who, you ask, might that be? Well, could it be, . . . SATAN? Maybe, but then again, maybe not.

Back Back Story

I’ve never taken a creative writing course or read a book on how to write fiction. Thus, it wasn’t until I read Jasper Fforde’s series featuring Spec Op Literary Detective Thursday Next that I became acquainted with the term “back story.” Conducting a “define: backstory” search on Google brought up several definitions of the term. Among them, according to Wikipedia: “In narratology, a back-story (also back story or backstory) is the history behind the situation extant at the start of the main story. This literary device is often employed to lend the main story depth or verisimilitude. A back-story may include the history of characters, objects, countries, or other elements of the main story. Back-stories are usually revealed, sketchily or in full, chronologically or otherwise, as the main narrative unfolds. However, a story creator may also create portions of a back-story or even an entire back-story that is solely for his or her own use in writing the main story and is never revealed in the main story.” (And folks give attorneys a bad rap for failing to use plain, simple language.)

Of course, instead of reading the book, one could simply see the movie; i.e., another definition that came up during my initial seach was a glossary entry found in the “Fundamentals” section of the website www.scriptsales.com. There, “backstory” is defined simply as the “action and events that took place in a character's life before the present events of the story.” Okay, okay, it’s a stretch -- or is that reach?

Getting back, while composing this entry I learned that altering the search term to “back-story” or “back story” generated different results. For instance, when I returned to writing this blog entry and re-searched (get it?) using Wikipedia’s preferred form of the term; i.e., “back-story,” I only got one result -- Wikipedia’s definition. Taking out the dash but leaving a space between “back” and “story” yielded more definitions than the first time around, although the scriptsales definition set forth above got dropped. I’m too lazy to find one of Fforde’s volumes to see what version he uses. Accordingly, I’ll let the majority rule, and use “back story.” (Though if someone somewhere managed to use all his or her tiles by turning the word “or” into “backstory” in a Scrabble game, I probably wouldn’t challenge it.)

All that, just to set up an explanation for the title of this blog entry – and you wonder why it’s taking me so long to write the damn book. At any rate, if a “back story” relates the “history behind the situation extant at the start of the novel,” then by my use of the term “back back story," I mean to relate some of the history behind the situation extant to the day I finally sat down at my computer and typed the opening sentence. I’ve never talked to anyone about what it was like for them to write a novel, so I don’t know if my experience mirrors that of other writers, but I have a pretty clear sense of the handful of occurrences that lead to my “let there be” moment.

My brother taught me to read before I started kindergarten. (I taught him to tie his shoes.) From then until I finished my master’s comps, I don’t remember a time when I was without a book. Given my passion for reading, I suppose it was only natural that I would have literary aspirations of my own. I’ve always wanted to write fiction, but this desire has been stymied by my absolute inability to come up with any sort of plot. I used to think it was became I was lacking in creativity, but I know now that’s not exactly it. Over the years I’ve come up with some fairly decent and original approaches to writing about the literature I read or the legal issues I faced. So what’s the problem? Those of you who know me are well aware that I failed to inherit my father’s “direction gene.” Well, maybe I also lack the “fiction gene.” And so the phrase, “[n]ever be daunted” once again springs to mind. See August 4, 2005 entry. [For this entry I took the time to (what else?) run a Google search of the phrase. Turns out the line is spoken by a fellow named Bill Gorton in one of my all time favorite works of literature, The Sun Also Rises by Earnest Hemingway. But, I digress.]

Over the years, I have compensated for my lack of any sense of direction by making a conscious effort to learn directions and orient myself to where Albuquerque’s Sandia Mountains would be in any given place I find myself. My direction mantra for the last twenty-some years has been, “Mountain’s East.” These days, if I’m familiar with a location, I can pretty much direct folks to it and even tell them whether it’s on the northwest or southeast side of the street. I take great pride in knowing how to get from one end of the island of Manhattan to the other, including by way of the uptown or downtown subway trains on either the east or west side (and, for that matter, knowing which stops have shuttles that will take me from one side of the island to the other).

Enter the notion of nature or nurture. (Trading Places, great movie.) It may not be in my nature to write fiction, but hopefully I’ve nurtured enough of whatever it takes along the way at least to be able to tell this one story. It’s by no means a sure thing, though. Despite being adept at maneuvering my way around Manhattan, one could still take me back to the old homestead at Madelia, Minnesota and tell me to find my way to Grandma’s house in Rake, Iowa, a place we drove to many, many times when I was growing up. I could probably make it to the general vicinity, but actually being able to find the town would still be hit or miss – and there can be those pesky windmills along the way.

Plate of Shrimp

I have never taken a psychology course. I think, long ago, I may have read Man and His Symbols by Carl Jung. I know I carried a copy of it around for years, and consulted it in conjunction with a paper I wrote long ago and far away about androgyny and Monique Wittig’s Les Guérillères. I am aware that Jung believes in the existence of a collective unconsciousness. Indeed, that concept forms the basis of my all time favorite New Yorker cartoon, captioned “James Joyce’s Refrigerator:”

If you can’t quite make it out, the “To Do” list reads:

1. Call Bank
2. Dry Cleaner
3. Forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
4. Call Mom

I liked it so much I had the cartoon transferred to a t-shirt. See http://www.cartoonbank.com/.

Even so, I was unaware, until I conducted a Google search of the term “synchronicity” for this blog entry, that Jung actually coined the word to describe two contemporaneous events that are linked together in a meaningful manner. I vividly recall a dinner conversation with my blogmate mjh and his wife Merri about the subject. After telling them about a synchronistic moment in my life, both of them, simultaneously uttered, “plate of shrimp.” When asked to explain, they told me about the exploration of the topic in the film Repo Man. I immediately went out and rented said film, and have since acquired the DVD. In one scene, Miller, the groundskeeper for an automobile repossession firm, explains to Otto, the newest repoman, "A lot of people don't realize what's really going on. They view life as a bunch of unconnected incidents of things. They don't realize that there's this, like, lattice of coincidence that lays [sic] on top of everything. Give you an example. Show you what I mean. Suppose you're thinking about a plate of shrimp. Suddenly somebody will say, like, ‘plate’ or ‘shrimp’ or ‘plate of shrimp,’ out of the blue, no explanation. No point in looking for one either. It's all part of the cosmic unconsciousness." In a subsequent scene, the camera focuses on a luncheon special posted on the door of a diner reads, of course, plate of shrimp.

In thinking about and researching this novel, I have had a number of “plate of shrimp” experiences. It seems as though every time I come up with a character or a plot point or a backstory detail, the next day I read or see my idea in someone else’s book or movie. Sometimes the coincidence is quite remarkable. Those are the times I think maybe I really have tapped into The Collective. I guess it really does all go back to Gilgamesh or The Bible or any number of other ancient writings and oral traditions. Maybe someday we’ll know how much has actually gotten coded into our DNA. When I get discouraged about the fact there really appears to be nothing new under the sun, my friends and family assure me that no one has quite yet told the story the way I intend to tell the story. So here goes, “Once upon a time . . .”

It's Only Words

Just to clarify, I suffer from writer’s malaise as opposed to writer’s block. That is, I know precisely what I want to write -- at least for the next hundred pages or so. I am simply unable to summon the energy required to translate the stuff of which my novel is made into written form. As a general rule, I am a product, not a process, person. It seems, however, that the novel is too big a product for me to produce of a piece. In part, then, these Walking Raven entries will serve as a way for me to marshal my thoughts and research about a character or other aspect of the narrative to produce smaller, more manageable pieces. This exercise may spoil a few punch lines in the novel for those of you who can still remember one day from the next, but for whatever reason, I seem to have this need to tell you the story of the story before I can write the rest of the story. And so, as one of my law school professors was wont to say, “Let’s begin, please.” And we might as well begin at the beginning (well, nearly the beginning).

Aside from a brief stint as a teen-aged poet, I produced relatively little by way of the written word that was of any consequence well into my twenties, notwithstanding that I was an English major. Papers were agony and usually turned out badly. (What’s the written equivalent for “tongue-tied?”) Only after my first year in a master’s English program did I find my voice for scholarly (as opposed to creative) writing. I coulda’ been a contendah in academia. Instead, I went to law school and entered private practice. The mid-80s to the mid-90s are a blur of work (and golf) and very little else.

My biggest regret during those years was that I virtually stopped reading for pleasure. I am ashamed to say I can probably count on one hand, and certainly two, the number of books I read during that time. I did, however, have ample opportunity to hone my writing skills. I wrote literally hundreds of supporting memoranda and trial and appellate briefs. By the time I retired from the practice of law, I felt fairly comfortable stringing words together in sentences and paragraphs. To have the words accurately communicate what I want to say, though, continues to be a long, and often painful, process. I’m thankful that, unlike some writers, I can use my computer for most of the process. Before I had access to a word processing program, my paper needs required the death of way too many trees. If I can really get this together, perhaps they will not have all died in vain.

Why are We Here?

I suspect many of you may be surprised to learn that on some level I believe the answer to the title question is essentially the answer Jesus Christ ostensibly gave to the rich young man in response to his question, “[W]hat good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?” The author of the Gospel of Matthew tells us that Christ replied, “If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.” (And Liberation Theology was born.) The biblical passage continues, “[b]ut when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful: for he had great possessions.” This action on the part of the young man prompted Christ to utter one of his more famous declarations, “[a]nd again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” Matthew 19: 16, 21-22, 24 (KJV). Even though I grew up Lutheran, “grace, not works” never quite did it for me. For me, it’s pretty much black and white. I just don’t think a person can be a Christian and still have a swimming pool unless and until everybody who wants a swimming pool has a swimming pool.

For that matter, putting a Christian face on what I consider my responsibility to my fellow inhabitants of this planet is just one more way to excuse my inaction. In truth, I believe everyone, regardless of race, color, creed, religion, gender -- does “gender” replace “sex” these days? I’ve neglected to keep up. If so, does “gender orientation” replaced “sexual orientation?” I just want to use the most up-to-date terms of inclusiveness, so that no one escapes – should do whatever it takes to ensure that everyone else in the world has more than the bare necessities, rather that everyone has enough. I’ve no doubt this could happen. For instance, the economist Jeffrey Sachs has written a book entitled The End of Poverty: Economic Possibilities For Our Time in which, I’m told by the Amazon blurb, he details how the foundation for such an outcome; i.e., ending “global extreme poverty,” could be put in place in a matter of 20 years – probably much sooner if, indeed, everyone’s energy and attention was focused on factoring the needs of the world’s population to the lowest common denominator and taking it from there. That said, I have chosen to keep my toys, and so, worst case, hell awaits. (“I can swear there ain’t no heaven, but I pray there ain’t no hell, . . . but I’ll never know by living, only my dying will tell, only my dying will tell.” Laura Nyro, And When I Die.)

You’re probably asking yourself about now, where in the world is Kris going with all of this? Well, much as I try to ignore the flapping, every so often these days, I get a glimpse of time’s winged chariot in my peripheral vision. As many of you know, my lungs are trashed. COPD. Classic panlobular emphysema, to be exact. Not long after my initial diagnosis, I was advised to get on a lung transplant list because the wait for lungs was up to three (or even more) years and there was speculation mine wouldn’t hold out even that long. Thankfully, they have. The latest prediction (as of late 2004) is that I have a 45% chance of making it five years with the lungs as they are, or a 55% chance of making it five years with new lung(s). Either way it goes downhill from there. I’m sticking with my lungs for the present, though my recent (first) hospitalization as the result of an acute exacerbation event was certainly a wake up call. I had no idea. Also, not too long ago, I had a rather sobering discussion with a pulmonologist who felt the need to tell me that in his opinion the odds of my actually undergoing a lung transplant are “slim to slim.” I try not to obsess. After all, even the prospect of a few good years may be wishful thinking. I could come down with pneumonia tomorrow or get hit by an SUV or there might be an accidental launch of nuclear warheads that wipes out the planet. Hopefully, though, I’ve got at least five more years.

So the threshold issue becomes what to do in these next five years. The lungs have somewhat circumscribed my choices. Travel and golf require the expension (have I just made up a word? My OED says why yes, yes I have) of too much energy. Becoming semi-adept at chess or bridge requires more time than I’m willing to devote to those endeavors at this juncture. The same goes for learning the language of mathematics or poetry. (When I think of the time I’ve saved reaching these conclusions, why I’m feeling younger already.)

At present, I spend my days either reading or playing computer/video games. I read the Writer’s Almanac every morning and the New York Times Book Review, and whenever a book or an author strikes my fancy, I add another selection to my Amazon Wishlist. Once the total for books exceed $25, thereby qualifying for free shipping, I place an order. My “reading list” is a two-shelf bookcase that holds about 100 books. Over time, even though I manage to finish one or two books a week, it’s filled up and the overflow has spilled over onto my computer desk shelf. As for video games, I possess both an X-box and a PS2. I adore FPSs (First Person Shooters) (Halo, Max Payne, etc.) and I have many, many yet to play. I could, without more, easily do nothing other than read and play games for the next five years. Most of me believes that in the end, doing nothing other than reading and playing will “matter” about as much as anything else I might choose to do in the time I have left.

Nonetheless, even the most cynical part of me finds it hard to believe that the answer to why I am here is to kill aliens on my x-box. I know what I’d like the answer to be. I’d like it if my destiny is to write this novel I’ve been thinking about for nearly twenty years. Before my diagnosis, I had conducted a significant amount of research, outlined the basic plot points as they had presently been revealed, and written about a hundred pages. You’d think, after all the books I’ve read about the need to discover one’s destiny, and upon its discovery the hero’s inevitable failure or refusal to follow said destiny, coupled with having been diagnosed with a terminal illness, that I should already have realized my destiny and have a manuscript in the hands of an agent. But NOOOOOO. Even though I’m on disability and have days on end to write, like Isabel Archer in Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady, who once had the world before her and turned away, I can be as stubborn about fulfilling my destiny as the next person. I have, at best, half-heartedly continued to work on the book. I’ve continued to add to the research pile and have “polished” about half of the already written portion. I created Walking Raven in the hope it would provide a jump-start. Act as if, and all that. So far to no avail.

But I remember that someone, somewhere, in a book I read or a movie I saw or a play I attended kept repeating throughout, “Never be daunted!” So I’m renewing my effort to write my novel. And whether anyone reads this blog or not, I knew when it debuted and I still know that it will playan integral part in the fulfillment of my destiny (if one ascribes to such things).

Postscript

Since I began thinking about the particulars of my novel, I have had more than a few “DO do DO do” (think Twilight Zone theme) moments. I had one in connection with this particular entry. On or about the same day I began writing it, I finished reading The Winter Queen by Boris Akunin – quite good, by the by. I recently arranged my reading list bookcase alphabetically by author, and the next book up would have been Bless Me Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya. Instead, I decided I’d change the selection format and read the first book the title of which began with “A.” It turned out to be the 10th anniversary edition of The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. For those of you who have already read it, well, imagine my surprise. For those of you who have not, give it a read and imagine my surprise.

B’mer and Joe

A few years ago, B’mer f/k/a It’s a Hubba Bubba appeared as the featured greyhound in an edition of the Greyhound Companions of New Mexico’s newsletter. We learned that since B’mer’s retirement from the track, and through no fault of her own, she had been placed in three different homes in nearly as many years. She was nine years old and needed somewhere to grow old in peace. Darcy and I couldn't’t stand it, so we called Judy Paulson, a representative for Greyhound Companions of New Mexico (http://www.gcnm.org) and a wonderful human being to boot. She’d helped us adopt our two big boys, Devon and Dante, and she was delighted to learn that we wanted to give them an older sister. (B’mer was nine years old at the time.) Judy arranged for us to visit B’mer at her foster home that evening. She turned out to be as advertised, a sweet, darling red head with soulful eyes but who always had a smile on her face. She had a tuft of hair standing straight up on the back of her neck, so we called her our Rhodesian Ridgeback greyhound. A few months ago my brother came for an extended visit, and he and B’mer became fast friends. He nicknamed her “Maime” because of her resemblance to Maime Eisnehower. All she lacked was a pillbox hat. Last April, at thirteen, B’mer finally succumbed to complications resulting from a degenerative spinal condition.

After our first greyhound Devon died (see July 2004 entry), we declared, “no more greyhounds.” We planned to attrition back to a family comprised of humans and cats. However, Dante, our remaining greyhound, was devastated by B’mer’s absence from his life. He hated being the only dog. In addition, like B’mer, he had become extremely attached to my brother who was slated to move on to LA in mid-July. And then, on July 9, 2005, Darcy’s birthday, Judy Paulson called to say she had just retrieved a boy greyhound from the track who was white with brindle coloring and had “funny ears.” He was only a year and a half old and hadn’t cut it as a racer because all he wanted to do at the track was play. We had spent the week mourning our beloved Devon, the brindle greyhound with backwards ears, who had passed on July 5, 2004. (He would have been 10 on July 10 this year.) It seemed like fate, if one ascribes to that sort of thing, so we arranged for Judy to bring Joe over. We loved him. Dante loved him. He learned quickly that the cats don’t want to play. The balance has been restored.

Joe & Dante

Jensen!

I’m as yet unwilling to call myself a writer, but I think I’ve progressed far enough in my craft to call myself a wordsmith. I have a decent vocabulary and the ability to string words together in such a way as to communicate some meaning to others via the printed page. But when I start to think about what it would take for me to consider myself a writer, my thoughts usually turn to Jensen. A writer would be able to use words in such a way that a reader would “get” him – would capture his essence and convey the wonder of him. And who is this Jensen? The Linnaean hierarchy categorizes him as a member of the kingdom of animalia, the phylum of chordate(vertebrata), the class of mammalia, the order of carnivore, the family of felidae, the genus of felinae (profelis), the species of felis catus, the breed of Cornish Rex. In a word, Jensen is a cat.

According to Encarta, the first Cornish Rex, a cream-colored male, was born in a litter of five barn kittens in Cornwall, England, in 1950 – hence, “Cornish.” “Rex” because of the rabbits the owner once had raised. Every Cornish Rex in existence can trace its origins back to this anomalous boy-kitty, named Kallibunker. See, e.g., www.petnet.com. Rexes have certain distinguishing characteristics. They only have under fur (no guard hairs), so their coat is exceptionally soft, with mercel-like waves. The lack of guard hairs also means their body temperature is as much as 10 degrees higher than what is otherwise normal for cats. They have large ears and roman noses. They like to talk, a lot. They look delicate, but in truth they are strong and sinewy. They are tiny -- Jensen, for instance, has topped out at 7 pounds.

Jensen was born on October 20, 1992. His registered name is Beaconwood Desert Chief, but he was known around the cattery as Beaconwood. Like his ancestor Kallibunker, he is a cream tabby with orange eyes. My brother got Jensen as a 40th birthday present. John and his then-partner Jim drove up to Connecticut one April weekend in 1993 and brought Jensen back to reside with John in his East 52nd studio apartment with a breath-taking view of the East River. As they drove down 7th Avenue, John spotted an old painted sign on the side of a building that read “Jensen Lewis Awning Company.” And the kitten had a name.

I first met Jensen shortly thereafter, and, for me, it was love at first sight. Jensen was fairly feral in those days. He didn’t mind being petted, but forget about holding him. Any attempt to do so would be met by a fierce struggle that ended with him leaping out of one’s arms and running for cover. He was, however, extremely fond of playing fetch with his little toy mice. John would throw one and Jensen would go careening full speed after it and pounce on his prey. He would then pick it up in his mouth, walk over to my brother, and deposit the mouse in front of him for another throw. He never tired of this activity. Given his penchant for fetch, I sometimes refer to him as “dog-kitty.”

When next we met, John had moved to a one-bedroom apartment on 14th between 5th and 6th. As noted above, Rexes have a need to communicate their presence often and loudly – especially in the early hours of the morning. For that reason, the kitchen served as Jensen’s bedroom, and a blanket atop the refrigerator as his bed. I would awaken in the morning, stumble into the kitchen to start the coffee, and there he would be – staring at me from his perch. I would melt, every time. John and Jensen lived contently in Manhattan for the next few years. In 1997, circumstances made it difficult for John to keep Jensen. He asked if I would take him. I readily assented, and so he and Jensen boarded a jet plane for Albuquerque. I met them at the airport, and I will never forget when Jensen’s Kennel Kab finally emerged through the flaps on the oversized luggage conveyor belt. He was wide-awake, lying on his refrigerator blanket. We took him home, and my life (and his) has never been the same.

Suddenly, everyone and everything looked like Jensen. To this day anyone who knows me well knows the answer to my inquiry, “What does he/she/it look like?” is, “Jensen!” Everything he did was a delight. I still love to watch him drink water from a slowly streaming faucet or gobble up his hairball pounce. When I’m home, we’re inseparable (unless he is being a carnivore and catnapping or communing with his fellow feline siblings). He follows me from room to room, and sit-sleeps on my keyboard shelf when I work on the computer. In the beginning, if he stayed asleep too long, I would go over to him and ask in a loud voice, “Are you SLEEPIN’?,” so he would wake up and pay attention to me. A couple years ago he just went deaf one day, so that no longer works. I can now pick him up and hold him for anywhere from 10 to 30 seconds. It took a few years, but eventually I actually got him to sleep in my lap and to sleep with me at night. One other characteristic I failed to mention above is that Rexes incisors and canines are three times larger than other cats. Jensen had a nasty habit a couple times a years of biting me, without warning, on the hand or forearm, inflicting deep puncture wounds. Hence, his nick/surname, Lestat. The last time he bit me, I ended up in the hospital for five days on antibiotic IVs. That’s when we finally pulled his teeth.

I could go on regaling you with stories of this creature. How at least once a day he becomes “thunder kitty,” pounding up and down the stairs at breakneck speed. How he adores his sleeping tent we dubbed his “yurt,” as he acquired it around the time we invaded Afghanistan. How he wanders around the house crying long and loud when he can’t find me. But that’s not the point of this entry. The point is that while I could perhaps tell you all about Jensen, I still don’t have the words to communicate what, exactly, Jensen is about. How, for instance, without ever meeting him you would understand why people always speak his name as though there is an exclamation point at the end.

Someday, perhaps, I will find the words and have the ability to arrange them in perfect syntax so that reading them will fire the neurosynapses so as to evoke the feeling, the music, the mathematical perfection (or whatever it is) that explains Jensen!. For that to happen though, I must be more than a writer; I must be a poet. Until then, a picture is worth . . .

Now and Then

The reason my Blog has remained unposted for such a long while (except for the toss-off playoff bit) cannot be totally attributed to my unrequited love for nicotine. Before I launched this Blog, I made a promise to myself that I would post what I wrote, shame-based life be damned. I kept my promise with the playoff entry – mostly because God told me if I didn’t post it the Vikings would most certainly lose. (Okay, I’m lying.) Although its continued existence on the site registers pretty high on the shame meter, thus far I’ve resisted the urge to sneak into the Moveable Type application and delete the entry. (Besides, God told me if I did spacetime would be rearranged to nullify the victory.) (Okay, lying again.) Today, I keep my promise with respect to an entry I began early in November and tinkered with again later in the month. That clears out the backlog, and I'll move on from there.

Memento mori.

It’s 4 in the morning,
the end of December . . . Leonard Cohen

Well, actually the beginning of November. 4 in the morning is about right. 4:15 to be exact. At least that’s what time it was when I first sat down to write this entry. The 4 is right if we’re talking what day it is, though. I’m awake, prednisone. It’s been a rough couple of days, and I woke up with the words “memento mori” resounding through the inner reaches of my skull that sits in the center of the infinity that exists when I close my eyes. (I kind of get the existence of various infinities, and I like the idea of one with me as its center.) For those of you who don’t already know, Memento Mori is the title of a book by Muriel Spark. (How, if at all, is the meaning changed if I simply saywrite “[M]emento Mori” is a book by Muriel Spark?) Rhetorical question, at least for me today. Maybe I’ll answer it some other time. You all are, of course, free to answer it if you’d like. It’s probably revisionist history, but in my reality, Momemto Mori was the last book my mother read before she died of breast cancer in February 1970 at the age of 42. I was 15. Even if it wasn’t the last book she read, she certainly read it in the last year of her life. Not too long ago, I picked up a used copy of Momemto Mori somewhere in remembrance of Mom. Thank you Mother for imbuing me with a keen sense of irony -- and for yet another “magical thinking” opportunity. I’ve just this very moment decided I might never get around to reading that book -- I’ll just leave it as the final entry on my reading list. So many books . . .

Addendum

As I write this, It is 6:11 a.m. and counting in “real” timespace (snicker) on Sunday, November 21, 2004. I have made some minor revisions to the above, but instead of integrating these present comments with the above, I leave them here. I was, once again, awakened by mortality about an hour ago. When I finally declared my disability, I did so, in part, because, I found I needed a good deal more sleep than usual to feel relatively good and stay relatively healthy. By not having to work, I gained an extra half-life or so in dog years. So now, when I wake up way early (for me), I view it as a gift of timespace, even if it means a nap later, because sometimes I don’t take one.

It Isn’t Whether You Win Or Lose, It’s . . .

Greetings from my aerie (lair) in arbitrary spacetime January 9, 2005 Albuquerque New Mexico. This blog entry is my first in awhile, but one I hope will prove to be the first of many that will evolve into an ongoing online discussion of a statement that occupies my thoughts nearly every I sit down to write anything, to wit:

There are no synonyms.

In less than an hour, an event will begin. At its conclusion a few hours from now, I would like to be able to say, “We (being the Minnesota Vikings) beat the Packers at Green Bay.” I also would not mind saying, “We won the game.” Given what has so often occurred before, I might even be satisfied with, “The Packers beat us at Green Bay.” What I decidedly do not want to have to say is, “We lost the game.”

So, there you have it. Talk amongst yourselves.