Correction to my original post:
I've been married seven years, not five. The mistake probably lies in the fact that for roughly the first two years of our marriage, my wife and I lived in separate countries. I was in Idaho, she in Peru, both awaiting the slow and ponderous turning of the government cogs that would churn out the magic papers allowing her to come here and take up residence with me. Our seventh anniversary just passed, in fact. Congratulate me.
Well, this week, thus far, has been a little nightmarish. Life in a government office: Fluorescent lights and crackling keyboards; a Babel of voices spewing governmentese; an endless march of claims, attached to faces, attached to names . . . thirteen years now, and it's getting old. But at least I have a job.
One day, I'll land a writing contract. My Stryorr, or my Feymarryn, or my Surraphoi will take off and soar. For now . . . may I endure.
Ciao.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
For my six-year-old cat, who died October of 2008
My darling Niza,
I loved you
Love you—
Will love you:
That gray-sand nimbus that was your fur,
Those green-gold jewels that were your eyes,
Your irritating habit of staying up past your bedtime,
Your fence-walking ways,
Your nuzzling affection,
And your squirrel-fighting valor
Heretofore unknown among your kind.
I remember those moments
Atop the trampoline,
You nestled on my chest,
Content to stay all night,
Me content for a little while,
But waiting for the pounce
That would allow me
To safely tuck you away
In your garage-palace.
If anyone were to tell me
That you had no spirit,
And that I would never see you again,
My first inclination would be
To lay them out flat.
But on second thought,
I would simply pity them as fools,
Because if I have ever known anything,
I know that cats have spirits
And an Afterlife
As much any human being does.
So, yes, we’ll meet again.
Meanwhile, I miss you in my patio
And I’ll be looking forward to the day . . .
I loved you
Love you—
Will love you:
That gray-sand nimbus that was your fur,
Those green-gold jewels that were your eyes,
Your irritating habit of staying up past your bedtime,
Your fence-walking ways,
Your nuzzling affection,
And your squirrel-fighting valor
Heretofore unknown among your kind.
I remember those moments
Atop the trampoline,
You nestled on my chest,
Content to stay all night,
Me content for a little while,
But waiting for the pounce
That would allow me
To safely tuck you away
In your garage-palace.
If anyone were to tell me
That you had no spirit,
And that I would never see you again,
My first inclination would be
To lay them out flat.
But on second thought,
I would simply pity them as fools,
Because if I have ever known anything,
I know that cats have spirits
And an Afterlife
As much any human being does.
So, yes, we’ll meet again.
Meanwhile, I miss you in my patio
And I’ll be looking forward to the day . . .
Teaser from an eventual novel, intended to be a sequel of sorts to "Disciples of the Wind"
Outlaw’s Cross
Chapter 1: The Hunted
He rode up into the foothills of the San Juan Range, north from southwest. His queer green eyes were those of a panther—vigilant to the point of obsession. But then, as a panther harried by a neverending succession of hunting-hounds, he would have been a fool to let his alertness lapse.
His right arm hung in a sling, one that was encrusted with the crumbling Indian-red plaster of old blood. Even after three weeks and the care of a woman who professed to hate him, the deep wounds he had taken broke open periodically under his new exertions. Infinite miles behind lay the deaths he had caused, the savage swath he had cut across the Nevada rangeland—and the grave of the man he had considered his one true friend.
Hearing the faintest whisper of sound, the rider wheeled his night-black stallion, the well-oiled Peacemaker arcing up in his left hand.
Topaz eyes watched from an embankment a dozen yards off. They belonged to a rangy, winter-shaggy wolf, and peered out of a ragged-edged umber mask which set off nicely the animal’s ash-gray pelt. The wolf continued its scrutiny, wary but unfearful. It was a male, and from its size, its stance and the condition of its coat, it was in the very prime of life.
The man met that calculating, warm-and-cold gaze, considering. There was still a bounty on wolves. He could use the money, most certainly . . .
They remained like that for some minutes, in mutual contemplation, as the high-country wind rippled the man’s neckerchief, the wolf’s neck-fur. The rider even went as far as to ease back the hammer of the Peacemaker. The faintest click sounded, and the wolf stirred almost imperceptibly.
No, the rider decided. It wasn’t in him to bring down this beast for a handful of blood-stained coin. From one predator to another, the message finally passed: Let life stand, for whatever life was worth.
No doubt it was worth a lot more to the wolf, the man decided, holstering his pistol. What little he had left hardly seemed to justify the expenditure of effort in getting to his feet every morning.
(Note: This will be the story of villain-turned-protagonist Sandoval (San) Cobra, who was the near mythic rival of Jake and Jason West in "Disciples of the Wind" and "Reapers of the Wind," both written by my brother Kirby and me.)
Chapter 1: The Hunted
He rode up into the foothills of the San Juan Range, north from southwest. His queer green eyes were those of a panther—vigilant to the point of obsession. But then, as a panther harried by a neverending succession of hunting-hounds, he would have been a fool to let his alertness lapse.
His right arm hung in a sling, one that was encrusted with the crumbling Indian-red plaster of old blood. Even after three weeks and the care of a woman who professed to hate him, the deep wounds he had taken broke open periodically under his new exertions. Infinite miles behind lay the deaths he had caused, the savage swath he had cut across the Nevada rangeland—and the grave of the man he had considered his one true friend.
Hearing the faintest whisper of sound, the rider wheeled his night-black stallion, the well-oiled Peacemaker arcing up in his left hand.
Topaz eyes watched from an embankment a dozen yards off. They belonged to a rangy, winter-shaggy wolf, and peered out of a ragged-edged umber mask which set off nicely the animal’s ash-gray pelt. The wolf continued its scrutiny, wary but unfearful. It was a male, and from its size, its stance and the condition of its coat, it was in the very prime of life.
The man met that calculating, warm-and-cold gaze, considering. There was still a bounty on wolves. He could use the money, most certainly . . .
They remained like that for some minutes, in mutual contemplation, as the high-country wind rippled the man’s neckerchief, the wolf’s neck-fur. The rider even went as far as to ease back the hammer of the Peacemaker. The faintest click sounded, and the wolf stirred almost imperceptibly.
No, the rider decided. It wasn’t in him to bring down this beast for a handful of blood-stained coin. From one predator to another, the message finally passed: Let life stand, for whatever life was worth.
No doubt it was worth a lot more to the wolf, the man decided, holstering his pistol. What little he had left hardly seemed to justify the expenditure of effort in getting to his feet every morning.
(Note: This will be the story of villain-turned-protagonist Sandoval (San) Cobra, who was the near mythic rival of Jake and Jason West in "Disciples of the Wind" and "Reapers of the Wind," both written by my brother Kirby and me.)
My life view encapsulated
RICHES
I may never be a millionaire in this life (and I wouldn’t care to be)
Yet I am infinitely richer than the millionaire who has never:
Used a dog for a bedwarmer
Started a cat’s motor and listened to it idle
Been entertained by the acrobatic antics of a squirrel
Admired the velvet elegance of a horse in motion
Stood in awe of a tiger’s sleek and massive grace
Or watched a spindle of wild geese weave its
flight-pattern across a loom of sky.
The man who never steps outside his world of
Blank faces over three-piece suits
Relentlessly revolving clocks
Data-soldiers deployed on a computer battleground
And dollar signs marching down gray-matter corridors
May get richer by the minute
But will grow poorer by the second.
There is no poverty more profound or more shameful than the failure to use our five senses.
There is no conceivable slum worse than a slum of the spirit.
I may never be a millionaire in this life (and I wouldn’t care to be)
Yet I am infinitely richer than the millionaire who has never:
Used a dog for a bedwarmer
Started a cat’s motor and listened to it idle
Been entertained by the acrobatic antics of a squirrel
Admired the velvet elegance of a horse in motion
Stood in awe of a tiger’s sleek and massive grace
Or watched a spindle of wild geese weave its
flight-pattern across a loom of sky.
The man who never steps outside his world of
Blank faces over three-piece suits
Relentlessly revolving clocks
Data-soldiers deployed on a computer battleground
And dollar signs marching down gray-matter corridors
May get richer by the minute
But will grow poorer by the second.
There is no poverty more profound or more shameful than the failure to use our five senses.
There is no conceivable slum worse than a slum of the spirit.
A Semi-humorous glance at my life into college
7/03
My Life in a Nutshell
I was born, once. Fortunately it was only once—it would be truly horrifying to think there were two of me wandering the streets, pen and tablet in hand, a million ideas milling in the fevered brain. My birthplace was Bozeman, MT. We lived in a place called Bear Canyon for six years. Nice place—for big blizzards. Once I’d had enough of those I insisted my family move to Virginia. We crossed the country and saw many sights, very few of which I remember now. In Virginia, we lived in an isolated spot called Broad Run for two years. One winter we had snow that drifted up to our second-story windows. No wonder white isn’t among my favorite colors. Actually, as a child I remember enjoying it. How times change.
You might say I’ve been drawing ever since I was knee-high to a short Shetland. I was always too busy oozing monsters, bulbous-nosed faces and “cowboys & Indians” to join one of those gangs you hear so much about. My loss, I guess. In 1970, we headed back west and ended up in a backwater place called Shelley—Potatoland, USA. By the time I was twenty-two I would have a passing acquaintance with more than a few million tubers. Some of my more exciting friends.
I spent 14 years in Shelley. More snow. Ice. Freezing winds. Then came summer, with 90-100 degree temperatures and hot, dusty winds. Who ever said Idaho was no fun? It was here that my brother Kirby and I whiled away the hours creating endless variations on a theme with 11-inch-high plastic western figures, one of whom was the immortal Johnny West. Those were the days. If people had been willing to pay us to “play West” for the rest of our lives, we might be doing it still.
At last I graduated from high school. I had coasted through my classes, almost never having to expend any effort. Except in math situations, that is. That’s one language I can’t seem to learn to speak fluently, even after applying myself. (Ironically, I now work in a job where numbers reign supreme . . .) Once I was out of high school, everything became a lot harder. Job-hunting was—if you’ll pardon the American
French—hell. Eventually I was hired at R.T. French’s Potato Wonderland. It was here that I was hypnotized by mile after flowing mile of loveable Russets. Somehow I found the motive to escape that bliss, though, and put in my papers for an LDS mission (see “A Word on Mormons”). My brother Kirby put his in at the same time; I ended up being sent to Puerto Rico, he to France. Puerto Rico was just a bit different from anything I’d experienced. No snow, for instance—not one ever-loving flake. When I wasn’t bathed in my own perspiration I was bathed by sudden rainstorms called aguaceros. The mission itself was a somewhat grueling experience but had its moments. I or my companions baptized around thirty people, including one man who had liquor on his breath at the time. Most are inactive now. My first and favorite was Ana Maria Torres, who would prove to be one of the most precious friendships of my life (my correspondence with her continues to this day—I heard from her early this year).
I returned twice to Puerto Rico in the same year (’89), because of an unusual quirk of circumstance. In the first visit I pursued my doomed relationship with Madeline Toro (a story unto itself; in the second I had the privilege of baptizing Ana Maria Torres’ twin sons, the hyperactive Omar and Alex. Another great moment in my life.
When it came to continuing education, I pulled my usual and took a year’s vacation or so before starting attendance at Idaho State U. There I chose a tentative major in Art, but unlike Van Gogh I valued both my ears. I decided that a foreseeable future of peddling my odd creations on a rural street corner wasn’t such a great idea, so I opted for a major in Spanish instead. It made sense, certainly, as I’d come back from a certain tropical island very fluent in that language. And BYU, in glorious Provo, Utah—the heart of Mormondom—offered 16 automatic credits for the ex-missionary who took one intermediate level Spanish class. So I gathered my courage and made the great move . . .
With a lot of help from family (my mother, my older sister Kandy and her main man Bruce), I trucked all my belongings down to an apartment in Provo in fall of ’90. Thus began college. (ISU really hadn’t ever impressed me as such, though I did experience a couple of good art classes and a high-caliber literature course taught by my uncle, Dante Cantrill.) One of my first BYU courses was Creative Writing, as taught by the highly impressive, eminently humble Bruce Jorgensen, and there I met a young woman who threw me for the proverbial loop—high, fast and hard. Her name was Anna Harbrecht. She combined looks (chestnut-blonde hair with gray eyes and a face that none of today’s Hollywood actresses—exceptions being Sandra Bullock and a few others—could come close to) with grace (she was taking high-level dance classes) and intelligence (she was an avid reader and had no trouble keeping up with my intellectual conversational bent). I thought we were a shoo-in as a couple, but after the second date she simply told me she was too busy with her dancing, her coursework, etc., for a social life. For some years afterward, my will to romance was destroyed. I guess, in retrospect, that I was suffering from the classic broken heart. It set the stage for the darkest years of my life.
Fortunately, during my college years I also connected with a group of fellow writers, which eventually acquired the name Epsilon. Among them were the laughing horse-lover Mary Jo Tansy, the elfin bookworm Marva Ellis, the soft-spoken, fantastically sarcastic future lawyer Duane Ostler, the charmingly sensible and utterly down-to-earth April Peterson . . . for a while they were probably the most important people in my life. Due to distances, I had far more contact with them than with my family.
To be continued . . .
My Life in a Nutshell
I was born, once. Fortunately it was only once—it would be truly horrifying to think there were two of me wandering the streets, pen and tablet in hand, a million ideas milling in the fevered brain. My birthplace was Bozeman, MT. We lived in a place called Bear Canyon for six years. Nice place—for big blizzards. Once I’d had enough of those I insisted my family move to Virginia. We crossed the country and saw many sights, very few of which I remember now. In Virginia, we lived in an isolated spot called Broad Run for two years. One winter we had snow that drifted up to our second-story windows. No wonder white isn’t among my favorite colors. Actually, as a child I remember enjoying it. How times change.
You might say I’ve been drawing ever since I was knee-high to a short Shetland. I was always too busy oozing monsters, bulbous-nosed faces and “cowboys & Indians” to join one of those gangs you hear so much about. My loss, I guess. In 1970, we headed back west and ended up in a backwater place called Shelley—Potatoland, USA. By the time I was twenty-two I would have a passing acquaintance with more than a few million tubers. Some of my more exciting friends.
I spent 14 years in Shelley. More snow. Ice. Freezing winds. Then came summer, with 90-100 degree temperatures and hot, dusty winds. Who ever said Idaho was no fun? It was here that my brother Kirby and I whiled away the hours creating endless variations on a theme with 11-inch-high plastic western figures, one of whom was the immortal Johnny West. Those were the days. If people had been willing to pay us to “play West” for the rest of our lives, we might be doing it still.
At last I graduated from high school. I had coasted through my classes, almost never having to expend any effort. Except in math situations, that is. That’s one language I can’t seem to learn to speak fluently, even after applying myself. (Ironically, I now work in a job where numbers reign supreme . . .) Once I was out of high school, everything became a lot harder. Job-hunting was—if you’ll pardon the American
French—hell. Eventually I was hired at R.T. French’s Potato Wonderland. It was here that I was hypnotized by mile after flowing mile of loveable Russets. Somehow I found the motive to escape that bliss, though, and put in my papers for an LDS mission (see “A Word on Mormons”). My brother Kirby put his in at the same time; I ended up being sent to Puerto Rico, he to France. Puerto Rico was just a bit different from anything I’d experienced. No snow, for instance—not one ever-loving flake. When I wasn’t bathed in my own perspiration I was bathed by sudden rainstorms called aguaceros. The mission itself was a somewhat grueling experience but had its moments. I or my companions baptized around thirty people, including one man who had liquor on his breath at the time. Most are inactive now. My first and favorite was Ana Maria Torres, who would prove to be one of the most precious friendships of my life (my correspondence with her continues to this day—I heard from her early this year).
I returned twice to Puerto Rico in the same year (’89), because of an unusual quirk of circumstance. In the first visit I pursued my doomed relationship with Madeline Toro (a story unto itself; in the second I had the privilege of baptizing Ana Maria Torres’ twin sons, the hyperactive Omar and Alex. Another great moment in my life.
When it came to continuing education, I pulled my usual and took a year’s vacation or so before starting attendance at Idaho State U. There I chose a tentative major in Art, but unlike Van Gogh I valued both my ears. I decided that a foreseeable future of peddling my odd creations on a rural street corner wasn’t such a great idea, so I opted for a major in Spanish instead. It made sense, certainly, as I’d come back from a certain tropical island very fluent in that language. And BYU, in glorious Provo, Utah—the heart of Mormondom—offered 16 automatic credits for the ex-missionary who took one intermediate level Spanish class. So I gathered my courage and made the great move . . .
With a lot of help from family (my mother, my older sister Kandy and her main man Bruce), I trucked all my belongings down to an apartment in Provo in fall of ’90. Thus began college. (ISU really hadn’t ever impressed me as such, though I did experience a couple of good art classes and a high-caliber literature course taught by my uncle, Dante Cantrill.) One of my first BYU courses was Creative Writing, as taught by the highly impressive, eminently humble Bruce Jorgensen, and there I met a young woman who threw me for the proverbial loop—high, fast and hard. Her name was Anna Harbrecht. She combined looks (chestnut-blonde hair with gray eyes and a face that none of today’s Hollywood actresses—exceptions being Sandra Bullock and a few others—could come close to) with grace (she was taking high-level dance classes) and intelligence (she was an avid reader and had no trouble keeping up with my intellectual conversational bent). I thought we were a shoo-in as a couple, but after the second date she simply told me she was too busy with her dancing, her coursework, etc., for a social life. For some years afterward, my will to romance was destroyed. I guess, in retrospect, that I was suffering from the classic broken heart. It set the stage for the darkest years of my life.
Fortunately, during my college years I also connected with a group of fellow writers, which eventually acquired the name Epsilon. Among them were the laughing horse-lover Mary Jo Tansy, the elfin bookworm Marva Ellis, the soft-spoken, fantastically sarcastic future lawyer Duane Ostler, the charmingly sensible and utterly down-to-earth April Peterson . . . for a while they were probably the most important people in my life. Due to distances, I had far more contact with them than with my family.
To be continued . . .
Hymn parody (anyone want to provide the finishing touches?)
We Are All Addicted
(Parody of "We Are All Enlisted")
We are all addicted to this grease-loaded crap—
Heavy are we, heavy are we.
Every glob is going to the back of our lap,
We shall eat and wear it all our lives.
Haste to the freezer—quick, to the fridge!
Let’s find some caramel to stick to our bridge!
Stick to our diets? That’ll be the day!
We want to see, want to see how much we can weigh.
We are all addicted till the banquet is o’er—
Heavy are we! Heavy are we!
Vultures in the kitchen, there’s a fudge-pot in store,
We shall eat and wear it all our lives.
Hark! The sound of cupboard doors now opening wide;
Come form a line! Come form a line!
We are waiting now for goodies—see what’s inside . . .
(This parody is not intended to hurt the feelings of those who struggle with weight problems, since I, having ended up less than slender myself, fully sympathize. What it is intended to be is a jab at myself for letting myself end up in this state, as well as a statement on society's excesses and a form of protest regarding what I call the McDonald's Syndrome. Most of all, though, hopefully it has entertainment value--it just popped into my head one day, and the original lyrics just lent themselves so well . . . )
(Parody of "We Are All Enlisted")
We are all addicted to this grease-loaded crap—
Heavy are we, heavy are we.
Every glob is going to the back of our lap,
We shall eat and wear it all our lives.
Haste to the freezer—quick, to the fridge!
Let’s find some caramel to stick to our bridge!
Stick to our diets? That’ll be the day!
We want to see, want to see how much we can weigh.
We are all addicted till the banquet is o’er—
Heavy are we! Heavy are we!
Vultures in the kitchen, there’s a fudge-pot in store,
We shall eat and wear it all our lives.
Hark! The sound of cupboard doors now opening wide;
Come form a line! Come form a line!
We are waiting now for goodies—see what’s inside . . .
(This parody is not intended to hurt the feelings of those who struggle with weight problems, since I, having ended up less than slender myself, fully sympathize. What it is intended to be is a jab at myself for letting myself end up in this state, as well as a statement on society's excesses and a form of protest regarding what I call the McDonald's Syndrome. Most of all, though, hopefully it has entertainment value--it just popped into my head one day, and the original lyrics just lent themselves so well . . . )
Hobbit nonsense (as inspired by sister Marq, who was in turn inspired by the Lord of the Rings films . . .
A Change of Hobbit
(To the tune of Elvis’ “Change of Habit”)
Well, if you are a hobbit
And you’re feeling kind of down,
That ring is weighing on you
And you long for Shiretown.
Don’t count on any back-up
When you send your Sam away.
You don’t need—you don’t need—
What you don’t need is a change of hobbit.
No, keep your hobbit:
Get rid of Gollum,
Send Fishbreath packing
Into the gloom.
The Halls of Mordor
Were not so cheerful,
And now you’re headed
For old Mount Doom . . .
(To the tune of Elvis’ “Change of Habit”)
Well, if you are a hobbit
And you’re feeling kind of down,
That ring is weighing on you
And you long for Shiretown.
Don’t count on any back-up
When you send your Sam away.
You don’t need—you don’t need—
What you don’t need is a change of hobbit.
No, keep your hobbit:
Get rid of Gollum,
Send Fishbreath packing
Into the gloom.
The Halls of Mordor
Were not so cheerful,
And now you’re headed
For old Mount Doom . . .
My first outing
All right, here it is. Never thought I'd "blog" (hate that word), but in my literary world there do seem to be some advantages. So here's Jamie Jonas at 45 (almost 46), having just been instructed by his sister Marqueta in The Setting Up of the Blog, sticking his cyber-neck out of his cybershell and looking around.
Well, it's been a busy spring/summer so far, in some ways. My wife Susana and I are finally finishing our basement, and the lower part of the house is in chaos. My daughter Andrea just took her first karate class last night and seemed to take to it like a grass stain to a gi (they were practicing outdoors). I opted to watch, though invited to join. Told them I'd never been a "martial arts kind of guy."
Life is good, I think. I've been married for five years now, as of this Sunday, and the picture is infinitely brighter than it was at, say, age 40.
And that, I guess, is enough for a first post. Back later.
Well, it's been a busy spring/summer so far, in some ways. My wife Susana and I are finally finishing our basement, and the lower part of the house is in chaos. My daughter Andrea just took her first karate class last night and seemed to take to it like a grass stain to a gi (they were practicing outdoors). I opted to watch, though invited to join. Told them I'd never been a "martial arts kind of guy."
Life is good, I think. I've been married for five years now, as of this Sunday, and the picture is infinitely brighter than it was at, say, age 40.
And that, I guess, is enough for a first post. Back later.
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