The Mindhump:

Was a set of miniature windchimes I purchased for four dollars from Wal-Mart.

In a similar vein, the Lyrics from a few entries ago are as follows:

1.)  So-Called Chaos by Alanis Morrisette
2.) Suede by Tori Amos
3.) Dixie Chicken by Garth Brooks
4.) Don't Let it Bring You Down by Neill Young
5.) Hey Pretty by Poe

I warn you now, not all stories have happy endings.  Or, as I have learned, any sense of closure whatsoever.  I went to the pound last Friday, bright and early, as promised, and spoke to a congenial enough young man who was feeding the dogs.  One dog visibly missing was a cute little yellow gal with pointy ears and white feet.  I asked if Oli had come through at all, gave him a description of her.  He shook his head sadly and said no dog like that had been through the pound.  Then, seeing my confusions, asked me if I was the dog’s owner.  I said yes, hoping for a lead to her potential whereabouts or some leverage, and he asked me where the pooch had come from.  I explained the story of Oli’s abduction by the local Game Warden, which was met with an even more dismal face in response.  The man again told me she had never been to the pound, of that much she was certain.  He spoke with a saddened voice that said she had probably never made it to the pound.

I am without a yellow dog to curl up in my lap, and I feel like a failure for letting this happen.  The guilt led to a wonderfully heated discussion with my grandfather, who didn’t seem to give a damn that he was no better than the people he had said should be imprisoned for setting her on the side of the road.  At least they didn’t have her killed.  I told him as much.  He didn’t seem to like it.  Just as well, I have no real interest in talking to him for the rest of the foreseeable future, and have lost most of the little respect I used to have for him.

Today is Typewriter Day.  In honor of the first patent on the typewriter ... wait, what's a typewriter?  Is that anything like a keyboard?  Okay, now we're talking.  Using the letters K-E-Y-B-O-A-R-D tell us something about your blog or your blogging habits.

K – Keyboarding.  I do it strangely.  With the fingers poised far above the keyboard, hitting down on the keys themselves with the tips of my fingers one at a time.  It is an odd little typing dance I do, but it drastically cuts down on spelling errors from doing it the right way.  People like to laugh at the way I type.

E – Eating.  I am almost always munching on something while I type.

Y – Yahoo-ooooo.  Specifically Launch.  It’s an invaluable source of mediocore tuneage to help break the silence on long, particularly useless nights.

B – Blog has become my primary source of communicating information to the outside world (anyone who exists in it besides me).  My human-to-human interactions have been drastically cut in half since I found this place—not that that in any way should be considered a compaint.

O – Occasional.  It’s the name of the blog for a reason.  I either make 3-4 entries a day, or none for days at a time.

A – Always procrastinating.  I keep saying I shall write on my novels.  Instead, I blog.  Tis a never-ending, vicious cycle.

R – Really shiny, new Compaq Presario.  My new baby, love of my life. I shall be doing many, many blog entires on that oddball keyboard.

D – During my work shift is the most common time that I blog.  There is a nice lull in business after midnight, which explain why most of my entries are made between 1 and 3 in the morning.

This week's hump -- an even dozen of "I say ___, you think ___"

01.  stroke: Dirty songs by Clarence Carter.
02.  sketch: My soon-to-be more publicized “Draw My Characters” Campaign.  Watch this blog for details.
03.  poke: what Luna always does on messenger to get my attention.
04.  doh: D’oh, a deer (Homer Simpson musical tune)
05.  tongue: this book I just finished reading which involved tongues being cut out so the victims wouldn’t talk.  Disgusting stuff.  I bet you’re glad I shared.
06.  post: Post office.  I desperately need to check my mail.
07.  twirl: twizzlers.  Don’t know why.
08.  fore: Horrendous netspeak.  Bfore U go, meh peep…..  Man, it’s been a long time since I did a grammar rant.  I should think of one.
09.  cup: coffee.  Need coffee.  In a cup.  Cups are what coffee is for.
10.  curly: What I wish my hair did naturally.
11.  swim: what the fish do, for lack of other modes of transportation.
12.  snooze: Naps are gooood.

For extra fun, hump this:

Think of an item ... 

 ...don't tell us what the item is.  Now, describe that item in brief paragrah (the size, the color, etc) but don't give it away.  Okay, now you're ready to hump it up.  Replace the name of the item with the word "hump".  Other players will come to your blog and try to guess what your hump is.  Tomorrow morning, add the answer to your hump and for big fun add a picture.  If you don't have a camera do a Google image search.

My hump is held up by a black string and a copper hook.  The hump has thin, hollow, metal reeds hanging down from a wooden support.  The hump is mesmerizing everyone who walks by my cubicle and plays with it.  The hump makes wonderfully soothing music.

I find myself in a state of semi-fuckedupeddness. The laptop is finally dead, Odin rest its weary soul, and I am now $`,300 short in my Vegas Vacation fund. The newest arrival into my household is yet another Compaq Presario laptop (may it serve me better than its predecessor) a nice little wide-screened deal I got for a massive discount because it was the store’s display unit. I’ve spent most of my morning going through the hard drive, removing other people’s downloads and spy ware (seriously, why download MP3s in Circuit City--it’s not like you can use them.) This should also explain why I dropped off the face of the planet around Friday night. New computer killed out then and, after spending a weekend camping in the mountains of Virginia (where I happen to live, so big freaking deal), I had to come home and find a way to replace the old laptop. So now there is this monstrosity, and I do mean monstrosity. I haven’t seen a laptop of this width since they came into vogue in the early 90s. The screen is bright enough to catch some serious rays from, despite my best efforts to dim it. And all my data is still on the old computer, which refuses to acknowledge my existence.

This is, ladies and gentlemen, my fatal flaw. I am She Who Forgets to Back Up Her Data. I have most of my 15 gigs of amassed stuff accounted for. Problem is, I have this nasty little habit of forgetting to back up my novels more than once or twice a year. Everything I have written since January still sits on the old hard drive, which refuses to go past the sign-in screen. I have tried to slave the old computer onto this one and thus acquire my data, but no luck thus far. I am planning to turn the matter over to some hacker friends of mine who should, hopefully, fix the issue in no time. Barring that, I suppose salvaging this data is worth paying for a call to good old Microsoft Tech Support.

I also kind of forgot to back up the 500-odd fonts I have accumulated over the years. This, for some reason, is irking me worse than the loss of data. I have amassed these fonts from the web, other people, odd cds I no longer have and so many other sources that I lost track years ago. These were the fancy, beautiful fonts I was using for titles and letterheads of my books, scripts that will be impossible to track down again now that they are lost. I hold out hope of salvaging the old hard drive long enough to back up a copy, and to update my literary works.

On the remarkably bright side, though, this new, pretty version of Microsoft Works (not Word, thank you God) is compatible with my older version, which dates back to the glory days of Windows 95, and which all of my novels have been written on. The files I salvaged opened upon command, and promptly went ballistic. Another of the downsides, I am learning, is the need to re-program your spellchecker to recognize words like Aleczicandre and Amon as real things and not some gross user input error. The poor auto-correct doesn’t even know where to start.

I am also discovering as I type this entry, the first thing of any length I’ve done on the new computer, that some of the keys are in the most inconceivable of places. The Windows key is hidden in the top-right corner, where the Home, End, and Page keys are also crammed. I am going to be doing a lot of accidental backspacing before I get the hang of the new layout. The Control and Function keys are also completely reversed from what I’m used to. I think I shall have a nervous breakdown along with my poor spellchecker before things are said and done. I am learning, also, that this keyboard is just a fraction of an inch wider than my previous one, which is also aiding to the already impending nervous breakdown of my new spell-checker. The mouse is in precisely the right spot to scroll to other points of the document at random, input the cursor, and start my typing amid something already completed. This is definitely going to take some getting ased to, though I think I just found a fantastically magical button that disables the mouse altogether. Odin be praised. This thing also makes some delightfully cool noises. It purrs like a velociraptor while dialing up to my ISP. Creepy, as I have this paranoia about velociraptors coming to kill me while I sleep, but cool nonetheless.s

So, aside from being out 500+ irretrievable fonts, my copy of Photoshop, three or four dozen “acquired” MP3s, all the templates for my web page and about 100-odd pages of randomly written material including a few half-finished chapters I was hoping to turn into fully-finished chapters before week’s end, the new setup is going smoothly so far. This computer, who needs a name (the old one was Alec, go figure) is proving to be much faster and efficient than its predecessor, stupid user input problems aside.

On a closing note, I leave myself with the following words of advice: next time, back it up.

The beast is conquered.  The demon has been slain.  I rejoice on a field of victory amid much wine and dancing and revelry.

Odin be praised.

Mood:  Anticipatory
Now Playing:  So-Called Chaos by Alanis Morrisette
Swear Words Spoken Today: 0

I have fallen victim to the ever-popular song meme.  Below are lines from five songs. I want titles and artists.  No googling, as that takes all the fun out of it.  First person to answer correctly gets a prize of some form.

1.  "I want to be naked, running thorugh the streets"
2.  "Anybody knows you can conjure anything by the dark of the moon"
3.  "She took me to the river where she cast her spell"
4.  "Blue moon sinking from the weight of the load"
5.  "Well I've got a mind full of wicked designs"

Leave your answers as a comment.

And, as part of back-to-back Meme madness, here's a completed book meme that I stole from Xaos who stole it from the Angry Alchemist, who stole it from someone else.

1. Take five books off your bookshelf.
   Obsidian Butterly by Laurell K. Hamilton
   The Third Option by Vince Flynn
   Sharpe's Escape by Bernard Cornwell
   The Confusion by Neal Stephenson
   Song of Susannah by Stephen King
 
2. Book #1 -- First sentence.
I was covered in blood, but it wasn't mine, so it was okay.

3. Book #2 -- Last sentence on page fifty.
What are you still doing here?

4. Book #3 -- Second sentence on page one hundred.
God damn it, he thought, but he would make Lavisser pay.

5. Book #4 -- Next to the last sentence on page one hundred fifty.
He did not fight so much anymore, as his style was one that relied upon speed and acute vision.
 
6. Book #5 -- Final sentence of the book.
King's family, which had gathered in part to celebrate Father's Day, is in seclusion tonight.

7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph.
I was covered in blood, but it wasn't mine, so it was okay. He did not fight so much anymore, as his style was one that relied upon speed and acute vision. God damn it, he thought, but he would make Lavisser pay.  King's family, which had gathered in part to celebrate Father's Day, is in seclusion tonight..... What are you still doing here?

I called the pound today,, spoke with a grouchy and generally disgruntled sounding older man.  I asked about the hours of operation for tomorrow, and was told they are only open from the hours of 12-4 because, for the rest of the day, they would be “working with the animals.”  I am assuming this means injecting them with chemicals that cause them to stop breathing and their hearts to stop beating. 

I asked this same disgruntled man, very nicely and very specifically if there was a yellow dog that had been brought in on Monday, one who had a white streak on her face, a white underbelly and two white back paws.  I mentioned she was probably a whiner.  His answer was to tell me gruffly that they were open from noon until 4pm and to come by then.  He slammed the phone down on me.

I am not optimistic at this point that Oli will find her way back to me, but I am getting up early in the morning to drive up to the pound so that I will be there just as they open.  Hopefully, she will still be waiting for me.

Born to a world where nobody cared
Hungry for anything, nobody shared
Hit by a nobody driving four wheels
Who drove on and left him
Nobody feels
Nobody’s worry, nobody’s goad
Nobody’s pain by the side of the road
Nobody bled, nobody cried
Nobody’s pet
Nobody died.

It’s been too long since I’ve become utterly entrapped by an artist, since I have found anything of merit, or anything that sounds even remotely unlike pre-manufactured music for mass-consumption. I don’t listen to music on the recommendation of anyone, except maybe Tara, who manages to nail my peculiar and eccentric tastes more often than not. I’ve consumed a dangerous cocktail it seems, a new band whose lyrics and rhythm have entrapped me, taken as a chaser to concluding the reading of a book I have anticipated for too long and found myself severely disappointed by. The band is Shinedown. The novel is Song of Susannah, the latest volume of Stephen King’s Dark Towers series. I had feared, from the conclusion of the series’ previous volume, that King would irreversibly and immeasurably fuck up what could have easily taken its rightful place as one of the greatest literary epics of modern times. Yet, at the end of this volume, I am left with a bitter taste in my mouth, knowing that things have been irreparable blown to hell by a man who has used the opus meant to tie all his worlds together as, instead, a forum for him to declare himself a god.

Reading the book, especially the delightfully egocentric and equally useless writer’s coda at the end, has raised some interesting questions though, interesting enough to divert me from my keyboard and my attempts to further the Chapter From Hell long enough to ponder a few things. There is an assumption, among people who do not read, that writers tell a story. About three years into the decade-long odyssey that has become the Centre Chronicles, I came to a different conclusion. For years, I’ve found myself on the verge of questioning my sanity, wondering if I’m merely an independently-functioning vessel to convey the thoughts and actions and desires of characters of my invention. I rest easier, listening to an acquired copy of a CD I thought I would not like, still digesting the bitter ending to a book I wanted desperately to love, knowing that I am not insane. King said it brilliantly in the closing pages of an otherwise disappointing novel, in reference to the relationship between himself and the character who has been with him for the better part of thirty years:

“Sometimes it seems to me that none of this stuff is mine, that I’m nothing but Roland of Gilead’s fucking secretary.”

That’s me dealing with Alec. And, I have come to realize that for too long, I’ve been trying to take a controlling hand in his fate, to write the destiny of someone who is willing to fight to his death against my decisions. And I think that, too, has been part of the problem with why this book stalled so suddenly and abruptly and completely. I’ve spent the better part of the past year convincing myself that Alec was fighting me. The truth was, I was fighting him.

I am turning myself over fully and completely to the story, wherever it may take me, however much I may not agree with its outcome or pathways to a resolution. And I’m listening to a bootlegged CD by a band I’m not particularly fond of. Why? Because Alec was listening to, and decided he loved them. Because what he’s hearing is the soundtrack to his life, and because he wants to get on with that life instead of sitting idly in the passenger seat while some 23-year old girl who doesn’t know shit about shit tried to control his destiny.

This post is my official declaration of defeat. I am relinquishing control of the driver’s seat.

The words are flowing, almost too quickly for me to keep up. I am still at a standstill on #22, the Chapter from Hell. But I’ve been sitting in front of this screen, without food or drink for more hours than I can coherently remember. And I have 31 absolutely flawless pages to show for my effort.

Mood:  Need coffee.
Now Playing:  Let it Out by Shinedown
Now Reading:  Between novels at the moment.
Swear Words Spoken:  5