I tend to get obsessive about numbers, but, despite my Scots/English/Welsh background, I ignore 1066 and instead get tied up in 1054. Why? Because it was a year of delightful confluence: the supernova that create the Crab Nebula, and the schism between eastern and western Christendom, one of the few positive developments within the then-Catholic Church; whenever our late-breakfast hits 10:54 on the stove timer, I feel blessed.
(As for 1066, the Normans were the scum of Europe, not outdone until the Nazis came along. They’re worth their own rant here, or even a full book at some point.)
But this year, the magic number has been 84. It’s my age, and also the age of my deeply beloved brother Rod’s death. The obsession also spills over into the calendar: Orwell’s 1984, which passed without national degeneration (that had to wait until Trump and 2016), and my daughter Cait’s birth that September.
I’ve somehow managed to sidestep a lot of what most people take for granted. Despite living on the edge financially, I’ve made absolutely no attempt to search out a career or a well-paying job. It’s not a stance taken; the urge has just never been there. Linda and I now have a (to us) tidy sum in investments, but I never read the annual prospectus, just every now and then check out whether the amount has gone up or down, with little caring one way of the other – it will change direction within the next couple months, with or without my help. Financially, I’m a true ignoramus and I suspect always will be (“always” stretching maybe another decade).
But there are some other things I should finally be catching up on that I’ve spent my life ignoring, hating or blundering against. The most personal of these is promoting my own work. I’m goddamned proud of the books I’ve written but done nothing whatsoever to promote them or even make them known. They sit, self-published, unread, on Amazon, along with roughly 15 million romance novels and dragon fantasies. (I think one of mine is ranked 5 millionth in whatever category they tossed it in.)
So suppose (just suppose) I now want to promote this stuff. How would I go about it when I steadfast, insistently refuse to join social media. The idea, literally, makes me want to puke.
OK, first step: All of you are now commanded to visit my author page on Amazon (amazon.com/author/davisderek), and if you don’t want to fork money over on one of my books, I’ll send you a free copy (postage-free if hardback, a mobi file if Kindle). I am, seriously (guffaw!), unconcerned about making money on what I’ve written. I’m only concerned about it being read. And it deserves to be read.
What else should I be learning at this late train stop? The ins and outs of science and history that I’ve missed along the way. How to be less angry at myself and the world, how to forgive my own mistakes and those of others – oh crap, that’s not going to happen. Maybe to get out of bed in the morning and not wish it was a different day.
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A couple nominations for fictional character names:
• Ian Phlegming (master of nasal disguise)
• “Beef” Stroganoff (Mafia lackey)
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In the last few decades, there’s been increasing attention paid to familial and spousal abusers who replicate the abuse done to them at an early age. Part of the thinking is, this is what they know, what they’re familiar with, so that even though such abuse created huge misery in their lives, they pass it along as “how things are done, how families behave.”
But something popped into my mind recently that I haven’t found covered seriously elsewhere: Can the same outlook also explain, by extension, the behavior of the ruling segments of a society, culture or nation? I’m thinking particularly of the current explosion in the Mideast between “neighbors” Gaza and Israel.
Both the Moslems and the Jews have suffered centuries of oppression, and while as individuals they have reacted in multiple different ways, both Hamas, theoretically representing the Palestinians, and Netanyahu’s government, theoretically representing Israel, have taken on extreme, abusive and damming positions that mirror, to a remarkable extent, the evils done to their people.
The fact, of corse, is that neither Hamas or Netanyahu represent their people. They are carrying on an age-old feud passed down as “normal” by their ruling caste.
And this in itself may be a reflection of the obnoxious religions that have arisen in the area, ever since Moses (or whoever it may have been) swiped monotheism from Akenaten in Egypt, over 3,000 years ago.
The god of the old testament was a nasty son of a bitch, though probably with good reason – I mean, if you were omnipotent and had created the human race, then watched what it developed into, wouldn’t you be pissed at everyone and everything, especially yourself? (“Lucifer, did you put weed in the brownies again?”)
Next, Christianity came along and was quickly co-opted by the Church machine that threw all the blame on human beings through the absurdity of “original sin.” Finally, Islam, to further acerbate a crappy legacy, adopted the worst smash-the-non-beliers errors of its predecessors.
These religions, arising in a small crossroads between continents, have engendered over 2,000 years of expanded depredation throughout the world. And no good, doable way I can think of to roll it back. The damage has been too enormous.
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At the Covered Bridge – a restaurant, now sadly closed, near the village of Sonestown – the most heart-poundingly sexy woman ran the few tables – boisterous, succulent as ripe cantaloupe and dead-on with every order, especially the drinks.
I once made an internal bet that she would spot my empty gin and tonic glass within 15 seconds. At my count of 13, her finger shot out and
“Refill?”
They can’t teach that in bartender’s school.
lickhaven 