I've been feeling in a reflective mood the past few days. I decided to write a letter to a friend reminiscing about a nice event last fall. It was going to be about a one page letter — in fact, I thought I might handwrite the final draft (I'm convinced handwritten notes are still preferable to typed in many respects). Well, that ain't happ'n. I said I was in a reflective mood, right? Well, I was really in that mood — the one page letter turned into a five an a half single-spaced page story (4,100 words). As is my usual mode of editing, each attempt to pare it down makes it longer. At times, my words can be like Tribbles (good thing I'm not a Klingon).
In other words, I'm wordy. Very wordy. It is at times like these, I wonder how I ever manage to meet the 600 word requirements for an op-ed… It is also at times like these I wonder if maybe I really should get into politics. Seriously, I have been known to win a debate solely on the fact that I can keep churning out words until everyone has grown tired of debating with me (of course, I'm right, which helps).
I've been working on a small project over the summer moths: creating a tragedy (as in a play, not trying to cause something bad to happen). Whether it will fulfill the Shakespearian-Jonsonian-Senecan five act mold is still up in the air, but it does follow Aristotle's guidelines for tragedy fairly closely. I don't expect that Aristotle will put my play in place of Oedipus Rex in the next edition of Poetics, but at least it wouldn't risk becoming an example of a non-unified, episodic plot lacking catharsis, hopefully.
I have not decided what to do with the play yet, perhaps it'll just rot in my bit bucket, but in the mean time, I thought I'd see if anyone would be interested in taking a look at a draft of it. There are much better things you can do with your time, but if you're a glutton for punishment, let me know. Depending on how Melpomene assists, it may be done later this week, or it may be a few more weeks before I get it to you.
Regularly scheduled programming really should resume tomorrow.
Frogs croak softly, softly.
Day has passed and night is here,
The day fades away.
Decisions to make,
Should not always wait fore're
But what should I do?
Though the crickets chirp,
The silence is deafening,
And time rolls onward.
A warm wind blows by,
Birds sing in the distant trees,
A savored hour.
So much to say now,
Time does not permit it. Alas!
Let another time come.
Moving a mountain,
A mustard seed faith is all,
Can I muster that?
Stopping for the night,
The soft sounds of the evening,
Do sing their last song.
Path forks presently,
A point of decision here,
A cricket beckons.
Knowing what must be,
And knowing how to do it,
Are not the same thing.
A glorious day,
Brings me to rejoice this eve;
Grasp its dying hour.
The plan unplanned is
Far greater than the one set,
Life made in moments.
A sole dogwood tree,
Waves in wind with grace and joy,
Preview of the day.
Softly night falls here,
The sound of the computer
Mourns the passing day.
The wind blows to, fro,
My mind too goes for the ride,
Where does it lead me?
Quiet, the cars drone on,
The soft sounds of a city night,
Someone heads t'ward home.
The days grow long and trees do anxious bloom,
Warm breezes flow and conjure up the flowers.
A flower small does wish for warmth to loom,
Returning coldness would his life so sour.
Summer's prophet does gain my attention rapt,
My mind, day dreaming, does ask of future,
But Sping's foretelling doth end up all capped,
Past pending warmth the Spring would telling err.
And so I settle in to watch the birds,
Whose long southern sojourn deprived us so,
And write patient, anticipating words,
As time, ne'er ceasing, does slowly still flow.
Let the Spring come and happy joy bring here,
To all those who for this did lend a ear.
Clock ticks slowly on.
More time goes, ne'er returning.
Cats are unaware.
Unworthy I am,
Edwards rings so true tonight,
Refreshing is Grace.
Worry less about myself,
Time indiff'rent, for good reason
Soli deo gloria.
To bed I go now,
The sound of crickets lacking,
Just the tick of clock.
Last time on Choose Your Own Adventure: Part 3.2: Beginning the Investigation @ WIT!?!?!?
Herrick sat in his home’s driveway staring at the steering wheel of his city owned Ford Five Hundred. He realized that if Stevenson ever found out that he was aware of the Variant Alliance’s connection to the Turner case, it could be the end of his career. Stevenson was the type of manipulative person that was able to make himself the chief’s best friend even while grating Herrick with his “I’m a federal agent and you’re not” attitude. At the same time, Herrick realized that if the FBI got involved, he would never be able to trap the Variant Alliance – he knew the enemy and he was the only one capable of dealing with Dakmoore.
If Stevenson got involved and tried FBI protocols for dealing with this type of threat, bad things would happen. Having nearly lost his life to Dakmoore, Herrick was uniquely able to understand just what a threat the Variant Alliance was. If he lost his job, so be it – he would rather be unemployed with the knowledge that he had averted whatever disaster Dakmoore had planned than be gainfully employed and staring at a casualty list.
One thing was sure. If he was going to pursue Dakmoore, he was going to have to ditch the standard issue police car for now. With a GPS navigation system and other electronic gadgets installed for the alleged reason of making an officer’s life easier, Herrick wasn’t so sure that Stevenson might not be willing to stoop to tracking his vehicle.
“Here we are facing one of the biggest threats to ever come to this city and I have to worry about some idiotic turf war,” Herrick muttered. A low buzzing sound brought Herrick’s mind back to the situation at hand and he realized his cell phone was ringing. It was Sally Gregory, his fiancée.
Gregory had moved into town when Herrick was a junior in high school and he had fallen for her almost immediately. However, when he had gone off to Southwest State to earn a degree in criminology, and then later nabbed his position at the Bureau, he had failed to keep in contact. His relatives had all moved out of town, while he was in college, searching for better jobs in larger cities and he did not return until accepting the job as Harrison County detective after his near-death at the hands of Dakmoore. When he did arrive in town, he learned that Sally had never married, crushed by his departure. He had resolved to try to make things right, and after an initial, justifiable hesitancy on her part; they had hit it off again.
Herrick flipped open the phone. “Hello, hon.”
“Ben, there’s been a black van driving down my street every few minutes; I’m starting to think they are spying on me.”
“Dakmoore, you, you,” Herrick muttered. He threw the car into reverse, then shoved it into drive, ignoring the vehicle's squealing protest to the sudden movement.
“What was that,” she questioned, “and what’s this got to do with Dakmoore?” He had told her about his previous encounters with Dakmoore and now he regretted letting this slip out to her.
“I don’t know if this phone is secure, Sal, just hold tight, I’ll be right there.” No sooner had Herrick uttered the words than a gut-wrenching scream came over the line and he heard the cell phone crash to the ground. Herrick fought to maintain control of the car as his mind pictured what was happening. He could hear someone walking in a slow, deliberate manner toward the phone and then he heard what sounded like someone picking it up.
“I know you better than you think, Ben.” It was Dakmoore. “I knew you’d keep our demands to yourself so you could try to hunt us down. We’re not playing that game, so I’ve acquired some ‘insurance’ to make sure our demands are properly conveyed.”
“Dakmoore…” Herrick could think of a thousand choice expressions to fire Dakmoore’s way, but decided doing so would only give the criminal the attention he wanted. “What are you going to do with Sally?”
“Don’t worry about Sally, man. I’ll take care of her. If our demands are unmet, you’re going to have far more to worry about than just Miss Gregory. One hundred million euros by noon tomorrow, Herrick. Don’t be late, you wouldn’t want to fail Sally again.” Dakmoore chucked, “I really should have been a Hollywood director, here I’ve setup a perfect movie – black vans kidnapping people, secretive phone conversations demanding large sums of money and now damsel in distress. Lots of drama, a perfect evil genius – we could call it Gregorian Chants! I’m bloody brilliant! Heh, bloody, get it, bloody?”
“People don’t like b-movies full of clichéd, overused plots and morbid puns, Dakmoore,” Herrick retorted. What was he doing arguing about movie production with this sadistic creep? “I don’t have time for this,” he continued and then hung up the phone.