January 15th, 2001

Right now, I'm working through a nasty case of writer's block. I have a paper that I need to write... it's a left over from last semester, and the professor was nice enough to let it slide until I could get it done. Since I don't want to test his patience, I want to get it done this weekend, but damn me if I can figure out how to write it. The words just won't come, and I'm not even sure how I want to talk about the differences in the Conversions of Iceland and Norway.

So, I'm sitting around, trying to work out the large chunk of nothing in my head. Every so often, I'll fire up "The King's Table" and get my butt kicked at Tafl or Ragnarok a couple times before getting sick of it and going back to e-mail. I don't know why I'm blocked, precisely... I've been thinking about my future a bit, recently. Deadlines for grad school applications are approaching faster than I'm ready to deal with them, I need a job this semester because I have a huge debt with my father to pay off, and Gods only know what I'm going to do after graduation. Some people would probably say that my problems aren't that big compared to what other people have to deal with, and they're right, but guess what? They're still the problems that I have to deal with. I can't go worrying about other people's problems until I at least have a reasonable plan for dealing with my own.

But, back to the future. I finally went through a piece of mail that my Dad forwarded along; my bank statement, my debt with him, a couple of registration cards... and a letter, telling me I need to focus on what I'm going to be doing this semester, this summer, and next fall. I understand his concern; I have excellent parents who have been really supportive, and I feel like a wastrel, at times, since they're still supporting me. I know they love me, and they want me to succeed... but I can't help but feel that they sometimes think that the first step on that path would be for me to sell all my gaming books (now up to ten feet of material), get rid of all the games on my computer, and stop being Asatru. I think they miss that these things are what keep me sane. Being able to expend my emotional energies in RPGs, my violent urges in computer games, and my need for spirit with the Gods are why I haven't ripped anything apart in years.

In the letter he sent me, my dad described the weddings of my friends as discretionary events. I find myself wondering if he really thinks of them that way, or if he's just not had a close friend get married in a long time, so he's forgotten. I can't see a marriage of a friend of mine as optional; it's like saying that the marriage of my brother was an optional event. Close friends are not just like family, they are family.

Bah. I'll write something more, later. Right now, I need to restart my computer.

January 17th, 2001

I just learned through a friend that another friend of ours has been "saved". I didn't hear this from my friend, of course; she dropped off the face of the planet with regards to me a few months ago, pretty much following a letter from her boyfriend telling me to leave her alone.

Freyr's Balls, but this is beginning to piss me off. Three years ago, it was the same damn thing; a friend simply stops talking to me after an argument. No "I need to cool off now", no "I need to be away from you for a while", no "The judge says this restraining order includes contacting me electronically", just a complete and total loss of contact. E-mails go unanswered, friend logs on under a different name on messaging programs, etc. Can't women have any spine and simply tell me to leave them the fuck alone? Yes, I wanted to be more than friends with her, and the previous one, but they never bother to tell me that they're not interested... they just disappear.

Then there is the business of her being "saved". I, of course, don't see it that way. I remember this girl, laughing with me as I mocked a missionary who accosted us on the streets of Gatlinburg. I mourn for this beautiful young woman, because I know that her love for her heritage is now going to be lost at the hands of the desert god. I don't see conversion to Xtianity, especially the Baptist branch, as being saved. It is, instead, a voluntary discarding of your heritage; its leaving behind who your ancestors were, and falling in league with the religion that attempted to destroy them and their culture.

And so, I mourn for my friend, just as I mourned three years ago. How can I see them as anything but dead, when they cease speaking to me, and no longer acknowledge my existence?

February 7th, 2001 CE

Well, I've got about an hour before I'm going to go to bed, and I thought I might spend some time talking about a few things that have come up since I last wrote. Right now, I'm listening to a chunk of music I've got in MP3... Marty Robbin's "El Paso" just segued into Johnny Horton's "Battle of New Orleans". I picked up those two because I remembered listening to them with Dad over break; weird music, but I like it. For shits and grins, I'll give you parenthetical notes as to what comes on my WinAmp.

Weyland, a man on Asatru_N_Action, recently pointed out that heathens need to begin keeping journals of what it is like in these days, when we're few and far between. (Sgt. Barry Sadler has just come on with "The Ballad of the Green Beret"... Bošvar would gag, I imagine) I can see what Weyland means; it is a different thing, being the sole heathen in the area. I've lamented this before to people who know me in person; many Christians, as well as atheists and other faiths, don't seem to remember what its like being the only one of their kind around. (Meredith Brooks: "Bitch") If I wish to speak to someone who understands my religious point of view, I have to turn to the internet; I know one heathen in the area, and haven't heard from her in a bit more than a month.

The feeling of isolation really hits me when I'm in class. Today, for example, we're discussing the "Wakefield Second Shepherd's Play"; IOW, a Xtian mystery play. The play literally bored me to sleep last night... I wound up falling asleep at 9pm because I couldn't take the damn thing anymore. When I get to class, though, a lot of the class is engaged by it. They're finding it fascinating, and wanting to delve into it. When I go to Introduction to Lit Studies tomorrow, it will be the same thing: I'll say something from my moral and ethical Point of View, and get a battery of blank stares, perhaps with a bit of disgust. (R.E.M.: Everybody Hurts)

However, for all the bitching I do, it's wonderful being a heathen man. I know that my Gods don't require, or even enjoy, my grovelling; every act of moral strength is an act of worship. My Gods are my allies, not my masters, and I can see the difference when I look at the people around me. There is a fear, a hesistancy, that I see in Christians, and a venom that comes from atheists. It's a wondrous thing to be experiencing. The only people who seem to have the same spark in their eyes that I feel in mine are Jews, which is odd until you think about it: these are not people who are clinging to an alien god, but ones who are enjoying the presence and support of the God of their Folk. It is enough to bring a smile to anyone's face.

(Sam the Sham and the Pharohs: Little Red Riding Hood) Of course, I did have my discomfort about oathbreaking. I was oathed to the draugtru God when I was younger; I don't even remember how old I was, but it was old enough to make my own decisions. I have since broken that oath, and for a time, I feared to tell people; oathbreakers are difficult to trust. However, one person, I think it was Skarphešinson, reminded me of Tyr, and his oath to Fenrir (Metallica: Turn the Page). For those who don't know the story, and those who love it as I do, here's how it happened.

Now Fenrir Wolf was one of the three Children of Loki... the other two were Hel and the Midgard Serpent. Fenrir was the only one to be kept in Asgard. As he grew older, he grew larger and larger, until all the Gods save for Tyr feared to feed him. The Gods were afraid of Fenrir, especially since there was a prophecy that he would devour them at Ragnarok. They decided that the wolf must be bound.

They had a set of chains forged, Lešling. When they bound Fenrir with them, asking him to test his strength, they snapped like frost-bound twigs. They had another set forged, naming this set Dromi, and these were even stronger than before. (Collective Soul: The World I Know) However, Fenrir felt that he had grow since last time, and dared to try them again. Dromi strained for but a moment before Fenrir snapped those, too.

The Gods cast the worthless chains aside, and forged a final chain, this one from things that do not exsist. This last chain, whose name I cannot recall, was made from the roots of a mountain, the footfalls of a cat, the breath of a fish, the spittle of birds, the beards of women, and the sinew of bears. They brought this before Fenrir, and asked him to test it. Each God, even great Magni, took the chain in their two hands, and showed that they could not break it, though it seemed to be naught but a ribbon of silk. Now, Fenrir may not have been as wise as Mimir, but he was not stupid (Land - horses land of a thousand dances la mer (de)), and he knew something was up. At first he refused, but they dared him, saying that he did not have the strength, and swearing to let him free should it happen that he could not break this chain.

Fenrir could not pass up the challenge, but he did ask for a pledge. He asked that one of the Gods place a hand in between those massive jaws, and, if they broke their oath to free him, he would take that hand as payment. Now, the Gods fully intended to leave Fenrir bound until the world fell and came back under him, and then again through another world, so none would do it. Tyr, however, stepped forward, and placed his hand in the mouth of Fenrir. The other Gods placed the chain upon Fenrir, and he strained against the chain. He strained, and found that he could not break the chain. He heard the Gods laughing, and knew he had been tricked, so he closed his jaws, severing the hand of Tyr. All the Gods save Tyr laughed at him, then, and bound him tighter.

Now, Tyr willingly broke his oath. He knew the oath would not be kept, and lost his hand as punishment. From this story, we can learn many things, such as the danger of being too proud to back down from a challenge you cannot win, and the danger of making enemies you do not wish to face, but the lesson I see, for my situation, is that sometimes an oath must be broken in order to maintain troth with the Aseir and with yourself. (Rob Zombie: Dragula) One must, like Tyr, be willing to pay the price for breaking that oath. To my eyes, the price for this oath has been a strained relationship with my mother, which has hurt me; I spend much of our time now guarding my tongue against things I wish to say. But I know also, that it has hurt her, and that that oath to the draugtru God had to be broken for me to remain whole, and to be the man I am today.

I have more ideas on the Binding of Fenrir, and the meanings within it; I may share them later, if people are interested. But, my time is nearly up, and I still need to prepare for bed. Ironically enough, Dosenhof Wodenson's "The Wolf Bound" just came on my MP3 player. If you can, I suggest you go to MP3.com and seek it out; its a little hard for most people's taste, but he's a good artist.

Uale, Lectors.

February 21st, 2001

I learned tonight that, several years ago, a friend of mine was sexually assualted. This makes the third woman who I love that has told me this, and my reaction is always the same: I have an immediate and deep-seated desire to kill. I want to go out to my truck, lift up the seat in the extended cab, and go on the warpath with my axe in hand and dagger strapped to my belt. I want to chase down the bastards who did this and feed them their testicles. Usually hard at its heels is a wave of guilt; where was I to protect them from this? I take such great pride in being there for those I love, and I couldn't protect her... them... from this.

My friend has gotten past it; I know the psychic scars are still there, because I stumbled upon a few of them tonight, but they're slowly healing. For me, these scars are new, though; they're blemishes... not in the sense of flaws but in the sense of wounds... that should not have to be there. They revive my anger at the weakness of men, and they push me to the brink at lashing out at my own gender, simply before being like the ones that hurt someone I love.

I beat this drum often, but it reminds me of Karl Cullinane. For all of being a literary character, he's one of the realest people I know (probably says as much about my social life as the awesome writing talents of Joel Rosenberg, but I digress). There are several scenes in the books that could apply, but one popped into my mind as most accurately describing how I feel. He and his team have just stopped some assassins who had come to kill him and his family; his wife, his son, the daughter of a friend and a friend of his son. He comes back home to find his friend, Ahira, sitting in the hall. Karl asks him if there is trouble, and Ahira says no, then uses the following to describe what he's doing:

"But mainly, I'm going to sit here in my armor, with my axe at hand, and keep in my mind the simple fact that there are three children sleeping safely in that room there - two of whom I couldn't love more if they were blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh - and that nothing and nobody is getting past me to hurt them."
"Damn silly thing to do," Karl said, his eyes misting over.
"Isn't it, though? Mmm... you want me to find you a chair?"
"I can find my own damn chair."

I don't quote this to say you should keep your womenfolk at home where they'll always be safe. I don't quote this to encourage people to develop a seige mentality, and think of the world as their enemy. There are some truly wonderful people out there that you'll be better for having met. I say this because it says to me that we should cherish those we love, and keep their well-being, both physical and emotional, always in the foremost of our minds. If you have not taken the time to do so, look to someone you love and tell them so. More than likely, they'll be there to hear it tomorrow; but chances are, it won't hurt them to hear it now, and it might be what they most need to hear.

Uale, lectors. May the Gods keep you and yours safe, and may you keep those you love close to your hearts.

February 22nd

I've been sleeping a lot lately. I'll get back from a lunch I only half-ate, then just go to sleep for a few hours in time to half-eat dinner. When I realized what was happening this evening, I couldn't help but be angry; I know the signs.

So, now I get to look a good long stretch of depression in the face. I'm wondering what's going to be the focus, this time; my bet is women, but I think a more general "lack of a social life" or more specific regrets about certain women are strong contenders. Lately, my dreams have been, shall we say, somewhat hormonal in nature, but I'm apparently having them late in the night, because I tend to have my pre-alarm wakefulness before I get anywhere in them. Probably going to depress me further, for some unknown reason. It doesn't help that my CD player is in the shop. While I have MP3's and a CD player in my computer, it just doesn't match the feeling of the stereo; being able to hit random and go through my collection of music (or at least the 1/7th of it that will fit in the jukebox) is somewhat comforting, as well as energizing.

I've started writing again, though. A female friend has encouraged me to turn out a couple pieces of short, off-color fiction (which you guys don't get to see; sorry, but its definitely not for the kiddies, even if it wasn't really personal), and I've been inspired to turn out some pieces for Palladium Fantasy, as well. Hel, if I can only get Wayne to print some of my stuff in the Rifter, I might have a snowball's chance in Hel of paying back some of the loans my father has given me... at least, maybe paying the interest for a month. Believe me, you don't want to know how big my debt is. I do accept money through the mail, though, if you feel the need to contribute.

And so, I ramble. I hope, my readers, that where ever you are you aren't lonely. Solitude is nice from time to time, and I enjoy it when the press of people grows to great, but lonely is something entirely different. So may you never be lonely, and may the Gods watch over you and yours.

Uale, readers.

February 28th

Am I the only person who gets tempted to write back to spammers? To write back long, detailed explanations of their grammatical and conceptual mistakes?

Oddly enough, I don't get upset by the Internet's "Junk Mail"; you know what I mean. The unabashed advertisements that say MAKE MONEY IN YOU'RE OWN HOME!!!!!, complete with the use of "you're" instead of "your". They just get tossed into the circular file. The ones that piss me off are the ones that try to pretend that they're a message from a normal person you might actually want to talk to... but fail badly. The first clue is always an e-mail address which is largely an unconnected jumble of letters, and occasionally numbers. Note to spammers: NO ONE BUT SPAMMERS HAVE E-MAIL ADDRESSES LIKE THAT! Seriously, for those who work in computing, when's the last time a new customer came in and dropped a rock on your keyboard, saying "Give me the address made up of the first ten of those?"

Then, there are the subject lines, where they're really trying to trick you. I just got one that said "Sweety, next time let's study together." Why in the name of the Gods am I gonna open something like that from an e-mail address I don't know? Assuming I had a girlfriend, I would probably know her e-mail address, so it can't be her. If I had a second girlfriend, but didn't know her address, why would she know mine? And assuming either one of these girlfriends existed, why would I answer e-mails from one of them, given that the other one could likely find said e-mail and filet me like a fish?

My brother's father in law, Gary, is a brilliant man. I've only met Gary a few times, but I know he is a brilliant man because of one thing he said. I don't recall his precise words, but the gist was "The total IQ of the human race has remained constant since the beginning of time. When there were only a few thousand of us a few hundred thousand years ago, everyone was a genius. Now, that same total IQ is divided by 6 Billion, so there are a lot of morons out there."

Gary is a genius. If my brother, sister-in-law, or my brother's sister-in-law come to this page, they can feel free to tell him I said so. To the rest of you, Uale, and may all your SPAM be a potted meat food product.

March 28th

Wow, I really thought that last bit was a typo; I was sure I'd updated since the end of February, but apparently not. I gotta get with it.

Before I talk about my real topic, I want to mention that tonight I had another meeting with the pyramid scheme people. For some reason, they seem to love coming around, telling me about all the money I could make, and hoping that I will join in. I was really tempted to just say "Hey, your pitch was better than the last one I heard for this same thing, but no thanks," but I didn't. They don't take up too much time, and its somewhat hard to muster reasons to say no to them. I already know their responses "Don't you want to make money by buying from yourself?" and so on. Really, I can't come up with an honest answer that says "No, I don't want to make money" without it coming out as "No, I don't want to make my money like I was a Girl Scout hawking cookies." The guy who was here tonight kept talking about how I could retire early... FUCK THAT! Do you have any idea how mad I would go if I didn't have anything to do?

But, hey, maybe it will work. If you find the vague ramblings above interesting, let me know. I'll get my business set up, help you get yours set up, and then we can both make the hundreds of thousands of dollars they're talking about.

I promised you a real topic tonight, though, and here it is. Last weekend, I attended the 1st Asatru_N_Action moot in Licking, MO. Its difficult to describe how wonderful the moot was. We had heathens from across the country and philosophical spectrum, gathered together for a weekend. We had a non-Folkish woman from California and a Folkish biker/machinist/network admin from Florida. We had a couple from Minnesota who set up an authentic-style tent and a single guy from Texas who slept in his truck (me... kinda... I left from Texas)... all of us together. One of the people who was there, an excellent man who served as Gothi for our Saturday night Ullr blot, described the entire moot as being a sumbel; we didn't judge, we didn't fight in earnest (we argued... Gods know we argued... but it was never an argument without frith); we simply enjoyed the company of other Heathens, and grew close as family. If anyone went away from that Moot not feeling as though the others there were kith to them, they aren't talking.

I won't try to summarize the Moot here; for one thing, it would be too easy to violate my restriction on using personal names when writing in this journal, and, for another, much of went on can't really be understood when you're staring at it on a computer screen. You had to be there, but not because the jokes wouldn't be funny, but because you wouldn't be able to feel the frith that flowed through the camp like the river flowed below the cliffs. For most evenings, there were four fires plus the kitchen... you could sit down at any and be welcomed and join in the conversation. You could express your views, and the horn would make it to you in time (wise people chose where to sit based on when they would get the horn ;-). Whatever you said was considered... you weren't dismissed because you were saying different things than others thought, because you were 6'4" and pushing 300#, or, as I saw in several cases, because you were 9 or 7 years old... or even younger. I don't know how young the little girl who helped me set up my tent was, but I have to say that having her step on my tent stakes (and fingers) was one of the real pleasures of the moot.

We had children there. That was a wonderful thing. I've been to four gatherings... one general pagan (Starwood '99), two Irmin's Way, and this one. All have had children present, and I am consistently impressed by the children being raised heathen. They're kids, make no doubt... this moot had only one boy present, and he was put upon by the many young girls who surrounded him, just as I was at that age... but you can tell their parents are raising them right. They're well-behaved and smart... makes me wish for children of my own, though my biology teachers inform me that I need a woman for that to work. The kids, though, were exceptional, and I understand that the Frigga blot that they held (under adult supervision, and with some low-alcohol cyser that was brewed for them) was as inspiring as our Ullr blot on a freezing hilltop.

I'm always going to remember the Blot, too. I'd spent about an hour shooting on Friday (one of our attendees brought a backstop and selection of bows, including a sweet little 57# recurve bow that I need to get a copy of), and by Saturday night, my shoulder was on fire. But, as we went through the Blot, with the blessings of weapons and the fantastic song that our Gothi wrote, the pain in my shoulder lessened, until I could move it freely. It might have been the Tylenol I popped before we headed up, but the pain left just as the Blot was swelling, so I think not.

All in all, this was the best Spring Break of my college career. The first weekend of the break I went to Irmin's Way's Ostara blot, and got to spend another day with those fine folks. I don't know their policies on such things, but I consider that kindred to be kith to me, even if I am not kith to them. Monday through Wednesday of that week were rough; I just ran errands and got sick as a dog, but Thursday, Friday, both Saturdays and Sundays of this break will stand out for a long time as some of the best times of my life.

I was requested to come up with something about the moot... something that would uphold my claim to the title of Skald. The Lokian in me, however, says I shouldn't do what they expect. As such, I leave you with the following bit of skaldship, in a style vik'ed from Japan:

June 5th, 2001

Here I am at my new home at the Editor's Wastebasket. Special thanks to Thoth who has graciously provided me with space for my site, and bitched at his hosting people until they gave me FTP access.

Tonight, though, I have something very definite to talk about: The lack of critical thinking ability in Americans. As some of you may know, I write reviews, both of d20 products at EN World and of Palladium products on Thoth's message boards. I write these reviews for several reasons. One, of course, is that I like to bitch. I'm really good at second-guessing other people's work. More importantly, though, is that I like to keep my hand in, and I hope that my reviews will actually help turn out better products. I hope people who write books read my reviews, say "Hey, he's got a point", and work to correct their problems in later books. Heck, when my book comes out (I'm signed with Palladium to write a book; hopefully, they won't decide what I finally get turned into them is utter crap), I hope someone takes the time and effort to sit down and write a good review, telling me what I did well and what I botched, what they liked and disliked. It'll help me when I write another book.

The sad thing is, though, I know the very small likelyhood of that happening. I've read many reviews on EN World that are mindless. They say "This book is cool. Buy it right away, because its the best book ever", and I sit around scratching my expansive ass and wonder "Why is it cool?" This is a hobby these people supposedly love (I am personally beyond love for this hobby, and well into the stalking-obsessive phase of the relationship), but they don't put any efforts into these reviews. People seem conditioned, nowadays, to simply state that something is good without taking a deep look at what their reasoning is.

You see this a lot with movies. A lot of people, boiling out of the latest special effects marathon, proclaiming it to be the best movie ever. It might lack a coherrent plot, reasonable characterization, or acting above the summer-stock reject level, but the special effects and catch phrases left an impression rather like footprints on a beach... deep and clear while it lasts, but invisible after the next wave.

In my opinion, critical thinking skills cannot be overtaught. People need to learn how to look at what they like and dislike and know the whys and wherefores of that. I'm not saying that they can't like something just because its fun, but ascribing the characteristic of Quality to something that is merely fun offends me on some deep level. Quality should be something that is exalted and sought after, not merely ascribed to every flash in the pan to come by.

Ok, I can see I'm losing the people who haven't read Pirsig. If you get a chance, I really suggest you pick up Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenence and read it through a few times. To provide a quick example of what I mean, though, let's turn to music. Last summer, while travelling cross-country, my younger brother got me listening to Aqua. Aqua is a fun band, with a light, poppy sound, but I don't consider them Quality, because their music doesn't really have a quality which will endure. Their poppy sound today will be replaced with someone else's poppy sound tomorrow, and we won't hear from them again, save perhaps on oldies stations in forty or fifty years. On the other hand, you have a band like Fleetwood Mac, or a more traditional choice like Wagner. Their music endures because it is Quality; there is an essence of craftsmanship to what they produce that will endure, and will be popular beyond the lifetimes of the original artist. It's the comparison between a manufactured home and one built at the turn of the last century; one will last a while, serving its purpose, but the other will continue to stand, as a monument to those who created it, and to those who have maintained it.

I'm a bit off my original track, now. My point is that it seems that people do not examine what they encounter... they don't try to find out what makes the world around them worthwhile, and instead immerse themselves in the dregs of culture. Perhaps Pirsig said it best:

"What's new?" is an interesting and broadening eternal question, but one, if pursued exclusively, results only in and endless parade of trivia and fashion, the silt of tomorrow. I would like, instead, to be concerned with the question "What is best?," a question which cuts deeply rather than broadly, a question whose answers tend to move the silt downstream.

Whatever happened to the deep channels? It seems these days that the lowest common denominator is rapidly approaching 1, and that people are constantly trying to undercut any gains that we make in improving the minds of humanity. I think critical thinking is the key to a better humanity, since it forces people to acknowledge the weaknesses in their own arguments and beliefs, and to support their thoughts with more than just the silt in our cultural river.

June 20th, 2001

First off, a quick shout-out to my sister and her new husband. They got married yesterday and, though I wasn't able to attend, I did lift a glass of mead to them after dinner and my new exercise regimen. The exercise regimen came about, incidentally, because I had my gall bladder removed on the 11th of June; the Doctor seemed to have some problems with my current physique, so in addition to putting me on a low-fat diet (I would kill for three Wendy's Texas Doubles, some Biggie Fries, and a Biggie Dr. Pepper right now) he's also suggested I find some sort of exercise. He suggested walking; I think he should have his head checked. Walking is the most boring activity that one can participate in. Walking our dog is even worse, given that she has an innate inablity to understand that putting her head in front of my feet will be painful. I've got a decent portable CD player, but that's just boring with a musical background. Therefore, I've taken up swimming laps in our pool... five with just my arms, five with just my legs, and one with both. Probably not the perfect workout, but my shoulders were on fire after today. Moving this much bulk through the water isn't very easy, and I'm starting to envy seals.

Now, if a certain friend of mine reads this next bit, I'm a made man. My life won't be worth the electrons powering your screen. However, I need to vent, and I'm too much of a coward to say it to her directly. Therefore, I'm going to say it anonymously; if she reads this, then we're probably going to have a long conversation, and I don't know where things will go from there. If she doesn't... well, I've gotten my catharsis, and none of you are any the wiser. That said, if you think you're the female friend I'm talking about, and you don't want to read this part, you might want to stop now.

I have a friend, a beautiful young woman who I care for very much. I say "care for" not because I think love is too strong of a word, but because my feelings have never been quite solid on her - I'm unsure of how deep my feeling goes, and I think "love" creates a level of expectation in people of what my response _should_ be. If you read the predecessor to this journal, my essay/rant on Platonic relationships, you know that my relationships tend to push the boundaries of strictly platonic a bit. Quite simply, I write erotica for female friends of mine, pretty much on demand. If they have a fantasy they want to read about, not just think about, I write them that fantasy; it not only helps them, but it also helps me to relieve a bit of sexual tension I experience, being single with about zero prospects. As such, even Platonic friendships can get decidely unPlatonic for a while, then quickly revert to Platonism before I'm done typing. Add in that I give a damn good body massage and rather enjoy combing women's hair, and you have some weird-ass relationships surrounding my life, and I think my confusion is perfectly natural.

But, back to my friend. I know she's looking and, if what she tells me can be trusted, she doesn't entirely know what she's looking for. That's cool... no one can accuse me of having a firm plan for the future, and if I knew what I wanted, there'd probably be something more to the plan than hoping that I get published and my book does well. However, my friend does know what she doesn't want. She keeps telling me she wants to slow down, to look for Mr. Right. (I know I'm not even on the short list for that, and the emotional entanglements I'm prone to means that it tugs a bit at me, but I'm used to the tugging.) Why, then, does she keep looking to men she knows are Mr. Wrong? It's incredibly frustrating for me to see this, too far away to talk to her and watch her eyes for what she's thinking beyond what she's saying, and feeling that she's making a mistake without having anything to pin it on. You can't just say "I think this guy I don't know is wrong for you". It's enough to drive a man mad, I tell you, trying to reconcile the fact that he doesn't have a real reason for his gut feeling, and that the same gut feeling is completely unreliable because he might be feeling with his heart, not just his gut. I'm slamming my head against the glass wall, trying to scream out a warning that she's heading down the wrong path, but restraining myself at the same time, because I can't know that, and can't trust myself to make a real analysis of the situation.

I'm beginning to think I should become Catholic or Buddhist... something with a tradition of monks, so I can withdraw from women for 20 years or so, and try to approach them again when I'm not so young and overhormoned.

July 20th, 2001 CE

I've gotten into the habit of updating this site once a month... I don't even mean to, but it seems that only once a month do I sit down and do the update thing, and then pound out another entry in this journal. This time, I think I'll talk about my book.

Yes, my book. In April, if you didn't know, I sent off a manuscript proposal to Palladium Books, and they accepted it. They were really complimentary in both their e-mail letting me know they accepted it, and in the letter they sent me with my contract. I'm overjoyed to be writing this book, and I hope that it will be a start on a career in the main love of my life: Role-playing games. I'm sure there are many young women who are just crushed to know this, but the love of my life is role-playing games. There's nothing else that lets me express my creativity in that way, the dynamics of coming up with a good set of rules fascinates me, and the social interaction of a good gaming group is closer than many families I know. Where else can you tease your friend about his sexual fixation on Muppets in the course of a normal evening? Very few places, which is why I'm so happy to be working on the book

I'm also scared out of my wits.

This is a big project... not just in size, but also emotionally. The size alone is bad enough. I'm supposed to have 220-300 pages in 10 point type. I've never done anything this big. I don't know if I can do something this big... every time I start writing, the type looks so damn small, and an idea that was so large in my head turns out to be just a few lines of text. I've got the first four chapters started... bits of information for each, things that could be important when I'm writing, but even they seem so damn small. It feels like I could write forever, and not fill up what I'm supposed to have. That alone is enough to scare me.

Emotionally, I've got so much invested in this project that I'm surprised I haven't gone around the bend, yet. To me, this book seems like my chance... the big chance that comes along only once to do what you want in life. I'm scared to death that I'm going to fumble this chance... that what I write won't be enough, or won't be what Palladium wants. It's not the trying that frightens me, but rather the possibility that I might fail. I don't feel that I have the option to fail on this book; failing this means that my hopes and dreams will come to naught. The fear paralyzes me when I sit down to write, and I picture the book itself as a dragon; my name on a contract is like a wall behind me, mortared up with my own hopes and dreams. Ahead of me lays a beast which demands I appease it with words... if I fail, I'll fall into its maw and never escape. If I succeed, I will get some recompense, or it might fulfill all my dreams. I know that the possibility of sucess is there, but it seems like so small a chance that I fear to tempt the jaws of the beast. I know my only option is to go forward, and try my best, but something is keeping me from casting my fate to the winds.

It's almost four in the morning now... I started this update about midnight. I've got a game tomorrow night, my first in two months. Maybe it will give me what I need to step forward, to try and win over the savage beast of my future. By the Gods, I hope so.

August 18th, 2001 CE

I feel like a complete and utter leech, these days. Ever since I graduated from school, I haven't been working... I've tried finding jobs, but nothing seems to be available, and I haven't gotten call-backs on places I've sent resumes to (which might not be entirely true; I realized earlier today that some of those calls coming in for "Mr. Hall" over the past few months might have meant me, not my dad; I've been writing them off as telemarketers). However, I am making a few positive steps towards some type of employment. In addition to begging Palladium Books for a job whenever I can, I'm also getting the occasional piece in the Rifter; most recently, my essay "Young, Dumb, and Ugly" about orcs, goblins, and hobgoblins in Palladium Fantasy. It makes me happy to get published, though if you read last months journal entry, you know that its also murder on my nerves.

On a more realistic note, I'm hoping to apply to be a substitute teacher for the Cypress-Fairbanks and Alief ISDs, here in Houston. The Grand Temp over at http://www.notmydesk.com was right when he referred to subs as being a form of temp, and I'm hoping to survive the process... I know myself to be a fairly good teacher, and I'm fairly certain that I can handle a class of high schoolers, but its all mostly hopes right now.

Woah, quick note. Two of my friends are going to get married later today. I wish them all the best; may Frigga bless your home, dysfunctional as it's likely to be.

That quick note, of course, put me in mind for an actual topic for this rambling bit of 4 AM prose, one which is somewhat ironic since "Take a Letter Maria" just came on WinAmp (which really rocks now that I've hooked it up to my stereo). That topic is marriage, and its been on my mind for a lot of reasons recently. For one thing, when I went to the Houston Pagan's Night Out last Saturday with a group of Texas Asatruar, the marriage problems of one of the attendees (actually, the relationship problems of three of the attendees, but since only one of them was in the conversation, it was generally seen as the marriage problems of one of the attendees) was a major topic of discussion. In addition, my own parents celebrated their 30th wedding anniversary this week (they actually did the celebrating in June, but this is the actual date). Lastly, a friend of mine started talking to me today, saying that recent events have made her question her desire to get married. Now, this girl has been engaged at least once that I know of, and has been bugging her boyfriend of two and a half years to marry her for quite a while. That she's questioning her desire for marriage is somewhat shocking, but she pointed out that she's been involved in five divorces, and never been married herself.

In general, I've always been pro-marriage, but also an advocate of caution. I think this is partially because of my own upbringing... 1998 saw the 50th anniversary of my father's parents, and while my mother's mother has had three husbands, she has never divorced, plus the aforementioned recent anniversary of my parents. These are relationships that have lasted through the years, and I like to think that its because the people involved had the wisdom to think long and hard before getting married (partially, I like that because if my parents and grandparents have that level of wisdom, it bodes well for my future). Truth to tell, I don't know what makes for a successful marriage... while I haven't been in any failed marriages, I also haven't been in any successful marriages., either. However, one of my major issues is fidelity, since so often (and in both of the problem cases I mentioned above) that's why the marriage fell apart... someone didn't keep their pants on around the opposite sex.

In many cases, this makes the adultering spouse an oathbreaker. The traditional Christian marriage vow includes the words "keeping myself only for him/her", which is pretty clear about the entire no outside nookie issue. I haven't attended a heathen wedding, but I think this should really be one of those "givens" in society... unless your marriage agreement specifically included the "different time zone clause" or provisions for multiple spouses, you can't assume it. To do so is to break your oath. And don't give me the "I was drunk" bullshit. Being drunk just means you did something you wanted to do; hiding behind it simply reveals you to be weak. It is up to you to maintain your oath and the integrity of your marriage; breaking that makes you completely untrustworthy. If you can lie before the Gods in your marriage oath, why should I trust you with this project? If you can't face down your spouse and say "This isn't working, and I think we need to divorce", how can I trust you to watch my back? And if you can't work on a relationship that has turned out a child (or several), and instead follow the dictates of your gonads, why on earth should I trust you with anything important, since you can't even take care of your own kids?

I'm going to bed. Its too early in the morning, and late in my day, to be dealing with this shit. Hail Frigga, who watches over the married women!

August 23rd, 2001

Its three-thirty, more or less, and I can't sleep. Gods help me, but sleep seems a long way off, because there is too much on my mind right now to pass into unconsciousness. It's not that I'm not tired; emotionally, I'm exhausted, and physically I'm a bit past my second wind... it's just that sleep won't come and, if it does, I doubt it will be a comfort.

A friend of mine has a new boyfriend is part of it. Way back when, I mentioned that I get used to the emotional tugs that happen whenever that happens. What I didn't mention is that it tends to emotionally exhaust me; I spend a lot of time feeling useless and unworthy. Usually, that ends in two or three weeks when she realizes that said boyfriend is an asshole... really, it's amazing the number of assholes out there. Right now, I'm more or less waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to find the asshole beneath the sweet-smelling bullshit.

I'm coming to realize, though, that I have a decreasing number of single female friends. Most of them are either married or very committed; I suppose leaving school has something to do with it. While I still consider the young women I knew at school to be my friends, the gulf between us is wide and silent.

That fucking "Parrot Ice" commercial came on the radio just now. I _hate_ that fucking commercial "Legend tells of a tropical island which ran into an iceberg". Whose legend? Legends don't create themselves... they're either real legends of a people, or bullshit made up by marketing guys.

Of course, "marketing" actually gets me back to assholes under a lot of sweet smelling bullshit. Basically, I'm beginning to regard most of my female friends' boyfriends as being crappy products with good marketing, like Planet of the Apes. Maybe a Happy Meal is a better analogy. They're wrapped in nice-looking packages, but it doesn't hide the fact that they're essentially bags of crap with a mildly fun toy to play with. Others tend to be like a bag lunch made by your mother... plain wrapping, but predictable and solid. They've got the essentials and a bit sweetness, but you're rarely going to be surprised by them. Far too many women, IMO, go with the Happy Meal, not seeming to realize that a diet of Happy Meals is going to leave them unhealthy.

What do I equate myself with, in this bag lunch analogy? I think I'm the kind of sack lunch you take on a field trip. Big, but only because I'm meant to be kept around for a while. Filled with the same solid goodness of a normal bag lunch, but with a bit more sweetness, some stuff designed to be a snack, and an anthology of short stories thrown on top. That anthology is supposed to keep you occupied during the boring times, and has all sorts of stories in it... humorous, raunchy, out and out fantasies, true to life stories, and even a bit of erotica. Some of the stories can be read again and again, others can be read once and then never seen again, and a damnable few will show up at irregular intervals no matter what (much like my tired analogies and ranting about women). I suppose my analogy is a bit self-serving, at least the entire "sack lunch for a field trip" part... but I think the Happy Meal is dead on.

Well, I don't think I'm much closer to restful sleep, but I need something. Maybe the Gods will be kind to me, and I'll avoid disturbing dreams.

August 28th, 2001 CE

I'm going to be honest with myself, and say something that most of y'all have likely already figured out: I am jealous as Hel of my friend's boyfriends. Pure, gut-gnawing, unadulteratedly jealous. I keep trying to pass it off as concern for her well-being and there's some of that, but most of it's jealousy.

I feel better for having been honest with myself about that.

August 31st, 2001 CE

You know, I update this a hel of a lot more when my life sucks ass.

First of all, some good news. I talked to a friend of mine tonight and she had a baby girl. The baby was a bit early (34 weeks), but both she and her mother are healthy. Congratulations to my friend and her husband.

Secondly, I'm going to shill for a local radio station. Every night, from 7pm to 12pm one of the local country stations, KILT plays classic country. Now, my tastes are more eclectic than the beliefs of any six Wiccans chosen at random, but I do love classic country; there's just something to the rythm of a classic country song that soothes me, even when like life is sucking ass. If you're in Houston, I suggest you check them out.

So, if you read the entry before this, I've talked about being jealous of my friend's boyfriend (not the one with the new baby... I don't feel like making up names to apply to different people, so just bear with me). I'm trying as hard as I can to cope with it, but I find myself getting desparate for her time. The few minutes we get to spend on-line are precious, and it maddens me to hear her talk about him. I want to be the one she talks about in those glowing terms, and I find myself terribly conflicted... I want her to be happy, but I want her to be happy with me. Jealousy and joy fight within my breast, and I think that they're made more acute by the fact that I don't have anything to do but brood about it. I can't work on anything creative because I'm thinking about her, and without a job, I don't even have a normal tedium to take care of it. I don't even have the distraction of other attractive women around me, since I live with my parents.

She really likes him. If she's telling me everything, which I think she is, then he's a wonderful guy who's been nothing but good to her. He compliments her, and is considerate of her feelings, though the jealous part of me reminds me that I'm those things, too. In a way, I want this to work for her so much... and in another, I want him to turn out to be an asshole beneath it all. I can safely call that the selfish part of me, since I know that it will hurt her... but the selfish bit wants her to get hurt just a little bit, so she takes comfort in me, and realizes that I do love her. The rest of me hates the selfish bit, but I can't excise it, any more than I can cut out my heart. I keep feeling like a teddy bear... an analogy I've used before, if you read my old rant. I'm a comforting presence in her life, someone who she can pour out her secrets to, and cry on when she's feeling pain, but one who can safely be put on the shelf when there's something else on her mind.

That's not fair to her. I can't complain about her, since she's been nothing but considerate of my feelings. It's not her fault how I feel, and every time we talk, I'm too much of a coward to tell her what I really feel... I tell her I love her, and I tell her I'm jealous of him, but I don't tell her about the pain I feel hearing about him. I fear doing that. I lost the friendship of a mutual friend... the one that introduced me to her, actually... because I told her more than she wished to hear. I don't want to lose her, too, so I keep quiet about it.

I have to laugh, though. I have long suspected that our mutual friend introduced me to her because she wanted us to hit it off. It half worked, or maybe three-quarters. I wonder if she's forgiven me for the mistakes I made nearly five years ago. I think I know a mutual friend I can ask, provided he comes on tonight. I miss her friendship, and I wish to know if I'm forgiven.

If it's stopped raining, I'm going to go for a walk. I want to listen to Metallica sing "Unforgiven", and maybe a few songs to get my pulse pumping. Ironically, the song that just came on is called "That's My House". I don't remember who sings it, but its about a man driving by the house of someone he still loves, even though she's married to another. The walk can wait until this song is over.

September 10th, 2001 CE

Fuck. I just got done talking with my friend. Last week, I told her I couldn't lie to her anymore... I told her about my feelings for her. I decided I had to stop lying, acting like I was happy, when in fact I die a bit inside when she tells me about her boyfriend. So, I told her. I said I wanted to be happy for her, but that I was too torn up to feel completely happy for her. I told her the things I've been pouring out in this journal for almost a month. So, we spent an hour on the phone, and she's gone off to talk to him and, like the country music I've been listening to, I've taken some solace in a bottle (admittedly, its some really outstanding Polish mead called "Wawel", but its a bottle, nonetheless).

Some dark part of me wants him to hurt her. Wants him to turn into a fucking jerk so she'll leave him, and I hate that part of me. I hate it, and wish I could simply cut it out of me. I want to simply shout at her "WHY WASN'T I GOOD ENOUGH?" I know it doesn't work that way... you can't just make someone love you, and there's not much control over who they choose. But knowing with your head isn't the same as knowing with your heart, and my heart isn't necessarily willing to listen to reason right now.

I'm proud of myself for having told the truth. Today, though, while on the phone, I told her "I love you." I've said it many times, but this time she's decided I can't say it anymore. I was tempted to reply to that with "As you wish", but both of us would've known that to be a way of saying the same thing. It hurts me more than anything to know that she won't take that I love her, in any sense that I might mean it. I'm going to keep saying "I love you." Just as I can't help how she feels, she can't help how I feel. I want to keep her as a friend, but if she can't accept that my friendship comes with me bearing the burden of unrequited love, then she doesn't deserve me. The dark, evil part of me questions if she does, anyway, but I can fortunately ignore it. Denial and repression are two of my better-honed skills.

Well, I better get cracking on this bottle if I want to get thoroughly sloshed. The fun part will be if I take a walk later tonight, still drunk. Quite frankly, I don't want to feel tonight. I wish I could take my heart off my sleeve and put it in my chest where it belongs. But I can't change the nature of a man, anymore than Ravel Puzzwell could. And the nature of a man is to feel and do and die... all of which are in my future, no matter how you slice it.

November 1st, 2001

Well, fuck.

How can I sum up the past two months? In addition to the historical significance of September 11th, 2001, my relationship with my friend has slowly deteriorated. She's now decided to more or less stop talking to me... not a complete shut-out, but we're pretty much down to e-mail only. That pisses me off, but there's not much I can do about it. Really, I'm beginning to question giving a shit about anyone, sometimes... I don't seem to have good results in that area, unless there's some blood tie present.

On the other hand, I've started working. I'm subbing pretty regularly, mostly at Cy-Springs and Jersey Village. It's a little bit weird to be teaching, to be the adult in the classroom, but it feels really natural to be in the classroom. I can't really explain it, but I like being a teacher. Its something I'm good at, and since I can vary how I present things all day, I don't feel like I'm in a rut. Of course, if I come up with a clever joke early in the day, I get to tell it several times without driving everyone around me nuts. From what I understand, I'm in pretty good shape to get one of two long-term sub assignments that will come up next semester at JV... I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Of course, not everything is beer and skittles. I'm having real problems getting more written on the book... my ideas seem so large in my head, but they never wind up that way on paper. I'm going to have to include way more in the way of toys than I wanted to, and I feel something like a hypocrite for that... I complain about toy-filled books, then wind up writing one.

Since I'm not going to get much farther without mentioning September 11th, I think I'll close with a poem I wrote about the attack, and how I experienced them.

My morning calm was shattered
By the ringing of my phone.
Blearily, on few hours of sleep
I stood, and considered myself cursed
For my peace had shattered

"Hail", I mumbled, bleary in the east-light
Thoughts slowly swirling from a dream
Where I fought, not knowing
Who was friend, who was foe.
A portent? Or my mind's ramble?

My mother spoke on the line,
and I heard the fear in her voice.
At her bidding, I gazed upon the world;
phantom images, surreal words came
from half way across the continent

Again and again, I saw the towers struck
by Surtr's Chariot, wrought from the lives
Of honored men and women
Surtr's creatures struck outward
And I feared that I heard the Gjaller Horn

One could not turn without hearing of death.
One could not look without seeing war.
The smell of smoke seemed borne on the wind,
and the taste of blood and bile was in my mouth
Surtr's reach was so long, all felt his touch.

Surtr's touch makes men mad
filled with the heat of Muspelheim's day
Unable to see the path ahead
For Surtr's shade obscures
their Ancestor's light.

I see a war upon the horizon
But the foe is unclear.
Questions fill my mind
And I hear them again and again
From both without and within.

Who has struck my homeland?
Who invites my people's wrath?
Will my sword be needed?
Have I the courage, if it is called for?
Unasked, but behind each, is the question "Why?"

A day and more have passed
And the scent of smoke has passed
From the Texas wind.
In the silence beyond the reach of men
I hear the cry of ravens.