For years, my boyfriend tried to get me to ride a motorcycle–not just ride behind him on the “sissy seat,” but actually grab the handle-bars and work out a way to make it go forward and, when necessary, from side to side. My own car seems to move from one place to another pretty well, although I don’t always remember how it got there. It took four years of observing my particularly inattentive driving style for him to admit, if a little sadly, “Well, maybe it’s for the best.”

That being said, what I know about biker culture I learned from watching Sons of Anarchy on FX. Members of the fictitious motorcycle club hold lit cigarettes while rumbling down the road, deliver guns from one ethnic group to another, and gruffly testify their conviction to some cock-eyed code of honor their fathers formulated, presumably, in prison. Stereotypes aside, I have to admit, I just don’t get it–and unlike Mr. Thompson, I’d rather preserve my ignorance in this instance (see video below).

In Billings, summers resound with the rumblings of its area clubs–The B.A.S.T.A.R.D.S., The Horde, the Bandidos, Road Dogs, Galloping Goose, and Riders for Christ. Most represent local chapters of nation-wide–even world-wide–organizations. Members of each group usually hold their “church” at least once a month in bars that they’ve marked as their exclusive hang-outs, and while they don’t exactly go out of their way to avoid each other’s territory, pushing these boundaries is usually an act considered disrespectful enough to warrant a word or two, and in rare cases, a perfunctory fist-fight.

Most confrontations between members of rival clubs usually echo a spat between supporters of opposing football teams rather than anything bordering on the violent turf wars of California.  Still, these displays only reinforce their image as desperate ego-maniacs intent on ruining everyone’s evening.

Looking deeper–beyond the inevitable facial hair and patches declaring, in ominous blood drops, that “anything worth having is worth killing for”–are these men, like many of them claim to be, just ordinary guys who like to ride motorcycles?

In the end, it’s not the “weenie bite” contest at the Beartooth Rally (a female sport involving a hot dog suspended on a string), the endless posturing, or the misguided patriotism that repels me–it’s the idea of belonging to any organization that promotes unquestioning allegiance to something, if only for the sake of loudly defending it, even killing for it, when challenged. But then, the concept of motorcycle clubs is as alien to me as the “hope chests” (also known as “dowry chests”) that some little girls still assemble in preparation for marriage, and though I think I’m being fair, I’m probably not.

This month, motorcycle clubs are gearing up for the Toys for Tots run, one of the many charities that the bikers support each year. Though you won’t see me among their ranks, I am, in this instance, with them in spirit–and my spirit does not ride “bitch.”

I’ll be out and about with 600 Hours of Edward on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Stop by, say hello, get a book:

• Friday, Dec. 4: In front of Thomas Books, 209 N. 29th Street, from 7 to 9 p.m. during the annual downtown Billings Holiday Stroll.
• Saturday, Dec. 5: The annual Writers Roundup, in conjunction with the Family Tree Center’s Festival of Trees, noon to 5 p.m., Billings Shrine Auditorium, 1125 Broadwater Ave. The Writers Roundup is the annual fundraiser for Sigma Tau Delta, and there’s a wonderful lineup: Marion Cadwell, Cara Chamberlain, Fred DeFauw, Hap Gilliland, Barbara Graham, Tami Haaland, Sue Hart, Brooke Jennings, Craig Johnson, Janet Muirhead Hill, Harley O’Donnell, Bernie Quetchenbach, Lela and Harry Schlitz and Dick Wheeler. It’s a chance to visit with authors and buy signed copies of books for the holidays.
• Sunday, Dec. 6: At the Hastings in Great Falls, 726 10th Ave. South, from 1 to 4 p.m. to sign copies of 600 Hours.

Storefront in downtown Billings, MT

The following post is by blogger, Julia Guarino

In January of 2009, I moved from the Washington, DC area to a small city of about 100,000 residents in the middle of Montana. I came to Billings to perform a year of service with AmeriCorps, and although I looked forward to being exposed to elements of American culture that I had never encountered before, I was a little concerned about being able to maintain a vegetarian diet. After all, Montana is “beef country” (as they proclaim on billboards along the highway), and I knew from some online research that there would be no Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods. Billings, although it is the largest city in Montana and several surrounding states, is just too small to attract that kind of chain. I also assumed that in beef country, where cowboy hats and pickup trucks abound, there would be little demand for tofu, seitan and other meat substitutes.

And it’s true that at times I get a strange look when I confess that I’m a vegetarian. Sometimes I get odd questions, like “Do you drink coffee, then?” or “Do you eat cookies?” For many, vegetarianism is not something they’ve witnessed first-hand; which makes sense in a place where, I’ve been told, you can get the most incredible steak even in the cheapest little places. However, I have been a life-long vegetarian, and it is something I cannot imagine ever giving up, so tofu or no, I planned to forge on.

One of my first stops after arriving in Billings, being an impoverished volunteer, was the Super Wal-Mart. I honestly don’t feel particularly good about supporting a big-box store, and try to avoid them when I can, but I was in need of inexpensive food and cleaning products, and I must admit, I was impressed. Wal-Mart had an extensive array of green cleaning products, carried recycled paper goods, and, to my great delight, had an entire case full of vegetarian meat substitutes.

Good earth Market, Billings, MT

As I began to explore Billings’ trendy and historic downtown, however, I came across a colorful building with big beautiful windows that quietly occupies a quarter block on the western edge of downtown. The Good Earth Market is, to this day, one of my favorite places in the city of Billings (and in fact competes for the best grocery store I’ve ever shopped in). Bright and spacious, with colorful displays and smiling staff, the Good Earth carries a wide variety of natural, organic, local and vegetarian friendly products (though you can get fresh local meat as well). With an incredible deli, salad and coffee bar, cafe seating downstairs or in the loft, and free WIFI, it is also a relaxing place to spend an afternoon. They even have a parking space out front, equipped with an electrical outlet, that is reserved for electric cars! Now I never grocery shop anywhere else.

Off the Leaf Coffee Shop, Billings, MT

In the time that I have spent in Billings, there is much that I have grown to love, and much that has surprised me about this small city. There are incredible pockets of world-class art, performance and music mixed in with the charming western cowboy culture, and I have learned much about another part of my own country, while never feeling deprived of the great cultural opportunities I was used to accessing in more urban areas. And it turns out that being a vegetarian in Montana wasn’t so difficult after all!

And I am not the only person who thinks that Billings has a lot to offer — the November 2009 issue of Fortune Small Business Magazine named Billings as the #1 place to start a small business!

Na noite do último dia 10 o Brasil ficou às escuras. Um apagão causado por uma forte tempestade em uma subestação de energia paralisou os trabalhos da Usina de Itaipu, na divisa do Paraná com o Paraguai, deixando quase 18 estados do País à luz de velas.

Mas o que pouca gente sabe é que um dos primeiros locais no Brasil a ter a luz restabelecida naquela noite escura foi Cubatão, cerca de 90 minutos após o início do apagão. E a grande responsável por isso foi a Usina Hidrelétrica Henry Borden, localizada no município, que entrou em operação em caráter emergencial.

O complexo Henry Borden, localizado no sopé da Serra do Mar de Cubatão, é composto por duas usinas de alta queda (720 metros), denominadas de Externa e Subterrânea, com 14 grupos de geradores acionados por turbinas Pelton, perfazendo uma capacidade instalada de 889 Megawatts, para uma vazão de 157 metros cúbicos por segundo. Desde outubro de 1992, a operação desse sistema vem atendendo às condições estabelecidas por uma resolução, que só permite o bombeamento das águas do Rio Pinheiros para o Reservatório Billings para controle de cheias, reduzindo em 75% aproximadamente a energia produzida em Henry Borden.

De acordo com informações da Empresa Metropolitana de Águas e Energia (Emae), o sistema elétrico brasileiro é interligado. A atuação primeira da Usina Henry Borden foi ajudar no restabelecimento global do sistema. Em seguida as linhas que alimentam as subestações de distribuição das cidades da Baixada Santista foram gradativamente religadas, conforme orientação do Operador Nacional do Sistema – ONS.

O fornecimento por parte da usina durou o tempo necessário para o restabelecimento pleno do sistema elétrico nacional. Em Santos, por exemplo, local não atendido pela Usina, o fornecimento de energia elétrica só voltou ao normal por volta das 3 horas da manhã de quarta-feira.

História – Quem vê o famoso aquaduto descendo pela serra e a casa de máquinas no alto não imagina que dentro da rocha há uma outra usina. Segundo informações do jornalista Carlos Pimentel Mendes, do site Novo Milênio, a estratégia vem da época da construção do complexo, marcada por grandes guerras. Pensou-se na seguinte hipótese: se a usina externa fosse destruída por um bombardeio, o abastecimento elétrico do pólo industrial de Cubatão e da capital paulista continuaria garantido, além do custo construtivo e de manutenção ser bem menor.

Os responsáveis pela obra da usina e da represa foram o engenheiro Asa White Kenney Billings e Henry Borden, cujos nomes foram depois perpetuados no nome da represa e da usina.

O complexo é composto de seis grupos geradores, instalados no interior do maciço rochoso da Serra do Mar, em uma caverna de 120 metros de comprimento, 21 de largura e 39 de altura, cuja capacidade instalada é de 420 megawatts. O primeiro grupo gerador entrou em operação em 1956.

Com a modernização do sistema de distribuição de energia, atualmente, a Usina serve basicamente às suas próprias atividades. Somente em ocasiões extraordinárias, ela atende à Cidade, caso da última semana. Quando olhar para a Serra do Mar, agradeça a Henry Borden.

When I sit up in bed, I see the low red dome of moon blazing between snarled shapes of dead trees with all the wrath of an African sun.

 It’s 10:30 at my parents’ house in Wyoming, and I can’t sleep. I see a dark shape—maybe Rowdy—slip hyena-like through a patch of light by the backyard fence; I hear her pass beneath the window. The grass makes the sound of fire.

 A single cloud, low in the sky and lit by the blood-colored moon, looks unreal and too close, like a prop made of paper-mache. The stars seem less than a mile away. They shine, undiminished, through the leafless trees, which glow in the porch light, every limb white and striking. Nothing moves.

 I put on a coat and shoes on the porch and go outside, walking up the dirt road until it’s too dark and I have to stop. Out here, the sky reveals its true color—not black at all, but a deep blue against inky shapes of mountains. The darkness seems to amplify the sound of a coyote barking from a distant part of the woods. Our three dogs pile around me, whining and pawing at my shins, and don’t seem to hear it.

 Beside me, a low hill rises from the pasture like a rounded loaf of bread. If I stand here long enough, the shapes of animals might be viewed as they slip over the horizon or stand like tin cut-outs for long moments before dipping into the darkness. When I was in high school, the dogs startled a herd of deer out of the woods on the way to the canal one night. I heard their hooves and saw antlers flash against the sky as they bounded past me, and I recalled a video of a hunter being gored by a mule deer; a moment later, six or seven figures shot over the hill in a tight bunch.

 I don’t walk far tonight. The road, somewhere in the darkness, is rocky and uneven, and all I really want to do is look at the stars. I’d wait for my eyes to adjust, but there’s nothing to adjust to—the ground is black, no matter how long I stare at it.

Map of artifical night sky brightness

A few years ago, I found a map illustrating the level of artificial night sky brightness in different parts of the world. Coastal cities and islands vary from neon green to white at the brightest end of the spectrum; Africa’s vast center reflects the impenetrable darkness of Joseph Conrad’s Congo, while a few lights cluster at its edges like a spray of pimples. With the exception of isolated cities and nearly the entire Pacific-West, the United States emits only a weak grey glow beyond the Mississippi—a likely by-product of suburban sprawl. At a closer look, one can make out black blobs scattered throughout the grey, probably marking mountain ranges and places like this—the sticks, the boonies, the middle-of-nowheres of the world that appear as abysmal pits amid an increasing array of shinier, more lively regions.

 I remember studying the clusters of light and tried to determine what they were made of. In Billings, Montana, I know that these lights represent at least two Denny’s restaurants and the LDS temple, which glows like a mythical white castle below the bluffs and the large houses that line them. One of those specks down on the bottom marks the house I rent with my boyfriend, near the lights of the strip-mall where we buy coffee and rent movies. It’s a comfortable enough life among the lights, but there’s mystery in darkness, and real, non-fluorescent beauty–especially on a cold fall night when everything seems stretched tight, brittle and sharp, pulsing with life from unknown sources. Animals respond to each other in the darkness; our single porch doesn’t phase them. In fact, from a quarter-mile away, it appears to be nothing more than a lower, lesser star.

 Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll head back to the city—a small city, just a dusting of light, but a city, nonetheless, with casinos and restaurants and thousands of vehicles driving to them.

 Back inside, I relax into bed, finding myself squinting into a beam of light. Out the window, the moon has risen, and looking at it surface, still unmarred by outrageous steeples and McDonalds signs, I guess I should feel lucky to have a clear view.

Moved a few books, made a few friends. A worthwhile couple of hours …

Meet Jacob Tuka, my favorite bookseller. He's been supportive of my novel from its earliest days as a self-published book.

Note to patrons: We're captive in the store for a couple of hours. While we'd love to sell you our book, we're thrilled to chat about anything. Don't be afraid to stop by.

If neither my book nor my winning personality will reel you in, perhaps my chocolate will. (Genius idea, Kimberly.)

The cafe sent around samples of pastries and triple-mint mocha. I was weak.

My first customer on what turned out to be a good day. Thank you, Fidela!

If you’ve been around Billings for a while, you’ll likely remember Mamacita’s cafe on 6th Avenue North. Even if you never made it in the door, it was at least a visible presence in the downtown industrial block coming in from the Heights.

Apparently it’s gone the way of the Dodo and has been replaced by Café De Camp. I had been tipped off to this location by a friend of mine who gave it an unreserved two thumbs up.

Pulling up, I was pleasantly surprised by the number of cars out front and upon walking in was caught by how intimate and cozy the dining area turned out to be. There’s a thin line of tables along the east wall, and a sit-down bar that runs the length of the cooking area. I took a seat there so I could chat with the chef and watch him and his sous chef work.

The hook, if you will, at Café De Camp is the abundant use of local Montana ingredients, organic when possible. I’m a firm believer in buying locally, and it was nice to see a chef who agreed. I had a cup of their potato bacon soup and a BLT with fries, and I have to say there’s a qualitative difference in food when it’s not preserved and trucked all over the nation or world before it gets to you. Sure, there’s limitations to that but nonetheless; the soup was light and flavorful, the sandwich was well constructed with generous cuts of bacon, and the shoestring fries were crispy and freshly cut.

The Chef (and I apologize for not getting his name) went out of his way to ensure that I was pleased with my meal, and did the same for the other customers in the house. I’d love to go back and try them for dinner some time.

A recommendation from a co-worker, and her copy of the take-out menu convinced me to hit Siam Thai over at 32nd and King in Billings.

I chose the massaman curried beef from the ‘chef recommends’ section – creamy coconut curry sauce, not as spicy as I would like (but I like it really freakin’ hot) but with great, rich flavor. They have quite a few selections from which to choose, including your classic Thai preparations like Phad Thai, etc.

If you’re looking for an Asian flavor you’re not likely to find at the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, give Siam Thai a chance next time you’re in Billings. I will definitely be a return customer.

Edward Stanton is a man hurtling headlong toward middle age. His mental illness has led him to be sequestered in his small house in a small city, where he keeps his distance from the outside world and the parents from whom he is largely estranged. For the most part, Edward sticks to things he can count on…and things he can count. But over the course of 25 days (or 600 hours, as Edward prefers to look at it) several events puncture the walls Edward has built around himself. In the end, he faces a choice: Open his life to experience and deal with the joys and heartaches that come with it, or remain behind his closed door, a solitary soul.

— The back-cover copy for 600 Hours Of Edward, by Craig Lancaster

Last year at about this time, my good friend Craig Lancaster and I started the National Novel Writing Month event together. We checked in on each other every day, held each other accountable, talked one another through our struggles, kept each other excited about writing.

Only I blew it, getting bogged down by a bad start in mid-month, deciding to start over, and coming up short of the 50,000-word finish line by Nov. 30.

Craig, on the other hand, succeeded at NaNoWriMo in a way almost nobody has. He not only finished his novel, but finished early at nearly 80,000 words. And after a short tweaking period, he self-published the novel — then titled 600 Hours Of A Life — and set about it promoting and marketing it from his home base in Billings, Montana. Despite some missteps borne of inexperience, he made enough connections among the local literati and generated enough positive word-of-mouth that he wound up being offered a traditional publishing deal through Riverbend Publishing. The revamped novel — now titled 600 Hours Of Edward — rolled out Nov. 1 and is available on Amazon and elsewhere.

That’s right, folks … from nothing at NaNoWriMo time to mainstream publishing success in a year. I couldn’t be more proud of my pal.

As such, I think there’s a lot that all of us who have struggled to finish a novel — let alone get one published — could learn from Craig’s story. So, below is a Q&A I’ve done with him that may answer a lot of questions you may have about how he did it — and how you can do it.

And, as a guest blogger, Craig will be checking in throughout the day to answer your questions and respond to your comments. And to sweeten the deal, I’ll be giving away a copy of Craig’s novel through a random drawing; everyone who posts a comment or a question for Craig is entered into the drawing.

Thanks, my readers. And thanks, Craig. (By the way, if you haven’t already, follow him on Facebook here and on his fan page here.)

Q: I know you well enough to know that YOU are not Edward Stanton, the protagonist of 600 Hours Of Edward — even though you’re both fans of Dragnet, the Dallas Cowboys and rocker Matthew Sweet. So where did he come from? Was it from anything in your own experience?

A: That’s funny, because one of my family members, upon reading the book, said, “That’s you!” You’re right, of course. He’s not me. But I think, were Edward real, he and I could connect on a very narrow range of subjects we’re both interested in.

Edward’s creation stems from the chestnut about writing what you know. The things he likes are things I like, but those are only background pieces to flavor the story. His personality, his mannerisms, his heart — the things that ultimately make the story what it is — are his alone. He’s more afflicted, less bombastic, more regimented and far sweeter than I could ever be. I once described my method of creating characters like this: I steal attributes from people I know, and then I give them a good, hard twist into something else entirely. That’s what happened with Edward.

Q: 600 Hours Of Edward was written largely during NaNoWriMo in 2008. How much did the unique discipline of the event — the challenge to pound out at least 50,000 words in 30 days — fit with your personal work ethic?

A: I like to get to it, and NaNoWriMo certainly demands that. But I’d tried the event before and never made it very far, so I had more going for me than discipline. Actually, in a big sense, I credit you for what happened in those 24 days (that’s right — I finished the nearly 80,000 words of 600 Hours a week before the event ended). I was going to sit out NaNoWriMo 2008. I’d had a rough year, and I was just starting to emerge whole from a motorcycle accident I’d had in July of that year. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t want any more disappointment, and up to that point NaNoWriMo had been nothing but disappointing. But when you asked if I’d take part, I thought about it and figured I’d give it a whirl. I spent a day thinking up the broad outlines of Edward’s story, and on Nov. 1 I got to work.

Once I hit about 20,000 words, I knew I had something, but I was writing so quickly that I wasn’t sure how good it would ultimately be. I’m a pretty fast writer under any circumstance, but this was a marathon at sprint speed. These days, I still write every day, but I’ve learned to walk away when the wheels go a little wobbly. Whether it’s 400, 750 or 2,000 words that I’ve managed to get down, I know I’ve pushed down the road. Eventually, they all add up to a novel, if you keep going.

Q: Given your knock-it-out-of-the-park success with NaNoWriMo on your first go, what advice would you offer others who seem to struggle with the challenge?

A: NaNoWriMo 2008 wasn’t my first go; I’d attempted it at least twice previously. But it was the first time I’d put my ass in the chair and made myself write. The primary reason I was able to do so was I had a plan (read: outline) and a pretty clear idea of where I wanted to go. Those things help. Beyond that, I would tell anyone taking part in the event to really take the spirit of it to heart. The goal is to write 50,000 words, not 50,000 pristine, ready-to-be-published words. Allow yourself to write with abandon and with a minimum of cogitation. Accept the high probability that you’ll squeeze out some dreck. Form a symbiotic relationship with your story and write the living daylights out of it. If, at the end of 30 days, you have a good pile of clay to work with, you can worry about the finer points in December and beyond, as you hone it into something more approximating art.

In other words, don’t even worry about publication. Not yet.

Q: One of the more remarkable things about 600 Hours Of Edward, to me, is that you steer well clear of what I think of as “Debut Novelist Disease.” You don’t drown your characters and themes in dense poetic prose — in fact, you seem to have an excellent feel for what to leave out so that the story zips along and develops its characters and themes along the way. How did you manage to steer clear of the need almost every other first-timer has to describe the leaves on the trees and the dew on the grass and give every character a zillion pages of backstory?

A: My answers to these questions notwithstanding, I’ve always been a fairly spare writer. Part of that comes from my grounding in journalism and its demand that you draw the shortest line from A to B. Part of it stems from emulating writers I’ve admired, particularly Hemingway. When I was in high school, I mainlined Hemingway’s stories. At his very best, he wrote the most muscular, uncluttered prose imaginable. I think it’s a real shame that his style has fallen out of favor in popular literature, because to me, it’s timeless.

Here’s the other thing: Every time you flash back, or describe a room in punishing detail or whatever, the forward motion of a story stops, and so does that pleasant feeling of being swept along for the reader. You have to be able to judge when it’s OK — nay, when it’s vital — to stop the story like that. In all other instances, resist the urge.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of writing, to me, is letting the reader have some control over what a scene/person/object looks like. In 600 Hours, Edward spends a bit of time in his basement, building a toy for Kyle, the neighbor boy who is the first person to start breaking through Edward’s wall. I didn’t describe the basement at all. I figured that single word — “basement” — was evocative enough for anybody reading the story. He or she can decide whether it smells dank, or it’s finished, or where the work bench is, or how steep the stairs are. It’s out of my hands.

Q: Speaking of publication, how would you describe that feeling when you first held a bound, finished book, written by you, in your hands?

A: Everybody says it’s surreal, and everybody is right. You can’t help but think of what it took to get there and the high hopes you have for it.

That said, the biggest emotional payoff for having written a book is not rooted in the physical book living on someone’s shelf but in the story living in the mind of someone who’s read it and enjoyed it.

Q: You originally self-published 600 Words Of Edward. How well did that work out?

A: I would call it a mixed bag of success. I did so many things wrong, but I also did the biggest thing right: I wrote a good novel that captured the attention of a publisher who could do more for it than I could in terms of getting it out there. (The hard pushing of marketing and meeting readers and stumping for the book still fall largely to me, and that’s fine. Great, even.) In my haste to get the book into people’s hands, I emerged with a story that still needed editing and a cover that absolutely screamed “poor self-publish job.” Because the book was print on demand, I was slowly able to make good on those things, but it was a less-than-professional way to go about it, and one that still embarrasses me.

Q: What do you know now about self-publishing that you would have liked to have applied to that experience?

A: I would have been much more deliberate — securing a good editor and a good cover designer before the book ever saw the light of day. I would test-driven parts of it with public readings. I would have realized the value in a slower build, in getting blurbs and sending out review copies well in advance of the release. Slapped-together projects (very) occasionally work in publishing, but the smart money is on steady and professional. Self-publishers, more than anybody else, need to go with the smart money.

Q: Based on your experience, for whom can self-publishing work?

A: Despite some notable success stories — like my friend Carol Buchanan, who won a Spur Award for her self-published debut, God’s Thunderbolt — it’s undeniably a tough road for fiction writers. The audiences are harder to find and identify — this is also true for traditional publishers — and the legwork, beyond the marketing expected of almost any writer, tends to get in the way of the next book.

Peter Bowerman, the author of The Well-Fed Self-Publisher, contends that someone with a surefire nonfiction book and an established platform can realize some impressive pure profit by self-publishing. He seems to be proof of that contention. So I think, in a general sense, that nonfiction will fare better in that realm. Of course, nonfiction also fares better in the traditional realm.

I’m interested to see what the massive tectonic shifts in the industry hold for self-publishers. It seems obvious to me that the playing field is leveling a bit.

Q: Does having your book picked up by a publisher make you feel more “legit”? Or does your literary self-esteem come from other places?

A: I’m going to say yes, but in a very narrow sense. My publisher, Riverbend Publishing, has a reach into my market that I couldn’t replicate on my own, and if that reach means that more people will now read my book, that’s a good thing for my so-called legitimacy as an author. But the story was just as good when the book was a print-on-demand item that I moved one at a time.

As far as literary self-esteem goes, that comes strictly from readers. They’re the completion of the circle. The publishing apparatus is the necessary middleman between me and them.

Q: How has your newspaper background helped you as a novelist? Has it detracted in any way?

A: There is no writer’s block in journalism. You write, no matter what. So the biggest help has come from that. I have the discipline to sit down and do it, and if you sit down and write enough times, you’re going to reach the finish line (unless you’re Michael Douglas’ character in Wonder Boys). Journalism also helped me develop a sense for recognizing a good story — not just “news,” but also subtle human stories that really form the backbone of what I try to do as a novelist. I’m grateful for the ability to pluck those moments of inspiration out of the air.

Beyond the physical act of pounding the keyboard, newspaper writing and fiction writing are entirely different things. When I edit a news story, I want the salient details up top, because I’m banking on the fact that a good number of readers will never make it to the end. (Hmmm. Maybe I’ve identified what makes so many newspaper stories so relentlessly pedestrian.) With fiction, you assume that readers will reach the denouement and structure the story accordingly.

Q: You’re a very fast worker. Are you a writer who generally trusts his first instincts and find that they hold up through the revision process? How do you keep from paralyzing yourself over word choices, prose cadence, segues, plot points and the like?

A: My first instincts get plenty of challenges, but that happens in subsequent drafts. On the first go, I just try to get it down, baby. If you’re in perpetual first-draft mode, agonizing over every little thing, the finish line will never come into view.

I’m enormously hard on my work in the second draft. Things get bloody. The third draft may bring a smaller amount of corrective surgery. After that, I apply spit and polish.

I’ll say this: I’m thankful that it isn’t more of an ordeal. I know writers who put down 150,000 words in a first draft and spend subsequent drafts cutting that in half. That would drive me crazy. Or crazier.

Q: Writing for a small publishing outfit, you’re largely responsible for promoting your work and getting it into the hands of paying readers. What, in your view, are some of the best high-upside, low-cost ways of making that happen?

A: This is one of them. You have a lot of readers, and you’ve given me an opportunity to talk up my book. I’m involved in social networking about to my tolerance point — because I love it on its merits, and because it allows me to connect with readers and potential readers.

But here where I live, nothing beats shoe leather. I’m planning to support the bookstores that stock my novel, and I’ll go to any public library or civic group that will have me. And then I’ll hope that the math of word of mouth favors my book. We shall see.

Q: How confident do you feel in your public persona as an author? Do you feel comfortable giving readings, speaking to classes, gladhanding, talking with strangers, making friends among other authors?

A: I’m still a newbie at this, and I still have a vivid memory of my first public reading — the shakiness of my hands, the waver in my voice. But I got through it, and I’ve gotten progressively better at standing in front of a group of people and talking. Maybe I should join Toastmasters and really ramp up my game.

The thing that I struggle with, on a personal level, is that I’m fairly goofy, and I have to guard against that becoming too closely associated with my work, which is intended to be taken seriously. So in a public situation, I try to straddle that line between warm and amiable — which I am — and irrepressibly stupid. Which I also am.

Q: Who are some established authors you’ve gotten close to, and what have they been willing to do for you? What do you feel you can do for them … or do to honor in some way what they’ve done for you?

A: I’m lucky to live in a such a richly literary place as Montana. In my town alone, there are several established writers who have been very generous with their time and counsel, among them Sue Hart, Russell Rowland and T.L. Hines. Sue, who has forgotten more about the literature of the West than I’ll ever be able to learn, has invited me to her classroom and introduced me to other folks (and wrote a hell of a nice blurb for my book). I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay Russell for all he’s done. It was his encouragement, after he read 600 Hours, that convinced me I had something worthwhile. He’s given me opportunities I wouldn’t have had otherwise. And Tony has been a good friend to talk to about publishing and pop culture. We’re both kids of the ’70s and ’80s and we like a lot of the same stuff, and that makes our chatter free and easy.

Ron Franscell is another one, although not a Montanan. He’s been a vast resource for tips on staying sane and for some good, rollicking conversation.

I think the best thing I can do to honor them is to follow their example and be generous with my time and advice if I’m ever sought out in a similar way.

Q: 600 Hours Of Edward is set in Montana, and while its settings are largely urban and suburban, your reverence for the flavor and mythology of the West is obvious. What is it about Montana — and Billings, specifically — that speaks to you as an author as much as a person? Could 600 Hours Of Edward work just as well if it was set in, say, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania?

A: Billings is where I live and the place I know best, so it was an easy decision to drop Edward into this world. I’ve never been to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, but I suspect that Edward’s story could have been told there. You’d just have to change up some of the details; maybe Edward’s father would have a background in state government rather than in Big Oil.

In the stories I love best, setting is almost another character. Think of Of Mice and Men and that farm near the central California coast. Could Steinbeck have set it on a dude ranch in New Mexico? Maybe. But that changes the fabric of the story. Had he done that, we wouldn’t know what we were missing, of course, but imagining it retroactively takes something away from us.

Ultimately, I strive for a setting that provides a distinct flavor but a story that has universal themes.

Q: When you’re working, what’s a tolerable level of distraction? Music or no? Facebook or none? Dogs on your lap or no?

A: Absolute quiet and no external distractions. I’m lucky in that my most productive hours are after I get off work, between midnight and 3 a.m. My wife is in bed, the dogs are tucked away, and Facebook is more or less quiet. I sit in the dark and I try to find my way through the next scene, the next chapter, the next plot point.

Q: Do you ever have days where the words just won’t come? How do you deal with that?

A: If I’ve committed myself to writing on a given day, I really try not to leave without having pushed the plow down the field. I may know that I’ll never let the resulting pablum see the light of day, that I’ll double back and fix it at the first opportunity, but at least I will have done *something.*

As I write this, I’m in the middle of a lengthy break from fiction writing. In late July, I finished my second novel (now in the query stage), and I promised my wife that after writing two novels in less than a year, I’d let her see my face for a while. (And, to be honest, I needed the emotional recharge.) I’m about to start up again, and I’m eager to see how that goes.

Q: What expectations do you have for yourself in terms of eventually becoming a self-supporting, full-time writer?

A: It’s certainly my aim, though I’m heeding the advice of my friend Ron Franscell, who warns me that it’s a long road. Whether I ever get there, I’m going to keep writing and keep hoping that someone will find my stories worthy of publication. And, most important, that readers will find them worthy of their time and money. I don’t take either of those things for granted.

Q: What’s next for you? What can you say about Novel #2?

A: It’s finished. I’ve tentatively titled it Gone to Milford. Like 600 Hours, it delves into human relationships, but it comes with much darker undercurrents. 600 Hours is a very straight-ahead, sequential tale. Milford, I think, is the more difficult achievement. It spans a few decades and puts more things into play.

Here’s how I described it in query letters:

Mitch Quillen is in a rut. He’s on the cusp of his forties, his marriage is peeling apart, and his career has gone sideways. When his estranged father, Jim, calls unexpectedly — and then keeps calling — Mitch views the intrusion as one more problem he’s ill-equipped to handle.

Compelled by his wife to leave their home and go to his father, Mitch embarks on a journey not only forward in the here and now but also backward through a father-son relationship gone horribly wrong. Mitch goes to his father hoping to square accounts and find peace with what happened in the summer of 1979 in a small Western town, the place to which he traces a lifetime of losses. He finds reconciliation at home and with his father, and it comes with a harrowing yet affirming lesson in the power and the poison of the things we keep inside, and what happens when our secrets are dragged into the light.

Q: Any interest in doing genre fiction, or book-length nonfiction?

A: Genre fiction doesn’t hold a lot of appeal for me, at least not as a writer. I sometimes wish it did; if I could write two or three thrillers a year, my future in this business would probably be much more clear.

When I moved to Montana in 2006, it was partly with the idea that I would write a nonfiction book about my dad, who grew up here and whose young life was like something out of a Dickens novel. But then life and work took over, and I never made much progress on the intensive research such a project would require. As it is, I’ve managed to exorcise some of those compulsions through my fiction. It’s no accident that father-son relationships drive the narrative of both of my completed novels.

Q: What’s the nicest thing someone’s said to you about your writing?

A: A dear friend wrote to me some weeks back and told me that she works with someone who’s a lot like Edward — irrevocably fixated on details, difficult to know, obstinate and probably suffering from some of what ails my character (who’s OCD and has Asperger syndrome). She said that since reading my book, she has found herself caring more about him and being more patient with him. That brought tears to my eyes. I mean, imagine that: a fictional character inspiring more empathy in real people. And, brother, I can’t think of anything we need more than a greater understanding of each other.

You can’t manage to say, “I’ve been spending a lot of time alone,” without people looking at you with sympathy. There’s something a little shameful about it, and also something that makes people wary or nervous, like a trail of blood leading to the trunk of your car. Some people might say things like, “How do you stand it? I’d go crazy!” and if you’ve been spending far too much time alone, those people might be throw-pillows, and you might be considering forming a barbershop quartet with them–or at least the three with mustaches.

Then I was about thirteen or fourteen, I remember spending almost an entire week of the summer alone while my parents and little brother were on a trip. I loved it. Twice a day I walked over the hill to irrigate Mom’s field;  I took one of the  four-wheelers if I was in a hurry or if I wanted to do little spin-outs on the sandy road on the way over.  I think this must have been early summer, before the deer-flies rose out of the swamps during the day to feast on the blood of their mammalian neighbors, because I don’t recall wearing heavy jeans and long-sleeved, collared shirts in the heat.

I don’t remember much of what I did at all, only that I loved listening to music while I made little meals for myself. I’d lift weights in the backyard and make my daily 500 basketball shots or whatever the hell it was. In the evenings I’d work on stories I posted on the internet and read what other tween shut-ins wrote.

After dark, I locked the doors and double-checked them before I went to sleep. Towards the end of the week, I started going around to each room and looking in the closets in case someone had hidden while I was out. I think I kept a steak-knife by my bed, or maybe I’m thinking of the time I house-sat for a man who lived out near the highway with no locks for his doors and the biggest non-tarantula spiders I’ve seen in my life darting behind  the coffee grinder or just lounging around on the wall over my bed.

“Oh, hey there,” their casual postures suggested. “You might be noticing my colorful markings. What? Are you thinking of clubbing me with that shoe? You could try. You’ll turn it over to check the heel and expect to see me squished there, or you’ll look for me all crumpled up on the ground. And maybe I’ll be there. Then again, maybe I won’t–and if I’m not, where did I go? You probably won’t know for sure until they amputate something. If you wake up at all, that is. Or you could just go to bed and mind your own business.”  

As you can imagine, I hardly slept at all. More than the spiders, I felt a pervasive sense of “not being alone.” Maybe it’s the kind of feeling that people assign to haunted places. You might be washing dishes when you become quite certain that someone is sitting at the table behind you; you may even think you see their shadow move across the tiles in the corner of your eye. Yet, you know, when you turn around, the chair will be empty, in the same way that I knew–although, with less conviction–that nobody was hiding in the closets.

The more time people spend alone, the more frequently they seem to sense these “presences,” and the more certain of their legitamacy they become. 

Maybe you wake up one day, and on the wall above your bed, you see a spider the size of your hand. His name’s Edgar, and the doctors said he won’t hurt you. But your socks say he’s planning something–biding his time. At the same time, you’re never really alone while Edgar’s around. Your image, reflected in his eight, tiny eyes, looks like eight different people, walled off from each other and looking more lonely and desperate with each day, staring at you as if you’re all they’ve got.

It was by Faith in 2003 that Andra Tetley (Moore) gave a Compassion presentation. She had no idea the seed she was about to sow. I was in the crowd that night and heard – hearing about children living in poverty, about the little ones that our loving Saviour has so much to say about, and the need. I heard about how I can make a difference and help to release children in Jesus’ name. I was stirred. Andra had child packs, and I chose Muluken, a 5-year-old little boy from the hills of Jimma in Ethiopia. I was filled with so much hope and happiness. I went home and read his information again and again. It touched me then and still does today. This step of faith to sow into his life with my letters, photos, stickers, and gifts is rewarding.

God tells us He will reward us. Prov. 19:17 says, “He who is kind to the poor lends to the Lord, and He will reward him for what he has done.” I must tell you, any difference I may have made for Muluken is nothing compared to the blessing and reward I’ve been given through him by getting to know him, sharing with him, and growing up with him. Muluken is going to turn 12 this September and I’m elated. This friendship that touches one another across the world is amazing.

I’ll never forget his first letter, dated Sept. 28, 2003. I picked up the mail, saw the Compassion envelope and my world stopped! I can still feel that moment, especially as I read the letter again just now, and my feelings are still indescribable. How exciting to be making a difference in the life of a child who’s in desperate need. A thought penetrated my heart that day – one child at a time makes a huge difference! The letters to Muluken came and went. Through normal correspondence with Compassion, I received an interesting letter with info about Advocacy. I was curious, but I thought, “No, not me; what could I do?” But our Lord had other plans for me, and that included Compassion. I knew I had to sign up. The child packs and resources arrived by mail and I was excited. I felt a new confidence; a new passion burning in me! I began preparing myself for my first presentation. My pastor thought the ministry was biblical, and showed immediate support by sponsoring two children himself. I was fairly nervous presenting that day, but I felt I had the heart of the Father. I was doing His work. He was leading me, and it went great – several children were sponsored!

Soon after, I met my future wife Sarah. She was immediately interested in Muluken, asking about him and Compassion. Soon after we married, we sponsored Donald, a 6-year-old boy from Kenya. Together, we understand the difference we can make reaching a child. We are so happy to send and receive letters from them both. It’s awesome! As Advocates, we were meeting with our local Area Coordinator, Rebekah, whose passion was contagious. She was building us up as a team; we met together, encouraged each other and shared our successes and challenges. Then, we were presented with the opportunity to lead the team. Sarah and I excitedly agreed. As Area Coordinators, we are looking forward to sharing the Love of Christ for children by teaching and training others about Compassion. We want to put our faith into action. We are the ‘hands and feet’ of Christ, advocating for children in Jesus’ name

None of this would have been possible without the conviction and ministry of Compassion. There is something very specific about Compassion that is different. This organization is unlike any other child ministry and I want to thank everyone involved. It means a great deal to Muluken, to me, and to the 1,000,000 other children being released from poverty in Jesus’ name!

“TRY YOUR HAND IN THE GAME OF KEEPING THE OLD WEST ALIVE,” urges the website store that showcases this outfit on its main page. However, I don’t think these colors–not to mention spray paint graffiti–existed in the 1800s.

There are other offenses, including t-shirts that read, “The wilder the ride, the better the rodeo,” and the words “Cowgirl Justice” emblazoned over two crossed pistols. The clothing, bedazzled with studs, glitter, and sequins, battle with chunky bracelets, beaded earrings the size of soccer nets, and cumbersome cross necklaces that do anything but distract from the tightness of the garments. Grown women wear these clothes, but I guess it’d be worse if children did. Did anyone happen to see 17-year-old Miley Cyrus (AKA, Hannah Montana–the icon of “country” for billions of tween girls) perform on the Teen Choice awards?

Miley Cyrus pole-dancing at Teen Choice Awards

I heard that over 90% of the female population in Deadwood, South Dakota were prostitutes in the late 1800s. Maybe that slogan about “keeping the Old West alive” is more accurate than I thought. But working girls back then had names like “Dirty Em” and “Madam Mustachio,” which probably wouldn’t appeal to patrons of this glamorous–if vapid, derogatory, and flamboyantly tacky–revisioning of the Wild West.

Walkin’ on down to the burial ground
It’s a very old dance with a merry old sound
Looks like it’s on today

Red Hot Chili Peppers, “Slow Cheetah”

Driving down Central Avenue in Billings last month, I decided to pass through Mountainview Cemetery, which, incidentally, overlooks a golf course. I missed the first entrance, so I pulled in by what appeared to be the war memorial section, identical white stones protruding from the ground like manicured fingernails. I thought I’d be overtaken with the urge to get out and walk around, but it didn’t happen. Instead, I drove  slowly with my windows rolled down and my radio off, feeling completely out of touch with my own mortality.

Exploring a modern cemetery is a lot like driving through an average suburban neighborhood–houses look serenely uniform, lawns are coaxed into a radioactive shade of green, and you get the sense that this is something you’re supposed to want someday. I imagined visiting my grandmother’s grave in a similar cemetery in Wyoming, and worried that I would not be reminded of her–a tough little woman who shot at blackbirds from her front porch and whose oatmeal cookies carried a faint odor of cigarette smoke.

The cemetery is barely distinguishable from the  golf course on the other slope of the hill, and I can’t help but wonder how golfers can refrain from throwing down their tedious sack of clubs for good when confronted with the reality of death each time a ball sails a little too far east.

These orderly city cemeteries lack the beauty of  Burris Cemetery, located about a mile from my parents’ house in the middle of high desert range-land; sagebrush and long yellow grasses sprout among the headstones, and before the recent addition of a flag-pole, only locals had any idea where it was. On my last visit, I noticed that only one or two people had been buried there recently, most of the headstones dating back to the 60s.

This was the first cemetery I ever visited, and for me, it defines everything a cemetery should be–a secluded place where you can be alone with the names of people you never had a chance to know, and where the mystery of life, in the long light of late afternoon, feels very beautiful and very old. If you feel that way among Mountainview Cemetery’s evenly spaced trees, the sound of golf balls pinging against tees in the distance, more power to you. But let’s be honest–no matter what your views on death may be, we both know the deceased probably don’t care what breed of grass you plant on their grave, or how green it is. I’m pretty sure they’d want us to conserve water, anyway.

Neste final de semana ocorre o GP de Fórmula 1 do Brasil, no autódromo de Interlagos. Essa região da cidade tem uma historia muito curiosa, que vale ser contada.

Ela foi loteada por uma iniciativa de um engenheiro britânico, o Louis Romero Sanson, dono de uma empresa chamada Empresa Imobiliária de Construção Civil Auto-Estradas S.A. (AESA), na década de 20 do século passado.

A motivação do Sanson foi promover um loteamento muito especial na região, e para isso ele contratou nada mais nada menos do que o francês Alfred Agache, que era um dos grandes urbanistas internacionais da época e que naquele momento estava no Rio de Janeiro fazendo uma consultoria.

O Agache projetou e desenhou o bairro, que foi inicialmente chamado de “cidade satélite balneário”, porque a ideia era fazer um balneário entre as represas Guarapiranga e Billings. O bairro não teria apenas os lotes e as casas, mas também um estádio, equipamentos esportivos e uma igreja. Essa era a ideia inicial do Sanson.

Logo em 1928, foi aberta a Avenida Washington Luis, que deu acesso a Interlagos a partir do Parque do Ibirapuera e viabilizou o empreendimento. Só que veio a crise de 29 e logo depois a Revolução de 30 e 32. O empreendimento foi inviabilizado, os lotes não foram vendidos e ele acabou paralisado.

As obras só foram retomadas nos anos 40, pela própria AESA, quando surgiu a proposta de construir um autódromo de corridas na cidade de São Paulo, já que elas começaram no Rio de Janeiro e só vieram para São Paulo em 1936.

As provas começaram a ser disputadas na Avenida Brasil e, já na primeira edição, ocorreram mortes e acidentes. Por isso surgiu a ideia de fazer um autódromo especifico para as corridas, em vez de deixar que elas acontecessem no meio da cidade. Nos anos 40, a própria AESA faz esse autódromo, que começou a receber corridas de automóveis, inicialmente nacionais e depois internacionais.

Essa região é tão importante para São Paulo que, em 2004, o bairro de Interlagos foi tombado pelo Patrimônio Municipal.

ACI.-

La experta ginecóloga italiana Elena Giachhi, explicó que la regulación natural de la natalidad a través del Método de Ovulación Billings (MOB) “fomenta el amor conyugal, la unidad de lafamilia, el respeto por la mujer y la apertura generosa a la acogida de la vida“.

En su intervención como experta en el Sínodo de los Obispos de África que se realiza en el Vaticano, la Presidenta de Woomb-Italia (Coordinación Nacional del MOB en este país) explicó que “por su sencillez el MOB puede ser utilizado por todas las parejas, independientemente del nivel de instrucción, religión o estado socioeconómico y aceptado no sólo por los católicos sino también por los musulmanes, los hindúes y las personas de cualquier credo religioso”.

Giachhi, quien pertenece a la Centro de Estudios para la Regulación Natural de la Fertilidad de la Universidad del Sagrado Corazón de Roma, dijo además que “la pareja puede gestionar su fertilidad de forma natural, tanto para obtener, como para evitar el embarazo en todas las situaciones de vida fértil”.

Este método, dijo la experta, contribuye además a: “promover la familia y la procreación responsable en el respeto de la vida, el amor y la fidelidad conyugal; promover la dignidad de la mujer; prevenir el aborto; evitar el recurso a la fecundación artificial evitando a las parejas poco fértiles conseguir un embarazo en el respeto de los valores éticos; prevenir las enfermedades de transmisión sexual educando a los jóvenes a una sexualidad madura que abarca la dimensión espiritual, corporal y psicológica”.

El MOB, concluyó, “puede favorecer la difusión de los valores humanos y cristianoscontribuyendo al compromiso pastoral y a la evangelización”.

AidsSpiritUSA and Hope 2 One Life is sending a cargo container to northern Uganda filled with medical supplies and books worth about $100,000.  Please pray that God will bless this effort and allow the container into Uganda with little to no headache.  If you know anyone involved in this program, please thank them for me for helping Uganda. 

To read more, go to this article : http://www.montanasnewsstation.com/Global/story.asp?S=11295538

I think stories like this are inspirational.  People that get together for a cause can make a huge difference.  I appreciate their role in preventing Aids in Uganda because Aids is one of the leading reasons Uganda’s streets are filled with orphans.  We enjoy taking care of our children, but we are always trying to make changes that will lead to less orphans on the streets. 

God bless you all, and have a wonderful week!  J

Pastor Jackson Senyonga
Christian Life Ministries

Jackson Senyonga’s Biography and Childhood Story : http://www.jacksonsenyongabiography.com

É maravilhoso contemplar as maravilhas de nosso Deus.

Olhando para nós mesmos podemos perceber quão grande amor reservou para aqueles que o temem.
Assim como diz o Salmista:

“Que maravilha meu Senhor sou eu”

Olhando para as mudanças do seu corpo, se conhecendo mais, louvando a Deus pela criação podemos perceber que Deus nos criou para o amor e que homem e mulher verdadeiramente se unem no Sacramento do Matrimônio para dar continuidade a esse projeto de amor.
O Método Billings do qual irei falar um pouco agora é um método científico que dá ao casal que quer construir uma família a garantia de melhor planejar o seu bebê, fruto do amor conjugal.

As perguntas mais comuns são:  Como perceber meu padrão básico de fertilidade ou infertilidade?

Cada mulher reconhecerá que tem seu próprio padrão, que é tão individual como ela é.

Esteja atenta para a mudança nas sensações e na aparência do muco.  Essas mudanças são indicadores vitais de alteração em sua fertilidade.

Quase todas as mulheres entendem rapidamente o padrão de sua fertilidade.   Uma instrutora esperimentada lhe assegurará que está interpretando seu registro corretamente .  As vezes, é também uma boa ajuda falar com outras mulheres  que estejam usando o método.  Durante o aprendizado é necessário evitar união íntima (qualquer contato genital) durante o primeiro mês da anotação.  Isso facilita a percepção e o bom entendimento do seu padrão de muco.  Isso porque a associação de fluido seminal com secreções vaginais no coito poderia confundi-la no seu aprendizado durante o período do conhecimento do seu padrão de muco.

Muco tipo fértil

O Padrão Básico de Infertilidade (dois tipos de ciclos, dentre tantos…)

Num tipo comum de ciclo, a sensação que você experimenta após o sangramento menstrual é secura.  Nenhum muco se vê e se sente (sempre fora da vagina, pois dentro da vagina é sempre úmido);  isto  se descreve como Padrão Básico de Infertilidade, tipo seco.

No outro tipo comum, não ocorrem dias secos após a menstruação.  O muco usualmente é espesso e em pequena  quantidade.  Pode produzir uma sensação de viscosidade.  E pode continuar dia após dia sem alteração.  Isto se descreve como Padrão Básico de Infertilidade , tipo mucoso.

Muco tipo infertil

No ciclo típico de 28 dias, o Padrão Básico de Infertilidade dura dois ou três dias após a menstruação.

Enquanto os dias secos podem ser determinados durante o primeiro mês de registro das observações, é possível que você precise de alguns ciclos para que possam interpretar com confiança o Padrão Básico de Infertilidade de muco e o ponto de mudança para muco de tipo fértil.

É por isso que é importante anotar todos dias o que você sente e o que você vê, sendo fidelíssima as suas anotações e partilhando sempre com o seu cônjuge ambos crescerão muito no auto conhecimento de si mesmos, no carinho, na amizade e na harmonia conjugal. E saberão exatamente a hora da chegada desse fruto que é o seu bebê.

Fiz questão de escrever na íntegra alguns trechos do Livro que , novamente indico aos casais de noivos e casados (O Método Billings).  Que bom seria se todos lessem…

Até a próxima!

Maria Rosângela

Comunidade Canção Nova.

Yesterday was the first truly cold day of the fall in Billings–the kind of day that gives you an immediate head-cold. The clouds–low, white, and rippled–resemble the segmented belly of reptile. Usually, I love days like this. But yesterday morning I woke up feeling, with absolute certainty, that I was getting sick.

I don’t mind being sick now and then; it’s a rite of passage once fall hits or during the entire month of March. No, I’m afraid of being unable to leave my house, which contains too many televisions and laptops working simultaneously to conduct normal brain functions. My sacred spot by the window, in its new, compromised state, resembles a sanitarium more than a sanctuary. I can’t hear myself think–only the sound of my own blood pressure rising, like the whistle of a kettle.

I think of a quote I recently found online, from Paul Theroux’s Fresh Air Friend:

“Any young person who wonders what his or her chances are of becoming a writer ought to assess their ability to deal with solitude and, figuratively speaking, an entire working life thrashing around in inspissated darkness.  It has been said that writing is a rat race in which you never get to meet the other rats.”

Not only can I “deal” with solitude–my mental and physical health requires it. And that “inspissated darkness” business? Not sounding too bad. I did notice the improper use of the plural pronoun, “their,” but I get the point about the rats. At this point, if I never meet them, all the better for them and for me.

I try not to think about getting sick (I believe in the power of self-fulfilling prophesies), but once I tell myself not to think about it, that’s all I can do.

My mouth, numb with the zincy aftertaste of Zicam, starts forming words that barely carry over the “Eath, Pray, Queef” episode of South Park, something about letting them move our TV into their room if there’s a cable hook-up.

“Oh, no thanks. We’re fine.”

Defeated, I feel my lymph nodes swell in a futile effort to defend me against what I’ve already started to think about as “my cold.”

One of America’s symbols for free enterprise is transformed into a shining monument honoring China’s communist revolution.

The Empire State Building shone in red and yellow lights over New York City on Wednesday night to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the bloody communist takeover.

The tower is lit in white most nights, but nearly every week gets splashed with color to honor holidays and heroes — red, white and blue for Independence Day, green for St. Patrick’s Day, true blue for New York’s Finest.

The building’s managers say they have honored a host of countries, including Canada, India and Australia, but as of Wednesday that list of honorees now includes one of the world’s last great totalitarian regimes.

Tourists were squirming as the city’s 102-story landmark — which gained a special significance for New Yorker’s after 9/11, when it again became Manhattan’s tallest building — was being converted into a shining red beacon for Chinese communism.

“I think it’s a bad idea,” said Dick Paasch, 69, from Billings, Montana. “The Chinese Revolution … in the years 1958-1960, there were something like 26 million people starved to death. Why would we want to celebrate something like that?

Rep. Anthony Weiner, D-N.Y., said it was a mistake to pay tribute to what he called “a nation with a shameful history on human rights.”

Historians of the revolution noted the unimaginable — and often forgotten — toll of the revolution and China’s communist rule, which has taken tens of millions of lives through years of war, famine, reeducation and wholesale slaughter.

“China gets treatment that other dictatorships can only dream of — a free pass on human rights,” said Arthur Waldron, a history professor at the University of Pennsylvania.

The revolution and its aftermath may have been deadlier than any world war: though estimates vary, research from the historian Chang Jung shows that as many as 72 million people died as a result.

During one five-year period alone, the Great Famine of 1958-1962, 36 million Chinese are believed to have starved as a result of Mao’s Great Leap Forward, a government policy meant to industrialize the nation.

During those years of ruin, peasants ate bark, maggots, bird droppings, human flesh — anything to survive — as government storehouses stood full with grain and other cereals, neither the first nor last in China’s troubled line of violations of human rights.

“China remains strongly oppressive” said Waldron.

Lhadon Tethong said that the lights on the building “are a symbol of support for the Chinese state — for a totalitarian state,” which ignores the country’s “abominable record on human rights, on liberty.”