The Myth of Set, Osiris and Isis

I am the god Set, bringer of chaos and destruction. I am Entropy. I am the mightiest of all the gods, for it is only I who strengthens all. Order stagnates by its nature. It freezes the lifeblood and slowly cuts off the energy flow in all things. Without me, everything would be frozen in time because it is only through me that time can march on. Pathetic, perfect monuments would be built, and without me they could never be built upon and made grander.

So it is I who is responsible for making all things possible, for making all things great. Without me, even the great Osiris himself would be weak and useless. I HAD MADE HIM STRONG! I SHOULD ALWAYS RULE OVER HIM! HOW DARE HE PLACE HIMSELF ABOVE ME! HOW DARE HE TAKE THE LOVER, ISIS, WHO SHOULD BE MINE!

But it is I, his brother, who had let him down. He had become too powerful, too entrenched in his position, so I endeavored to unmake him as I would allow the ant to be stepped on by the lowliest slave.

Now Osiris loves parties. He is incapable of refusing any single party, as any soft being is. This is one of his pathetic weaknesses. So I used it to my advantage and held a party for him. Everyone got drunk on wine and beer, making all who attended vulnerable.

It was at this time that I brought out a grand sarcophagus. I must admit I had outdone myself, transforming the base wood into carvings of great beauty. It was my spider web to lure one of these drunken, weak flies. Not just any fly but Osiris himself. You see, the measurements of the sarcophagus exactly fit the weak God.

I pretended to be drunk myself, and in a false moment of revelry, I had a slave bring my sarcophagus. I was planning on possessing it for myself, I declared, but it was too small for me. Therefore, I would give it to the one who fit it. In their drunken stupor, no one knew what I was planning.

One by one, the gods at the party, stumbling, spilling wine from the cups they held, placed themselves in the coffin. The first one who wasn’t too tall to fit inside made a death-sound, and everyone roared in laughter. From then on, they all did, even the ones who didn’t fit. I must admit, the whole thing was rather funny, even to me.

It wasn’t long, however, before Osiris, King of the Gods, muscled his way through to the death-chamber. Immediately after placing himself inside, the coffin shut itself and locked, as I had triggered it to do. Everyone roared with laughter. I made a show of trying the lock but to no avail, and sent it off with the slave. I lied that I was sending him to the locksmith, laughing and pretending to be drunk. Everyone thought it was funny, the event of the party.

Instead, 72 of my most loyal slaves had it sealed in lead and thrown into the Nile. Osiris drowned until dead. Imagine, the self-proclaimed King of the Gods dead by simple drowning. Again, pathetic.

Now I took my rightful place as King of the Gods, and I took Isis, our sister, for my wife. Alas, all of the gods bowed before me, seeing the throne as justly mine.

All, that is, except for Isis. She defied me and looked for Osiris’ body.

Isis searched the length, breadth and depth of the Nile but to no avail. She then searched the Nile delta, and finally the sea that you now call Mediterranean, but, again, to no avail. Figuring that it may have been stolen, she asked around until she had heard the story of how the coffin had settled on the coast of Byblos, an area that you now call Lebanon. It was embedded in the trunk of a cedar tree that was subsequently used as a pillar to support a palace for the King of that state. Isis, getting permission that she didn’t have to get from the Queen of Byblos, retrieved the coffin from the pillar.

Isis then took Osiris’ body and placed it in the house of the gods in Egypt. She cast a spell and through the spell was impregnated by Osiris, though he was dead. The child was called Horus, and was hid on an island that was hidden even to me.

All of this I would not have known about, but Isis got greedy, and one of her disloyal slaves told me that she and my brother, Thoth, betrayer, had conspired to bring Osiris back to life. Thoth, god of magick, delved into his magick and created the Ritual of Life, which gives everlasting life after death. He put the spell into his Book of Shadows, which is known to you as the lost Book of Thoth. The ritual required that Thoth rebuild Osiris body so that his spirit would recognize it and rejoin him.

I arrived to interrupt the spell just in time. I stole Osiris’ body, and this time I carved it up into 14 pieces, 13 for each of the possible moons for the year, with the final piece being his genitals. I hid all 13 pieces throughout Egypt, and then ate the genitals for good measure. I was sure Osiris could never be resurrected.
But now that Isis and Thoth had defied me, others did, too. They all conspired against me without my knowledge. Nephthys, my sister, quested to find one piece at a time, with Thoth casting a spell on each part, until all the 13 pieces were gathered. From these pieces and my betrayal, Thoth replaced the lunar calendar from the solar calendar. From the 13 pieces, he used 12 pieces of the lunar calendar, which comprised 360 days. The other piece, imbued with 1/72nd of the moon’s light, due to my 72 slaves that killed Osiris. 1/72nd of 360 equals 5, and so 5 days is added to the calendar of 360 days to make 365.

Anubis, god of the underworld, sewed the pieces back together, embalmed him, and then cast Thoth’s Ritual of Life, with gold genitals, molded by Isis, standing in for the genitals that I had eaten.

When I heard of this, I was furious, but I was calmed down when I learned he was still among the dead and could not live. Anubis had stepped aside, and Osiris had become Lord of the Dead.

But even with Osiris out of the picture, I had to deal with Horus, for as Osiris’ son, he has a rightful claim to the throne. But Horus defeated all of the demons that I sent to kill him. The defiant Isis and Thoth, once again, defied me, as they both gave Horus great magick, including a magickal knife, to defeat me.

And that was my undoing. Horus and I fought for many days, but with the magick of my betrayers, he defeated me. And with his magick knife, he cut off my testicles.

But I would not give up my throne, despite Horus’ rightful claim. We fought a glorious civil war among the gods, and though I was not defeated, my allies betrayed me by submitting to arbitration with the council of Neith. They declared Horus King of the Gods, and he cast me out into the darkness.

But the darkness only strengthened me. I can bring the darkness, the chaos and destruction, into daily life. For it is only through strife, when the strong survive, that all can become greater than before. I cannot rule forever, it seems, try as I might. Darkness comes and darkness recedes. When I bring dark times, those times teach us all lessons from which a new strength is reborn. Even I am subject to the lessons of dark times. My defeat at the hands of Horus only served to strengthen my resolve and take my rightful place in the darkness. I am the source of darkness, chaos and destruction. And that is where I belong.

The Hanged Man

I am shaman. I am Iowa.
I endure in the midst of death.
I whore myself to false leaders.
I live in squalor on the outside.
I ignore the wickedness of people.

The Gagon came and slaughtered my people,
While I watched and did nothing.
The white man came and slaughtered them,
While I watched and did nothing.
More white men came and slaughtered them,
While I watched and did nothing.

I did nothing so I could listen to the land.
I did nothing so I could listen to the stones.
I did nothing so I could listen to the plants.
I did nothing so I could listen to the wind.

I did nothing so that I could survive to treat vain and wicked people of their self-inflicted illnesses.

But I will endure one more day.
For perhaps tomorrow I will find one person, just one person,
That I can redeem.

Because only then will my mission in this life be complete.
Until then,
I am weary.
I am sad.
I am miserable.
I am pathetic.
I am shaman.

And I doubt if such a person actually exists.
And that is my true nightmare.

Zoe

This is Zoe:



Zoe was born in a shelter in February of 1995, and when we arrived at the shelter in September of that year, we fell in love. By "we" I mean, Heidi and I fell in love with Zoe, and Zoe fell in love with us.

I remember Zoe was in one of three rooms, all of which were filled with cats. I'd say a dozen or so in each room. Heidi and I went into each room trying to pick out a cat. Man, was that hard. We love cats, and there are lots to choose from.

Eventually, I was tired and I sat down in one of the rooms, not sure what to do to pick a cat.

And then Zoe chose me.

Before I knew what was happening, she had started to sit on my lap. And she stayed there. It was as if she was saying, "mine!" She had claimed me. I was her human, and she would go home with me.

When a childless couple like Heidi and me have cats, usually a special bond forms with one cat for each person. Zoe and I bonded instantly.

When we first brought her home, she had enormous paws compared to the rest of her body. She really did look funny. But she also looked so very, very cute. You may think that all cats look cute, and you'd be right, but Zoe is the cutest cat that I've ever seen.

She grew into her paws of course. She learned the wonders of Christmas ornaments hanging low from the tree, the cool space behind the drawers in the dresser, and, of course, the choice real estate of empty boxes.

While we lived in an exurb, she would go outside and have fun. She would love to play with bugs. One time she was playing with a bug, and her older sister walked nonchalantly and without breaking stride scooped up the bug in her mouth, right in front of Zoe. I can't recall for sure, but I think Zoe then found another bug to play with.

Zoe always wanted to cuddle and snuggle. She was afraid of strangers, but once she got to know someone, she would always come over and ask to be snuggled.

And by ask, she would meow and then jump up onto the person's lap. At night, she would routinely sleep in our bed, snuggling one or the other of us. More often than not, I would wake up in the middle of the night, and Zoe would be sleeping with Heidi's arm around her.

Zoe was extremely talkative. When I came home, she said "meow" and I said "hi." Then she said "meow" and I said "hi" again. This went on through several iterations. Any time she saw us again, she said "meow" as if she was saying "hi". Any thing she wanted to communicate to us, she'd communicate with a meow or two. Or three. Or four...

Zoe was, quite simply, the cat with the most love that I've ever known. Her primary vet said in a note, "Zoe is a sweet little girl." Everyone in the vet hospital said, "oh, I love that cat." And that was Zoe. She was a sweet little girl.

And she was my little girl. I've been caring for her and looking after her as if she was my own daughter. She really does mean a lot to me, and she's brought a lot of joy and love into my heart.

Zoe was born with a heart murmur. Heidi calls her, "poor little heart murmur girl." We've been monitoring this heart murmur for her whole life.

Her doctors told us a year ago, suddenly, without warning, that her heart condition was finally going to end her life. They estimated two months, but her death could have been imminent. I think when they say two months, they mean a really good scenario. With my last cat, when they said that, she died a week later.

But we found this wonderful cardiologist who said he could extend her life through medication. He thought perhaps a year.

Well, that year has come and gone. We've had such a wonderful time with Zoe, appreciating so much more every meow, every snuggle, all the times we got tons of cat hair on our black t-shirts, and every time she'd look into our eyes as if to say "I love you Daddy." I'm so glad to have had that extra year and appreciate every moment with her.

A week ago, Zoe stopped eating. She was hiding in the deepest recesses in the house. Her heart was fine. And so were her kidneys, which were at big risk with the medication she was taking. We were frantically trying to find out what was wrong, while force-feeding her, which she hated. But when she'd had a seizure, along with a stuffy nose, we were fairly sure she had a mass in her head. But her heart condition meant she very likely wouldn't survive any attempt to even find it.

Wednesday night she was too weak to jump onto the bed, but I could tell she wanted to snuggle us, which she hadn't wanted to do in a week. We spent about a hour with her in our bed. It was an incredibly precious moment for me and Heidi.

After her second seizure the next morning, after dragging her out from under the bed, she looked into my eyes, and Heidi's eyes, and told us she wanted to go.

And as we were putting her down in the vet hospital yesterday morning, as the anesthetic was being pumped into her, Zoe, while in my arms, looked up into my eyes, and Heidi and I looked back into hers, and we silently told each other goodbye.

I've loved this girl so much, my heart is broken. I'm not ashamed to say I've broken down in tears several times. I don't think anyone other than Heidi fully appreciates what this little girl meant to me. In fact, even I didn't realize it until now.

I'm simply devastated past any ability to put into words. Zoe was NOT just another cat. Anyone who knew her will tell you that. She needed her mother and her daddy, a LOT more than any other cat I've ever known. She had a big heart, literally and figuratively, and she was a sweet little girl.

Rest in peace, Zoe. Everyone loved you. And I don't feel like I will ever get over losing my little girl.

You're Doing It Wrong!

Four years ago, my deceased father, speaking through a psychic, told me that I was a natural writer, and that I have to write every day. It’s like exercise, he said. Without writing, my mind atrophies just like a body would without exercise, although it will still function reasonably. I had never revealed to the psychic that I was a writer. I was an engineer and looked like it, but I was a writer nonetheless.

I took the advice mildly. After all, she could have been lucky. But there was the fact that she was in an audience of about 30 people. She’s reasonably successful, so she has a reputation to uphold. No one, including me, ever said anything she said was wrong. She came right out with me being a writer without being vague.

I look back at the last four years and realize that it’s true. I was so much happier, and my mind so sharper, when I was writing every day. I’d largely forgotten the advice until just a half hour ago. I have been developing my “road map” of my series of science-fiction novels, but not writing. During this time, I don’t feel my mind has been very sharp.

Well, in the words of some of my friends from the left coast, “You’re Doing It Wrong!” Now, even if I’m not “ready” to write something, I will either write something that I am “ready” for, or simply write the stuff I’m not “ready” for, hoping that I will still be able to use it.

Ten years ago, a psychic (this time one-on-one) told me something about my past that was specific and dramatic. You’ll have to take my word for this one, because this is something not to be shared. It is something that very few people experience.

And then she told me that I would be wealthy, and that August would be a good month for me. This was 1999, the heyday of the tech boom, and I had just joined a start-up. Start-ups like this one were getting bought for obscene amounts of money. Well, August came and went, and there was no money. I was soon reminded by others that psychics don’t really have a specific time-horizon. I looked back at what she said, and I realized I had inferred a lot. She didn’t say what year, and she didn’t say I’d become wealthy specifically in August. Still, I really felt the implication was that specific year. The start-up that I had joined ended up going bankrupt.

As I look back now, I realize that August of 1999 had been a good month for me, after all. That was the month I had gotten to know a colleague, without whom, I firmly believe, I would not have gotten my next two positions at start-ups.

From those start-ups, I earned enough money to allow me to quit my career as an engineer and write fiction full-time. But I don’t think I’m done acquiring wealth. More will come as a result of writing the fiction full-time (keep a positive attitude!), still all a result of August of 1999.

Most people I know don’t believe in psychic ability because they say it goes against all western science. They’re just plain wrong.

One specific example is the remote viewing program of the military, where people can actually see what is going on in real time in a remote location. The military has actually executed successful missions because of this.

Very recently, I saw a 60 minutes piece where scientists are beginning to learn how to read people’s minds by detecting brainwaves in an MRI. No wires. They haven’t gotten very far, but they’re getting there, and one of the limiting factors is computer processing power. Our brains have far more processing power than computers.

Now I’d be surprised if the psychics I’ve mentioned here had been reading my thoughts. My experience didn’t suggest that.

However, a blanket statement that psychic ability does not have a foundation in western science is just plain wrong. Before there was such a foundation, how could anyone be certain that western science simply hadn’t discovered it yet? Such thinking defies logic yet people are not logical.

Humans have a tendency to close their minds to possibilities and real evidence that challenge their world-view. It’s uncomfortable to believe that your world-view is not correct, because if it’s not then the world is dangerous in unpredictable ways. We want predictability, and when things go wrong (even minor things like the recent financial crisis), when the foundation we’ve built our lives on (401k retirement) crumbles, we get traumatized. This sense of predictability is not a bad thing—without it we would be less willing to take risk.

Religion serves that purpose and brings certainty to an uncertain world. It doesn’t matter if it’s *right*, just that it serves as a model for us to live our lives and make decisions. Strict atheism is a form of religion when seen from this perspective—if western science has not *proven* something to be the case, then it cannot be.

We can open our minds to many possibilities that are out there. Yes, it is scary to believe in psychic ability, because someone could use theirs to harm us. Yes, it is risky to act upon psychic ability, because psychics could be charlatans (in my opinion, it is logical most are). Yes, it could be a complete waste of time to develop your own psychic ability, because that ability may not exist in you, or anyone, for that matter.

But if you don’t challenge your assumptions, you’re closing off a lot of intriguing and beneficial possibilities.

And if you don’t, I have one piece of advice for you.

You’re doing it wrong!

Writing a Big Speculative Fiction Epic is Hard

I've decided to classify the series of novels I am writing as a Big Speculative Fiction Epic.

I decided to nix "Science Fiction Story" because the new classification is much more accurate and conveys the proper sense of difficulty in my effort. It certainly is Big--I estimate it will be at least 1 million words. It's Speculative rather than Science because, while there are definite Scientific elements to it, like spaceships and time-travel, there are also elements of fantasy, conspiracies, religious magic, all weaved with tales from humanity's historical record, into what is perhaps an alternate reality--or not. It's a race against time and the forces of time itself to prevent catastrophic events.

There are also elements of mainstream fiction in that it starts out as a normal story, and then goes down the speculative road in a gradual way, much like the great plains gradually rise from east to west. And it's an Epic because it involves multiple characters across large time periods, although not as much so as other Epic novels.

And this all makes writing this story very, very difficult, and at the heart of that difficulty is consistency. Seemingly wild events need future justification in the mind of the readers, or they will feel cheated. And when there are inconsistencies of any kind, the readers, while they may not overtly detect it, will get a sense of unease that something is not quite right. Their sense of "confusion" will linger to the end of the work.

My target readers will enjoy being "confused", but at the end of the work, the Epic, that confusion needs to have been turned into a sense of satisfaction with the story. Otherwise, quite frankly, my future works will not sell as well. Also, the last thing I want, even if I'm not writing any more future works, is for my readers to feel cheated--that they didn't get the story that I promised them. The reason I am doing this is to write a story that my readers will enjoy. Yes, I want to be financially successful so that I can keep writing these stories, but financial success is not worth subverting the goal of writing this story for my readers to enjoy. If all I cared about was financial success, I would have become a doctor (I was one class shy of pre-med qualifications).

It is also difficult because, over long periods of time, characters must grow and change. It's easier to write a novel that takes place over a few days, because it is actually unrealistic for a character to grow too much over that short a span, even if their was a great deal of stress involved. Later, upon weeks and months of reflection, the character may change, but not in a few days. And so, my characters must change weeks or months after events have occurred. These changes will happen gradually, but they will happen.

A good example of this is the T.V. series, "Lost". In this show, at one point three years pass in a very short amount of time. For some characters, we don't see them at all during those three years. All of the characters are different after the three years, and some very much more than others (Jack, Sawyer). The fact that we saw Jack evolve but not Sawyer serves to juxtapose how, for some people, we see them change gradually, but for others, we don't see them for three years and wonder what changed them. We are given hints and clues, but we don't quite know for sure.

And, in the end, I have to make this all seem believable to my readers. What a psychologist might think is not very relevant, but what the majority of my readers think is (unless the majority of my readers are psychologists).

And the speculative nature of this has to be explained enough to allow my readers to engage in "the willing suspension of disbelief". That is achieved, I believe, by being "honest" to the story, which is another way of the story being consistent to itself.

The conscious part of the human brain inherently does not want to believe in non-benevolent things over which they or their leaders have little or no control of. UFO's is a prime example. Despite hordes of evidence of extraterrestrial visitation, many people state that there's no evidence at all. This is the cognitive dissonance of a brain that shuts out that which cannot be controlled.

But the subconscious human brain also needs to explore and entertain these possibilities so that it can be prepared to leap into action in a stressful situation.

These two aspects of the human brain make speculative fiction work. The conscious part of the brain is stimulated because the story is speculative and interesting. The subconscious part of the brain is doing its normal work, but when it does so it generates an emotional response.

This is what speculative fiction taps into, and that is why, while it is difficult to write, it will ultimately satisfying for me and my readers. I hope I can pull this off.

J. Michael Straczynski

J. Michael Straczynski (JMS) (TV/screen writer, Babylon 5 (TV), Jeremiah (TV), Changeling (screen)) spoke at my alma mater, MIT, last night, and Heidi and I paid $10 each to see him. Trust me, it was a LOT more entertaining than a movie (well, except Star Trek, but we've seen that twice--Go See It!). Despite claiming to be a horrible speaker, he was funny as hell.

I figured I would get there early, breeze in, and get a good seat. But my years of working outside Route 128 in Boston still blind me, sometimes, to the culture of the geeks--my humble roots. I arrived 35 minutes early, but geeks were lined up for about 1/4 of the length of the Infinite Corridor. "Infinite" here translates to 1/4 mile. (Geeks understand that when they say theirs is "infinitely" long, no one can possibly top that). So 1/16 of a mile long line, 35 minutes prior, to get a good seat to see a mid-level TV screenwriter, who has just now emerged as a major motion picture screenwriter. (I raise my hand) Guilty as charged. Though if I had figured out ahead of time there'd be a line, I wouldn't have arrived early. I hate lines.

They weren't there, though, to see him from his work writing the oscar-winning film, "Changeling" (Ron Howard, Clint Eastwood, Angelina Jolie). Instead, they were there because of his ground-breaking work on the science-fiction TV series, Babylon 5. Babylon 5 is most famous for being the first TV series with a pre-planned multi-year (5) story arc that made each episode completely consistent with all of the others. It turns out TV audiences have enough attention span to see a story through 110 hour-long (well, 43 minutes without commercials) episodes.

One of the main appeals of the TV series Lost is because of the pre-planned 6-season (oringally 5) story arc. The fact that this format worked was proven out by Babylon 5. Quite simply, we would not have Lost (as we know it) if there had been no Babylon 5. (Although Lost has certainly improved on the format, and DVD's and Netflix make this format even more accessible, but I'll save that for another topic).

You know, the signs posted on the way towards the lecture hall, with slogan and insignias from Babylon 5, were my first clues that I was back on Terra Geekdom.

JMS spoke in the lecture hall numbered 10-250. It was an abomination how much that lecture hall had changed from my college days. For one thing, it had a real name. You mean I can't call it "10-250" anymore? And everything had been updated and modernized. I was mortified and envious at the same time. However, one thing remained as before: the mechanized 9-panel blackboard system. That's right, it's still a blackboard. Not a projector screen, not a new system of whiteboards, but still the old blackboards. It's nice to see that *some* things never change. I bet it was like that in the 1920's (although without the mechanization).

But here's the amazing part--when JMS launched into his speech, I found him talking to me and speaking from his heart to mine. He told me something I already knew, but it was validation for switching careers. He said that the biggest obstacle to acheivement is the fear of failure. Everybody has the limits of their abilities, but people rarely test those limits because they are afraid to fail. And so most people stay in their "little box" where they know they will succeed and everything is predictable. It's a "comfort zone," and I am guilty as charged of remaining in my "comfort zone."

Recently, I knew I wanted to break out of my "comfort zone," to find the limits of my achievement, but I was confused about the direction. Do I go into management? I didn't have the temperament, but I could learn that. Do I go more technical in my profession? I could do that, too, but I didn't have the drive anymore. But when I started writing again, two years ago, I realized that I had to break out of my box in a big way.

And so here is JMS, ON THE VERY SAME DAY AS MY CAREER CHANGE WAS ANNOUNCED, telling me that I should do exactly what I had just done on that day.

I don't believe in coincidences, and I never will. This was clearly a message directed at me to PAY ATTENTION and listen to what he is saying.

And the message was--keep doing it. Keep testing your limits. Never be afraid to fail. You will never know what you can achieve if you never fail. If you're not failing, at least occasionally, then you're doing it all wrong.

Message received. I understand I have license to fail. I feel powerful already.

-Dan Fox

danfox@danielcfox.com
http://danielcfox.blogspot.com/
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1625342545

A Leap of Faith – A Software Engineer Switches Career to Fiction Writing

In the Rider-Waite Tarot, The Fool card is the first in the deck and is numbered 0. Clearly, the Tarot was designed by a software engineer. The Fool lives up on the mountaintops, bathed in sunlight. Dressed like a dandy, he appears to not have a care in the world. And yet, there he is, with a small round hobo's bag attached to the end of a pole. With the pole carried in his right hand and resting over his right shoulder, he is walking headlong towards a cliff. The Fool, you see, is not content with living in comfort up in the mountains. Instead, he must descend into the world below. Why would he do such a thing, when he lives like a God up on the mountain? The card does not tell us why, because that is not important. What is important is that, despite his life of luxury and comfort, he is compelled to descend to the depths below, disregarding the fact that he must fall precipitously without any means of support. What he expects to find down below is also not important and unknown to us, but, whatever it is, it is certainly important to HIM. The jump off the cliff is so contrary, from our outside point-of-view, to what seems to be any reasonable and safe course of action, that it can only be called a Leap of Faith.

I have been writing fiction, off and on—mostly off—since I was 16, which was 25 years ago. (Now we see how quickly you can add!). At first, I thought I was good, but, in reality, I was horrible. Joe Haldeman, the award-winning science fiction writer, taught a class in science fiction writing at MIT. And when I took it, he made it very clear that I was irredeemably bad. Looking back, he did me a favor. I suppose someone else would have told me eventually--most likely Heidi, my future wife. But even if I was good, the expected mean income of an engineer is much higher than a fiction writer. Being an engineer was much more prudent.

At the time, I was contemplating a career either in fiction writing, chemical engineering or software engineering. When I realized I was not going to be a good author, I became a hybrid chemical and software engineer, and then finally a pure software engineer. Now that was a field which I was good at and made me happy.

For the last 11 years, I'm been writing a story that's been rattling in my wife's brain, and then started to rattle into mine. The story has undergone significant revisions since then, and then two years ago I decided to get serious and start writing it regularly. Stephen King says to write 1000 or 2000 words a day, every day. So I did. And something very wonderful happened.

It was good. It was very good. I was good. And I was passionate about it. This was a story that had to be told, and I had to tell it.

Heidi, my wife of 19 years, has been needling me to spend more time on it, but the demands of my career were simply too much. I tried to balance the two, but there was no balance in the mind of the A student that I am. And also there was the problem that I had the most fun and lucrative job than I have ever had. I very much enjoy being a software engineer working for my employer. But Heidi encouraged me to do what was already on my mind--devote full time to the writing. So I am switching careers, and Heidi is willing to support me while I get my new career off the ground (probably a few years). How wonderful is that?

I'm giving up so much to pursue my passion, and there is a lot to be fearful of. What if Heidi loses her job? What if we run out of money? What if we have to sell our house? But these things are all things that the body wants, and, quite frankly, my body is spoiled. For 41 years (did you add correctly?), I have been pampering of my body but doing little for my spirit, who is begging me to make this change. My spirit asks for so little. How could I turn my back on him?

And so I'm walking over the cliff. I see it coming, and I fear I will crash and die on the rocks below. But I know that's not going to happen. It's all very simple, really. At the end of the day, there is only one thing I can do, that, like The Fool, I MUST do. I must make a Leap of Faith.

-Dan Fox

danfox@danielcfox.com
http://danielcfox.blogspot.com/
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The Bottled Water Generation

Yesterday was a hot (91 F) day in Rio as we traveled up to Sugar Loaf Mountain. That may not seem hot, especially to my friends on the left coast, but in the humidity and strong sun of the tropics, it's pretty bad. All four of us got dehydrated to a certain degree. But Heidi and I fared much better than her parents. OK, her parents are older, but I don't think that was the reason. No, we're more lame for our age.

We fared better because we drank more water. A LOT more. We each drank at least a liter. Heidi's parents, on the other hand, kept saying they had water and pointing it out, when we offered some, but we NEVER saw them drink any. Perhaps they drank some, but if you're getting dehydrated you need to be constantly drinking water. You should never be seen without a bottle of water in your hand, ready to take the next drink.

My mother openly admits that she can't drink much water. Heidi's parents certainly drink more, but they're not used to it.

They're all not used to drinking a lot of water, because they belong to the Tap Water Generation. This was pre-bottled water, and pre-diet soda (except for maybe Tab, which was disgusting). You couldn't drink much soda because it was loaded with calories, and you didn't drink much tap water because it was...well...tap water. So they never got used to drinking a lot of water, or a lot of anything for that matter.

Heidi and I, when we grew up, weren't used to drinking a lot of water either, but we were young enough when diet soda and later bottled water came on the scene that we were OK with both of these. But our parents? Diet soda is awful. Water? Bottle Water? You *pay* for water???!!! To them, who grew up poor, paying for water is a decadence that is really hard to succumb to without feeling guilty. They do Brita at home, and they will pay for bottled water, but it appears to me they feel dirty doing so, and they certainly aren't used to guzzling it.

But Heidi and I, we're of the Bottled Water Generation. We see the dollar value in paying extra for good-tasting water (Heidi likes the taste of tap water, but she also likes the convenience of pre-bottled water, and she agrees bottled water does taste better sometimes). And we certainly understand the value in drinking lots and lots of water, especially when it's hot and/or we exert ourselves. And you really should be willing to drink it warm. Up to your body temperature, I would say. That's pretty damn warm.

But don't get me started on the vitamin water, energy drinks, and such. We're not in THAT generation. I'm sure they've figured out something we haven't. But right now I'm in the phase of not understand any of those things.

Rio and Back to Bloggin

It seems I only blog when I'm on vacation. Perhaps it's because I have so little time otherwise, or perhaps nothing interesting happens to me otherwise. Or I just *think* I have so little time otherwise, or I just *think* interesting things happen to me while on vacation.

When I showed up at the Hotel Atlantico Copacabana in Rio, the night guy was all screwed up, and first thought me and my father-in-law were on one reservation together in two twin beds in the same room. Then when I pointed out the mistake, he gave us separate rooms (with our wives), which was fine except I got the room with the two twin beds. The prospect of spending two weeks on vacation on two twin beds did not thrill me, so I went downstairs to fix the situation.

The night guy then proceeded to be rude to me and point out that I had only made a reservation for the room with the two twin beds, that there were no more rooms with double beds, and that I should be happy we have rooms at all. Even though my paperwork showed I had two rooms with a double bed.

My room was smaller and clearly inferior, but he even refused to give me a credit for getting a lesser room. He never offered, and he almost laughed when I asked.

Well, the day crew took care of me, although I was not allowed to speak to the manager directly. He was there, but he "didn't speak English." How does a manager of a hotel anywhere not speak English?

Well, something always has to go wrong on a trip, doesn't it? This wasn't so bad. In the end, I got upgraded to a suite for no extra charge. Of course, I'd rather have some closet space than a sauna...A sauna? In Rio? I'll just go outside! :)

So every city has its quirks, although you'd never expect the inability to get facial tissues. Napkins, we got, but not kleenex.

The people here are really friendly, and most of them don't speak English, but they're very tolerant of those who don't speak Portuguese. They really go out of their way to try to understand you. You know, I really like the people of South America. Except Argentinians. :) I'm kidding, it's just a think with Brazillians vs. Argentinians.

Of course it's easy to be nice when you live in the tropics and sub-tropics, but even the people down way south in Ushuaia (where it never ever gets into the 60's F or higher) are friendly.

I had a great time at the Bar Vinicius (though I'm sure about the others) in Ipanema. The 'e' is pronounced 'eh' or 'ay' nasalized, and certainly not 'ee'. They're a little defensive about that around here.

The restaurant Gula Gula in Ipanema was not very good.

More later.