The Tarot

I'll admit it. As a teenager, I learned to read Tarot cards as a ploy to impress girls.

I can still remember that first night in one particular young lady's dorm room. I had my beautifully mysterious cards, black cloth to lay them on, a white gold ring to rest under the first card, and a chip from old tombstone (the later two were my own personal touches). The lights were low, perhaps even candlelight. It was magical.

What happened? We just celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary!

We've had our mountains to climb, some of them monumental, but in the end, the cards were right. We've conquered the darkest times.

So, what Tarot card am I? Apparently, The Magician:

***********

You are The Magician

Skill, wisdom, adaptation. Craft, cunning, depending on dignity.

Eloquent and charismatic both verbally and in writing,
you are clever, witty, inventive and persuasive.

The Magician is the male power of creation, creation by willpower and desire. In that ancient sense, it is the ability to make things so just by speaking them aloud. Reflecting this is the fact that the Magician is represented by Mercury. He represents the gift of tongues, a smooth talker, a salesman. Also clever with the slight of hand and a medicine man - either a real doctor or someone trying to sell you snake oil.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

***********

When my wife sat down to take the quiz, I thought back to my Tarot days and wondered if she would come up as The High Priestess. I didn't mention it, because I didn't want to jinx it. Sure enough:

***********

You are The High Priestess

Science, Wisdom, Knowledge, Education.

The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane information that she might, or might not reveal to you. The moon crown on her head as well as the crescent by her foot indicates her willingness to illuminate what you otherwise might not see, reveal the secrets you need to know. The High Priestess is also associated with the moon however and can also indicate change or fluctuation, particularly when it comes to your moods.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Wild Black Cherry (Prunus serotina)

The wood is treasured. Made into Colonial highboys, tables, desks scratched with the quill pens of Benjamin Franklin, it's smooth orange tones darken with the turn of years. Cherry. And there has always been a kind of mystique with the wood from northern Pennsylvania.

I think of them like endangered animals. They've been hunted relentlessly. Loggers will pluck them out of their stands and not touch the Red Maples, the Beech, the Birch, and the other common neighbors. It's hard for them to hide. Their rough, potato chip-like bark is nearly black among so much tan and grey.

As I sit here, I can think of at least five which have ducked the ax on our mountain land. I plant more now, raising them from tiny whips through the long winters.

I'll keep their secret. I won't tell where they are.

This fellow knows too, but he promised not to tell.

UPDATE: To be fair, I should point out that I am pro-logging. When you don't touch forests, you get very old trees, but overall, the diversity of life drops sharply. You can't imagine the wonderful things that pop up and the animals which flourish when sunlight returns after logging. However, there is a big difference between logging supervised by a forester, and one done as "high grading." High grading happens when you simply go through a forest and grab the best trees and leave the rest. That does great harm. If you approach logging with an overall plan, however, including regeneration, then the overall effect is very positive.

The little red fellow is a Red Eft, the terrestrial form of the Red Spotted Newt. They live 7-8 years on land before turning drab green and returning to the water. Our kids love to catch them!

(This post is for Jade Blackwater's Festival of Trees.)

White Roses, Part 1

(I've been in the mood for a traditional Victorian ghost story. However, rather than simply copy that romantic style, I thought I'd experiment a little. For this short series, I'm blending a traditional ghost story theme with the relatively uncommon second person point of view, present tense.)


Sunlight pours through new leaves as you walk the sleepy streets of town. Bird songs dance in shadowed limbs.

The streets are lined with Sycamores, tan and pale and mottled green where the patches peeled. You take care not to trip where the roots made the sidewalks pitch.

You smile. Spring warmth is different than the heat of winter. Not scratchy and flecked with orange flame. Spring is freedom, and the hard months melt in the sheeting rains.

Ahead, you see the house. It sits on the corner of two streets, Brandywine and Grove. The painted eaves and lattices cast shadows on a wicker table and chairs.

The old woman is not sitting there.

You slow. The privet hedge breaks at a white arch twined with wisteria. Purple blooms hang thick in the tendrils. You unlatch the gate and pass inside the grounds.

The air is heavy and still. Your steps lift without a sound.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful," a voice says.

You turn.

She is standing at the edge of the garden. Her gaze floats, looking past everything that is there.


On to Part 2

Inspirations

Once in a while, a person speaks some words which stay with us. Maybe it was praise, or maybe it was tough love. I'd like share some of the quintessential moments in writing when a person cared enough to point me the right way.

Think about some of your own moments when someone reached out to you and inspired you. It doesn't have to be about writing. It can be about life in general. Feel free to share in the comments.

Whatever you do in life, I hope you make a place for writing.
--9th Grade English Teacher, 1984

The first person who seriously encouraged me to write. His enthusiasm was strong and infectious. I owe a great deal to him.

The writing feels like it came out of a meat grinder. It's all the same.
--College English Professor, 1988

The first direct, blunt, and undeniably correct criticism I received. He taught me that stories are more than mere communication. Magic happens when the language itself has wings, when you strive to say things in new ways.

Do you want me to do this?
--A friend uncomfortable with my reaction to a critique of my first novel, 2001

I learned that there are two people responsible for a critique. The one giving it should be firm and honest, yet positive. The one receiving it should fight the urge to be defensive, hurt, or depressed.

You should read Lessons from a Lifetime of Writing by David Morrell.
--Agent rejecting my first novel, 2004

Another moment when I learned I had wandered astray. This time, it was about losing touch with the action, being self-indulgent, and allowing the reader to yawn.

I already don't want to read any more.
--My wife reacting to over-description in an opening paragraph, 2006.

Over-description is the opposite side of the "meat grinder" issue above. Vivid description is like adding spoonfuls of sugar to your coffee. Too much is disgusting.

You're a master of description.
--Internet friend and author, 2006

After all the care and hard work, its nice to see some things finally working. However, the process of growth never ends.

*****

Hats off to those who inspire us. Their nudges become the path of our lives.

Morning and Evening River

Scarlet tanagers hop
Blood and black ornaments in the trees
Mayflies kiss mirror waters
Daring trout to feed
Purple mist cupped in
Valleys swept with infant green
Sunset stop and sighs, then
Surrenders to the breeze.

Water springs from dripping moss
Thirsty on mountain stone
Cloud rolling river pushes
Sparkling a path toward home.

(Inspired by fly fishing on the West Branch of the Delaware River this weekend. I managed to catch and release a big ole' wild brown trout. He was a wise fish. It was nice to meet him.)

Meme of Eight

Sean Ferrell has tagged me to share eight random facts about myself. These kinds of memes are always fun! Here is how it goes:

1. Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.

2. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their 8 things and post these rules.

3. At the end choose 8 people to get tagged and list their names.

4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and to read your blog.

So, with that in mind, I cleared the decks and let eight things pop into my head. Here they are:

1. I'm generally pretty mechanically inclined. I even fixed our furnace once. However, when we were in Disneyworld in February, I came out of the bathroom and told my wife, hey, there's one of those emergency pull cords in the bathroom. Um, not so much. It was a retractable line for hanging clothes to dry.

2. I think I had true hypothermia once, and it had nothing to do with winter. In my late teens, I used to go exploring by motorcycle in the winding mountain roads of western Pennsylvania. One late summer/early fall afternoon, I got lost. Before I could get my bearings, the weather changed. A cold front came in and started to bring on nighttime early. It also started to sprinkle. When I found a familiar road, I was already late. I rushed over the mountain in the cold dark. By the time I got home, I could barely uncurl my fingers from the grips. I completely covered myself in blankets and didn't stop shivering for close to two hours.

3. I have a faded scar by my eye where the obstetrician grabbed me with forceps. However, my difficulty in being born had nothing to do with my mother being petite and small-framed, I'm sure. I think she just made me work for it.

4. Speaking of eyes, I really should have lost my right eye when I was around 11 or so. My friend and I were messing around in the woods. He was cutting something with a pocket knife, and suddenly it sliced through. The knife point flew up towards my eye and barely penetrated the white (sclera). I had a nasty sensation of having something in my eye, and my friend saw a small line of blood. It disappeared in a few hours. Mucho lucky.

5. In high school I used to carry (and demonstrate) one of those martial arts butterfly knives. Certainly can't do that stuff today (it was in the mid to late 80's).

6. The closest thing I've ever had to a man crush is Rob Thomas. If I had the skill and opportunity to be a musician, I would want to be like him, I think.

7. Back to number 4, my friend and I may have been doing something naughty. I discovered that when you burn a certain hollow, dry weed (no the weed, mind you), smoke would come out the other end. We used to smoke them and think we were uber cool. I never did develop a general smoking habit, though.

8. Although my friends and I drank in high school and college, I've never tried any other drug. To be honest, it really wasn't offered to me. I think I would have turned it down, but part of me wonders what LSD would have been like. Not that I would try it now. The window for doing that stuff has long since closed. Chalk one up for Nancy Reagan, I guess.

Tagging eight people feels kind of excessive, so I'll only tag a few: Scott, Canterbury Soul, Kaycie, Jade, and Joni. No pressure though!

Rings

(I'd like to thanks Moontopples for running a great contest over on his blog. I decided to give this one a try, since I'm usually on the other side of the fence with my own contests. I'd like to share my entry with you. The required theme was "growth." I'm happy to say that I was awarded 3rd Place. Be sure to check out the other great entries. I really loved #3 and #11.)

Rings
by Jason Evans


Wind leaned on the grass. From horizon to horizon, the world bowed under skies of gemstone blue.

Water trickled. A wall of saplings twittered in hot summer soil.

---

A black bear heaved onto its rear legs. It's shape cut a void in the night and sliced away the moon.

Claws bit into bark. Slapping again and again, they shredded until the life blood was nipped and flowed.

The bear dropped down, tatters of wood fluttered where--

---

Her shirt creased as his hands reached up her body. She raised her hands and curled herself back against the tree.

He kissed every line and shadow of her neck.

She moaned as his dropped to where his hands cupped her--

The world washed green. A warning tone beeped.

---

Bullet rain pounded.

Tree limbs clattered and trunks groaned.

An explosion of light slammed a nearby tree. The wood split and charred. Wisps of smoke danced between the drops then disappeared.

---

A rope looped and stretched away to another trunk. Clothes dripped in the mottled shade.

An ax chopped into the stump and stuck. A woman wedged more firewood on the cooling fire. She poked the steaming water and swirled the clothes in the suds.

---

Musket balls thudded. Shattered branches fell. Cut weeds tipped.

Silver smoke drifted through the forest like fog.

"Reform the line! Hold ranks!"

Another volley sizzled though. Hollow hits cut through long buttoned coats. Men fell.

"Present! Aim! Fire!"

---

Orange lit the low floating clouds above the forest.

Squirrels shook in the hollows. Their breath pulled away by the heat.

An inferno wave roared through, then reversed. The wind was unsettled, changing. Rivers of sparks swirled high in pillars of--

---
---

Leo uncoupled the KaraKara probe from his temples and set it on the gleamy table.

A voice spoke from the console. "Command?"

"I'm finished with that one."

"Re-shelving."

The crawler lifted from the dark and light, dark and light growth rings of the tree. Laser light winked out.

Robotics pulled the disc from the player. It was a wedge of fossilized tree embedded in circular isomers.

"Command?"

The boy rotated through his school notes. "Do you have anything from Asia in the sixteenth century?"

"One specimen. Sophora japonica. Chinese Scholar Tree. Growth: Village environment. 489 readable years."

"I'll see that one."

Robotics hummed. A thin slice of tree emerged from a slit in the archive wall. It settled on the player, then spun.

Leo engaged the KaraKara probe and dialed though the growth rings.

He pressed play.

Salvation of the Collapsing Universe

Waves of frequencies
Beating with the heat
Of creation and
Billions of years
Remembered.
Spin in neat
Ellipses,
Balanced Gravitation,
Warm your hands
In the furnace of
Stars.
But did you know the
Perfection of the universe
Can be
Wrong?
*snapshot*
Complex paradigms
Doppler shifting
Enigmas
Dark matter pulling,
Never seen.
D      r      a      w      i      n      g
D    r    a    w    i    n    g
D r a w i n g
}Collapse{

Shhhhhhh.
Listen.
You are about
To be
Reborn

Short Absence

Just letting you know that I'm not going to be around for a few days. I hope to be back to regular posting early next week. In the meantime, check out the great entries over at Moontopples Contest. I've tried my hand at it, but all entries are anonymous at this point for the voting period. I'll be able to post my story after the 14th. See you then.

Forest Flowers

Spring is finally underway in the far northern reaches of Pennsylvania. Would you like to take a walk in the mountains? Here's a breath of sun to tuck away as the work week begins.

Listening to the sound of the river, PINK like flesh pounding with the heartbeat of dawn.

Roots washed in the trickling cold, RED for the pounding chase in the night.

Majestic over hills of moss, YELLOW cuts deep and sees what we would hide.

Tipping in the gusts, WHITE burns with the purity of love unyielding.

Twisting from the ashes of the world, GREEN for the victory of every living thing.

Thoughts: May Moon

(I thought I try something a little different. This is the beginning of new series called "Thoughts." Last night, I took my laptop out in the night under the full moon and simply typed my thoughts as they came. These posts will be personal and largely unedited. To feel a little of what I felt, the pictures in this series will be from the same moment.)

What is it about wind in the night? The full moon is sliced by the trees still naked from winter. Ghost patterns glow on the lawn.

I remember what it was like many years ago. I used to sit out in the quiet. I used to think like this. Just open, letting the moonlight coax me.

Brush strokes of clouds slip east. The motion is calm. Something about how unformed they are makes me think of the wind too. The trees with new leaves sizzle with its sound. They shake at the sky, but sky ignores them. The few stars are solid. Peaceful.

My thoughts keep going back to my teens. What did I think about then? Were the thoughts so different than now? Probably not. The raw wishes are gone. I know much more. I feel in control of much more. But much is still there, softened maybe, sharpened, but still there.

Funny what the night does to you--the silence, the dark. You seep out and fill the world. The trees speak directly to you. You unfold across the sky. The ancient story in the stars was written just for you.

I hear one spring peeper in the distance. He sounds lonely. All of the others have scattered into the trees, but he remains. Does he know who he's calling? Maybe he's not even calling. Maybe he knows I'm listening.

A hush is wafting down now. The clouds seem to have stopped. The wind is listening to me now. What should I tell it?

I think it already knows.

Moving Portraits

Petals twirl onto syrupy green. Warm winds whisk from the distant seas. So much promise rides on the shoulders of spring.

But now I see the shadows in the April sun.

The ground always knew. Below every bloom is a promise withered. Below every leaf, the tangles of a storm.

We choose what direction to stand.

Don't look for me in the shadow portraits. I'll face the sun and move where the wind takes me.

I refuse to stretch away into the dark. Where should I look for you?