We’re headed for Florida tomorrow with internet access unknown, so Happy New Year too in case I don’t make it back before then. Just when I thought it was safe to be a Virginian, Virgil Goode has to open his mouth. I love the name though, wish I could use it in a story. He has raised the all-important issue of what object one swears on. I mean, if he had to swear in, and he was locked in the one motel room the Gideons had missed, and there was no Bible, would a VHS of The Ten Commandments trump a copy of Paradise Lost? It’s a tough call, but I’m sure Virgil will give it some thought. Peace on Earth, good will toward all living creatures, even Virge. (Love that name!)

While listening to a frothy NPR interview this weekend, I heard the interviewer bubble: “Well, you know what they say, 40 is the new 30!” Well, I didn‘t know they said that, but that’s probably because both 30 and 40 are well back in my rear-view mirror. I’m not sure what it means. Does this mean you can now trust people who are 39? Does it mean you can now live at home sponging off Mom and Dad for an additional decade? I suppose I noticed because I’m at one of those dramatic highly significant crossroads in life that impending decades represent: I’m 59, and you know what comes next. Every cell in my body and brain will change, I’m sure, and I will be OLD. These transitions are all in the anticipation, the stress of their inevitable approach. I’ve probably never been older than when I was 29 for one endless year, my trustworthiness oozing out of me like sap. Decades are a big stressful deal, so I have a modest proposal. It’s all because we have a 10-based number system, which I dare to assert is because we have ten digits on our hands. What if we were to initiate a widespread genetic engineering program whereby future generation would be born with 12 or 14 digits? Hell, let’s make it 20. There would be a transistion period, of course. It would be a rough time to be a math teacher, but the results would be worth it. 40 could be the new 20. And most important, we wouldn’t have to go through these life changing transitions so often. We’d have twice as long to rest up between crises. The secondary benefits would be immense. Jazz piano, for example, would be utterly transformed. It would bring on a new digital age. It’s too late for me—I’m already OLD—but it could offer hope to future aging generations.

This morning I read something for Christmas at my neighborhood association as I have been for several years now. This excerpt from The Fourth World I read a couple of years ago. In the novel it is a story narrated by a virtual Zapata. Feliz Navidad.

“It is a parable I call Los Gamelos, The Twins:

“There were twin brothers long, long ago who were left a magnificent castle by their mother and father. The parents were old and sick and wanted to provide for their sons when they were gone, for they had always done everything for their children as loving parents will do. But when they died, the funeral had no sooner concluded and the brothers were alone, than the first brother seized the castle for himself and shut the second brother out into the wilderness that surrounded the castle walls. And in that moment, as if the gods blessed his iniquity, the first brother began to grow larger and larger, while his unfortunate brother grew smaller and smaller. Continue reading →

I’ve been busy lately, short stories mostly, but I’m also at work on the ending of a novel in progress set in the very near future. Like most such sf novels, it constantly flirts with being a thriller. But every good thriller’s got to end with the status quo. Nothing ever changes except the girl James Bond screws during the closing credits. Order is restored; the genie is back in the bottle. In science fiction, it seems to me, the resolution isn’t to put the plot genie back in the bottle, but to end in a changed world. That’s why I’m always drawn to sf tropes, which are all about change, though endings are trickier. The near future thriller is tempted to comfort, to rein in the future. The sf story has to end with greater uncertainty. Most annoying, I imagine, to the devoted thriller reader.

I just learned of another sort of ending, that my novel The Watch will be remaindered in June. It’s had a good run, coming out shortly after 9/11. Peter Kropotkin has been very, very good to me. Of the four novels Jen Brehl and I did together, this is probably our best, controversial ending and all.  The highest honor the book received in my mind was being chosen by Greenhill School to be read by their upper school.  My visit to the campus was one of the best times I’ve ever had as teacher and writer both.

Just in time for Thanksgiving, I got the news that a story of mine, “R3,” an alternative Christmas reindeer story, has been accepted by Strange Horizons, one of my favorite online publications.

I also had a great time at Appomattox Regional High School. Faculty and students were terrific. The old auditorium was a great place to read, and new story “The Broken Dream Factory,” got rave reviews.

We’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner with Sarah’s family in Richmond, always a delightful time. We won’t be doing much shopping, trying to bring down the national average. I like Christmas. It’s a great story. But I fail to see the connection between Peace on Earth and a new Playstation Three. Maybe if I had more disposable income I’d get it. But it’s funny how expensive it’s gotten to celebrate the birthday of a guy who always had such nice things to say about rich people and the pointless acquisition of more and more stuff.

One of the premier gawdy light displays in the city is only a couple of blocks from our house. People cruise by in limos on a pilgrimage. This makes sense to me. Can’t you just see the manger dripping in lights, visible for miles? The Kid is here! Remember—I did grow up in Texas.  Happy holidays.

Now he’s done it.  Allen is attacking Webb for characters and incidents in his novels.  Setting aside for the moment that George couldn’t write a novel if his life depended on it, let’s take this idea for a test drive.  It’s called fiction, George.  By your reckoning Tolstoy would favor women throwing themselves in front of trains.  Kafka would be pro insect.  Shakespeare encourages teen sex and suicide pacts, blinding people with your bare hands, and letting old people wander around without proper medical care.  As for me, I favor young impressionable boys being raised by a man with lizard genes and a multiple personality and time-traveling anarchists taking on the CSA.  Right.  I hope my fellow Virginians are as disgusted as I am by this insult to our intelligence.  Two more years of W is bad enough, but six more years of Senator Macaca?  And Jim, if you’re listening, I hope you sell a ton of books, and thanks for running.

Who would’ve thought that Virginia would be a key state in the upcoming election?  Until Senator George “Macaca” Allen started running against himself—not hard admittedly—there was no contest.  I’ve never lived anywhere I voted with the majority.  I grew up in Texas, so I believe that’s to my credit.  The Dixie Chicks make me proud I’m a Texan, but I agree with their assessment of George W.  And though it’s hard to imagine, Allen may be even dimmer than W.  These faux good old boys seem to spend a few brain cells in the transformation from rich kid to plain folks.

We’re also blessed with a “Marriage Amendment” vote.  I believe in marriage—I’ve done it four times.  This cumbersome amendment would make my current household “approximating marriage” illegal.  So the Commonwealth after nearly ten wonderful years wants me to screw up a good thing by getting married a fifth time?  Are they nuts?  What I love is that in a society which claims to separate church and state there’s a referundum to “uphold the sanctity of marriage.”  I’m sorry.  Sanctity doesn’t sound like a state function to me.  If the various churches wish to define marriage this way and that, fine.  The state shouldn’t concern itself with such issues.  Contracts, property, medical access—all these are state issues and would be affected by this homophobic amendment.  Vote NO.

This is Richmond’s second year to host this event, and I highly recommend it. Even though the name is Folk Festival (and the O in folk is a lute) the one thing you won’t hear is coffeehouse style folk music. Yesterday Sarah and I heard everything but, all excellent in a gorgeous riverside setting with perfect weather. We plan to return today. Check it out. National Folk Festival.

I caught these guys on PBS the other night.  One of the songs wouldn’t leave me alone, so I tracked it down.  Have a listen:  “I Still Think of You Sometimes”

Their website is http://www.frittsfamilyband.com/

Agéd P is Alice, our 14-year-old Lab mix. She’s named after the protagonist of Wilderness. I’ve raised her from a 5-week-old pup. Her mother was struck by a car in Oregon Hill (of Cowboy Junkies fame) days before I got her. The father, “a shepherd/collie mix,” who lived a leashless life, likely sired many, but none as smart or sweet-dispositioned as Alice, I’m sure. Her health and zest for life are intact as she approaches 100 in dog years, though arthritis has her moving more slowly and meditatively from one sniff to the next. I’ve tried to emulate some of the Tai Chi practitioners I’ve seen in the park so that I can elegantly match her glacial pace, but it doesn’t always work, and by the time we’re done, my back aches too. I figure she’s teaching me about growing old.  The world is  a museum filled with rich experiences like the subtle layers of piss on monkey grass, but the museum floors seem to get harder every day.