For the past few years I believed in the interconnectedness of events, and the only coincidences are people who believe randomness guides the universe. A sweeping statement, indeed, and one a few friends of mine reject for lack of evidence. I understand their apprehension; abstract thoughts are tough to prove. Perhaps I also lack the suave to advocate my case clearly.
Besides, it is very easy to miss these connections as they unfold. Often in a tense moment, the threads linking two distinct events appear invisible–and may not appear to the participants at all. The focus for those who find themselves at the eye of a storm rests on survival, rather than why the two forces collided and wrought destruction around them.

Missing the connections as they present themselves does not mean the links are broken or do not exist; it usually means the observer is standing too close to the action, so near they can not separate themselves from the event and consider another perspective. At that view, gut reaction takes over and guides one to what appears like a safe place.
A lot is happening behind the scenes, particularly on a personal level, and I anticipate quite a bit more in the coming weeks. Lately I’m seeing connections everywhere, and I need time to process them. Updates may be spotty until I punch through the other side, but rest assured, I’m still here.

Just a quick note on writing projects: Proofreading revisions for the first 50 pages came back from Oriana and I’m pleased, even though the pages drip red like a monster sliced my organs open over the text; I forgot to send her some green pens for editing. Still on track for entering Nicholl’s and soon as I put the screenplay to bed, it’s back to The Confession.

Here’s some pics from my weekend excursion to Canada. Much thanks to my very gracious hosts in Peterborough. Hope to see you soon in New Jersey. Unfortunately my batteries expired en route and I was having so much fun, by the time I remembered to snap pics, only thirty minutes and a foggy day remained for documenting. A good argument for checking equipment before packing next time.

One of these might be Writer Guy.

The Toronto – Tortuga conspiracy. Turtles lurked about the walls and paths.

A fierce wind guided us across this suspension bridge.

Time flies in the Great White North.

Imagine their view…

Long time reader of the site and member of the review teams for The Last Track, the Pollster is another year older today. Happy B-day!

My memories of you are rich and varied, and stretch back to our childhood.

I’ll build a leaf fort with you anytime, Pollster.

Ever find yourself facing a situation raging out of control, almost certain a disaster lurks around the corner, all the while completely powerless to look away? It’s bad; you know it, and you can’t stop staring.

I refer to Poppy Z. Brite.

Ms. Brite has so much talent–she’s written some great short stories and novels–and so few coping skills. To read her journal, I might think she was a colossal whiner. In fact, she’s probably quite charming and funny on her good days, just a bit lost at the moment.

Hopefully Poppy raises herself out of this funk soon, heals those wounds, and carries on with what matters. As an author, there’s some narrative bouncing around those dark chasms she keeps locked tight, still clawing for the surface.