The linked essay was written in 2013, when my son was about 4-1/2. I posted it on my previous blog (not ripped up, just neglected) in October 2013. I re-posted it on LinkedIn.com in March, 2015. It has been a thunderous few years. On LinkedIn: Don't Fade Me to Black: A New Paradigm for the Autism Spectrum.… Continue reading Don’t Fade Me to Black
It isn't politically correct, but if true, these proposals will be validated for all male and female human characters, respectively, and resonate with the disproportionately human Reading Public. H/T to Cane Caldo.
I made the cut! My short story "Under A Wayward Sun" will appear early next month in the Planetary: Earth anthology from Superversive Press! Take a look: http://www.superversivesf.com/2018/04/23/planetary-earth-lineup/
https://www.youtube.com/embed/e8teRxOSNHs?version=3&rel=1&fs=1&autohide=2&showsearch=0&showinfo=1&iv_load_policy=1&wmode=transparent I’ve been reading The Allegory of Love by C.S. Lewis, about the medieval idea of “courtly love”. Lewis sums up the concept as (emphasis mine): The sentiment, of course, is love, but love of a highly specialized sort, whose characteristics may be enumerated as Humility, Courtesy, Adultery, and the Religion of Love. The lover… Continue reading Lancelot’s Chickens, Come Home to Roost
Re-posted from the inimitable Sarah A. Hoyt: During the weekend, while doing my normal weekly cleaning (usually a running affair lasting 4 hours and starting at around 9 am, involving dusting, vacuuming and making wet-areas (kitchen and bathrooms) sanitary, yes a little easier now that I’ve been keeping things more … organized) I listened to… Continue reading Teach a Child — According To Hoyt
G. Scott Huggins on writing "real" religion in imaginary worlds.
And by “we” I mean writers and parents and teachers, and anyone who is supposed to give them an idea of how the world works. By “children” I mean those of us who were children in the last 50, maybe the last 70 years, and although the problem is most prevalent in America, it has […]… Continue reading We’re Failing Our Children: repost from Sarah Hoyt’s blog.
A cat dies and is ushered before the Throne of God. “Nice pad, mate!” says the cat, “I think I’ll stick around! ..."
A solid discussion of violence in video games. Snapper nails it.
Neither I nor Dalrock mean to imply either that biblical headship is "a game" or that it consists of the self-appointed-stud-bull attitude marketed as being "Alpha" or having what its marketers call "Game" (capital G). They are in fact mutually incompatible, but are far nearer in form-- and this is Dalrock's point-- than either is to the culturally-popular emasculated gamma-male role that is too often mistaken for "being a Good Christian Husband."
Jonas had never been so far up in all his life. The sidewalks he was used to had no railings because it was only twenty centimetres to the street, not hectametres. He walked more carefully, one hand against the reassuring wall. The air was clearer up here, and the early morning light was almost blue after thousands of yellow and grey-green mornings below. He looked again at the address as a tungsten-yellow Phœnix Valkyrie roared past, freely sharing bullets with the DPD at close range. Jonas pulled his coat around himself, thanked the OneTrueGod for a day out of the factory, and prayed for Clara's safety.
Kriever didn’t like public trans, and insisted on driving his old Sting Ray everywhere. He glanced over to the passenger seat, where she sat with his coat still over her shoulders. “Which way, doll?” he asked. The rain had eased up, for now...
M.C. of the San Quentin Talent Show: "I've never had a more captive audience. Thank you, gentlemen. I'll be here all night.... Unfortunately." "I miss Ol' Rex every day since the day he died." / "That was the last day I did miss that dog." The Bedouin's daughters are pretty intense. "Waiter, there's a hair… Continue reading Always Good for a Bad Pun
“I didn't like the way you treated Sam just now,” she said when he reached her table. “Sam was begging for it.” She was wearing something much too short, but Kriever was too busy to be impressed. “Put on a coat and take me uptown, doll,” he said.
The asthmatic death rattle of the air-scrubber was a comfortable sound, a beacon home in the crushing waves of the street. It had guided him home every night now for eight years to the same drafty building and the same putrid stairs, and the same motherless little girl at the top who made it all worthwhile. Clara was eleven and all that came with it. Her father would give his life to save hers.