Make it So

Inflection Points

 

I’m completely aware that New Year’s is an artificial inflection point in our lives. Of course it is. As a day in which the sun comes up and the sun sets, in which the normal number of things happen, it is a day like any other.

But then when you think about it, so much about human life and consciousness is artificial. By which I mean it is something learned and sought, something created and held onto; it is not a “natural” occurrence. The natural occurrences are our eating, our drinking and in the parlance of Rex Stout, the “appetites we share with dogs.”

The refinements put on those, be they gourmet cookery or marriage are inherently artificial, something we impose on a natural process for a reason.

So, since I don’t sleep naked in a tree, and since I use a whole constructed language that allows me to set events on a timeline, I’m not going to apologize for giving importance to the inflection point that is new year’s.

I will not make resolutions. I tried last year, and then life happened.

I’m also not ten or eleven, and I know one can’t change one’s entire life at a word, at the stroke of a decision, unless one is on the road to Damascus (metaphorically), and the words are “I believe” of course.

That sort of sudden irrevocable change doesn’t happen very often and it usually requires more of an incentive than “I want to change.”

My mom tells me for instance that my dad stop smoking cold turkey at 31. He’d been smoking since 14. (Not unusual for men his generation in Portugal.) But the doctor asked him which he valued more, the cigarettes or his (then) one year old daughter with frail lungs. He told him “you can continue smoking, or you can raise her.” Reportedly, dad went in the backyard, smoked one last cigarette, and threw the rest in the trash.

I understand he’s smoked a cigar four times, since then, on the birth of each of his grandson’s.

I’ve also known people diagnosed with a severe illness who are told, “stop eating this or that” or “lose a bazillion pounds” and do it, because they don’t want to die.

Those are rather immediate and potent objectives. (This is why, btw, Dwight Swain says that you should always have objectives for your characters that you can visualize. You can visualize ending up as so and so’s girlfriend, winning the contest, getting the mcguffin. World peace, lasting love, or whatever, which might be the greater objective, are harder to visualize and therefore harder to achieve.)

My main objective, just now, is to stop spinning my wheels on writing. These last two years have been a lesson in humility, as I couldn’t seem to get traction.

Now, a lot of this might be physiological, in which case, it’s getting taken care of.

At any rate, Through Fire, REALLY is almost finished, if life could stop happening to me. (The Writer and the Mystery of the Smoking Washer is not funny. Not really.)

And I suspect, though I could be totally wrong, that once that is done, the going will be easier. I hope. I don’t think I can take much more delay.

After that I hope to finish Darkship Revenge, and then the dragons, and then everything I’ve been putting off. If I’m very good and write a book a month this year, I’ll be semi-caught-up.

Is that possible? I don’t know. It used to be. I suspect a couple of months nothing will happen, since we’re trying to get this house ready to go on the market. On the good (?!) side I’ve found a couple of houses that look good, at least on paper, in the area we’d like to move to. We’ll see if this house sells fast and well enough that we can do it. (I’m not sure what it says about me that the house I’m most interested in is the one that needs a complete redecoration form the bones out. Yes, it would take time, but it’s also our chance to make it ours, something we never did here.)

But perhaps it will be just a couple of months.

I know new year’s is an artificial inflection point. And at any rate, it doesn’t matter much. But I’m going to try to start changing certain habits that don’t help with the writing. Like… I’m going to try to move my web browsing elsewhere, off this computer. Location habit is a bit part of it. I’m hoping to set up (at last) the treadmill so that I can do these posts and read comments while walking. After several attempts, I’m just going to clip a board to the treadmill and use the travel laptop.

For various reasons I suspect this will be an year of turmoil and change. Which is why I need to establish firmly that form 9 to 5 I write. I’ve done it before, and I don’t know why I wouldn’t be able to do it again.

This is not the road to Damascus. It is that other form of change. The one where you tell yourself “I’m going to take this road, and not that.”

If I work very hard, maybe it will work.

And maybe it will work for the rest of you, as well.

Two thousand and fifteen. It’s a nice number. Let’s make it the year we build, the year we finish, the year we slowly but surely discipline and train ourselves to build under, build through, build around.

2015 – make it so!

Something about Money (and cake) – Francis Turner

Something about Money (and cake) – Francis Turner

 

Money is one of those human inventions that is about as fundamental as the taming of fire. Every civilized society and many (possibly all) savage tribes of humans have some form of money. Societies that have attempted to do away with it have generally ended up both failing to and in the process killing people. Yet not many people understand money properly and, as a result, much suffering is brought into the world.

 

So what is money?

The glib answer from an economist’s text book is something like this:- money is a medium of exchange and a unit of account. Which is fine except that it’s got lots of words or more that one syllable and some of them have various meanings. So lets go back to basics (as the politician said to the archbishop).

 

The root idea of money is to store IOUs so that we can have distributed barter efficiently.

 

Without money, if Alice wants Bob to build her a table then she needs to have something that Bob wants in exchange. It could be that she offers to cook him four cakes. Which is fine if Bob likes cake. Alice and Bob have agreed that one table is worth four cakes and both are happy. Alice has her table and Bob has his cake.

 

Except that Bob doesn’t like cake but does like beer. But maybe he knows that his mate Charlie the brewer needs cakes so Bob swaps those four cakes for a keg of beer from Charlie. Charlie in turn feeds two of the cakes to his three children and offers the other two to Daphne in exchange for her cutting his hair and the hair of his cake-stuffed offspring. Daphne now has enough cake that she can stuff herself while watching some mindless romantic drama on TV. Everybody is happy (well apart from Bob because he’s got a hangover but he was happy earlier), and Alice has her table.

 

That second chain is where money steps in. It was only because Charlie heard Bob moaning about being offered payment in cake and then offering the swap that things worked out. Otherwise Alice would have had to offer something else to Bob or would have to have found Charlie directly and offered to trade beer for cake. And even then Daphne might have been left out except that she heard Charlie’s children griping about how they hated cake, particularly when they had to ingest it through greasy hair.

 

In an isolated small village (or tribe) it is possible to do this kind of barter chain with some success. It may take a while for Alice, Bob, Charlie and Daphne to figure out the relative value of cake, beer, tables and haircuts and who will do what in exchange for what, but it could be done in an afternoon in the village square. It would have been much more efficient if everyone sold things for some known unit of money (say a spondoolick). Alice sells her cakes at one spondoolick each, Bob sells tables for four spondoolicks, Charlie sells beer kegs for four spondoolicks and Daphne cuts hair for half a spondoolick a head. Now Alice simply goes to Bob and offers him 4 spondoolicks for a table. Bob takes the spondoolicks and hands them to Charlie for the beer. Charlie pays two spondoolicks to Daphne so that she cuts his hair and his children’s hair and buys two cakes from Alice for another two spondoolicks. Finally Daphne also buys two cakes from Alice for a spondoolick each and is much happier because her scissors aren’t all cakey.

 

Spondoolicks as a medium of exchange make things much better. Not only can we now have chains of transactions that also involve Edwin, Fiona, Gerald, Henrietta and Ian, it is quite possible for Fiona to be in the village on the other side of the hill and for Henrietta, Gerald and Ian to be in the local market town. So long as the two villages and the market town agree (more or less) on the value of a spondoolick Alice can sell her cakes in the market town on the table Bob built to Fiona and everyone is happy.

 

Trade occurs when the two villages and the market town disagree on the relative value of things as priced in spondoolicks. The only reason Alice takes a day to go to the market town and sell her cake is because in town she can sell them for 2 spondoolicks each, especially to idiots like Fiona who have more spondoolicks than sense. On the other hand Charlie used to hate the town because Edwin, the brewer there, sells his beer at a discount, especially if you buy 10 kegs at a time. But then he realized he could buy 10 kegs for 6 spondoolicks and sell them back in the village for a spondoolick each and even with the spondoolicks he had to pay Bob for loan of his cart he can sell beer at a profit and have more time with his children because he doesn’t need to actually brew beer any more. And next week he suggests to Alice that rather than she struggling to market with all her cakes and that stupid table, why doesn’t she just sell them to him for one and a half spondoolicks each and let him deal with the table and dogooders like Gerald who try to tell Fiona that two spondoolicks a cake is a rip off.

 

And this is where we get to the concept of the merchant and the idea of money as a store of value. The merchant (i.e. Charlie) acts as the middle man between people in Aliceham who need something (e.g. beer) and people in Brewersville who have too much of it. The merchant buys the excess of beer from Brewerville at a price which is lower than he can sell it at Aliceham and then in reverse takes all the extra cake from Aliceham and sells it in Brewersville.

 

Later, as the fame of Alice’s cakes spreads far and wide, Charlie and Ian from the land Faraway come to an agreement so that Ian buys most of the cakes from Charlie at a price of 20 spondoolicks per dozen and transports them to Faraway and sells them to would be gourmets at 10 bongoes a cake. He uses those bongoes to buy tools, spices and hops which he brings back to Brewersville market and sells to Charlie (who then resells the spices to Alice and the hammer to Bob) and Edwin the brewer and so on. As a result his initial outlay of 20 spondoolicks turns into 30 spondoolicks. Again he buys a dozen cakes but that leaves him with a profit of 10 spondoolicks which he leaves with Gerald so that next time he comes back to Brewersville he can buy two dozen cakes. Similarly when he gets back to Faraway he can save up his bongoes and buy even more spices, tools and so on.

 

Of course it isn’t totally clear what the exchange rate of bongoes to spondoolicks is. One way to look at it would be to use a cake-index and say that since Ian buys cakes for 1 ⅔ spondoolicks and sells them for 10 bongoes then the rate is 10 bongoes == 1 ⅔ spondoolicks (i.e. 1 spondoolick = 6 bongoes). But that ignores the fact that Ian makes a profit of 10 spondoolicks on his sale of Faraway goods in Brewersville. So perhaps a better way to get to the equal value thing would be to look at the price of hops (etc.) in Bongoes and Spondoolicks as well and then take the verage of the two. In fact probably 1 spondoolick is worth between 4 and 5 bongoes and taking a look at the retail price of cakes in both Brewersvile (2 spondoolicks each) and Faraway (10 bongoes each) 5 bongoes to 1 spondoolick sounds about right,

 

Of course when Daphne wants to travel to Faraway, Charlie, Ian or someone like them will charge her a commission on the trade so she only gets 4 bongoes per spondoolick and when Jessica comes to Brewersville from Faraway she finds that her bongoes are only worth 1/6 of a spondoolick when she tries to exchange them – unless of course she meets Daphne. And that of course is the point. A currency is worth what you are willing to exchange for it and the person on the other end of the deal has to agree.

 

We will note that in this example we haven’t yet said what a spondoolick is (or a bongo for that matter). It could be a lump of metal, seashells, leaves, pieces of paper with the words “! spondoolick” written on them or some electrons or magnets sitting in a computer somewhere. The critical thing is that we trust that a spondoolick today will be worth (more or less – famines and other major events excepted) the same tomorrow and next month. Related to that we have to be able to be sure that someone (e.g. Charlie) doesn’t produce a few extra spondoolicks now and again because his kids need a haircut and he doesn’t have any spare right now.

 

Historically lumps of gold and silver (and copper etc.) of known weight/purity have been a popular choice for what to make a currency from, but the temptation for someone to use slightly less precious metal than there should be (or even none at all) has also been popular. Similar issues have plagued every other way to keep track of currency though electrons (in the form of bitcoins) have generally proven to be less vulnerable although they have proven to be relatively easy to steal or lose. Either way one critical thing about money is that once we agree on what it is and what it is worth (more or less) a spondoolick from Alice is just as good to Daphne as one from Jessica, you can trust them equally and financially we don’t care about their past life (except for when it turns out the money is fake or substandard). Moreover paying with them is anonymous or can be. Apart from people seeing him sneak in the door, no one can tell that Charlie has a beer at Edwin’s place every market day. As long as he gets paid there’s no need for Edwin to care who it is he is serving and likewise no need for Charlie to care which pub he goes to in Brewersville because only one will accept his spondoolicks.

 

Something else we haven’t mentioned yet is “Government”. While, historically, governments have generally had a big say in money that is mostly because governments are what we trust to stop the Bobs of the world from getting away with counterfeiting money – both by setting standards for what money is and by punishing the fakers when caught. Although of course governments have also historically done an absolutely bang up job in debasing currencies themselves and a cynic might say that the reason why governments go after private counterfeiters and the like is that they hate competition. Governments are not required to do the whole thing for money to work. A number of countries (e.g. Hong Kong and Scotland) allow banks to print banknotes themselves and while this can cause problems when the bank gets in trouble or when someone tries to use, say, a Scottish banknote to buy a round of beers in London (though it probably works in Carlisle or Newcastle), it is generally not a major issue. Indeed when you consider the use of US dollars in countries like Iran or Zimbabwe, sometimes the fact that the local government has nothing to do with the currency is a major plus.

 

The key thing about money is that it only works when there is trust. When trading both parties to a transaction have to agree than the monetary object in question is genuine and worth an agreed amount of stuff. Similarly when storing money somewhere the person storing the money has to trust that the place he is storing it is safe and will give it back to him when he needs it. When we all stick our money in a bank and then, later, decide we don’t trust the bank that produces a bank run and it gets nasty when (as is often the case) the general lack of trust in the bank turns out to be well founded. Stopping bank runs from turning nasty is, actually, one of the things that we probably do need government for. The bank runs in the bitcoin world have been pretty catastrophic.

 

Mention of banks leads us to the concept of loans and interest. Again this isn’t anything complex. Alice cooks Katherine a cake today because she happens to have all the ingredients and a week from now Katherine cooks one for Alice. Effectively Alice loaned a cake to Katherine for a week. Assuming the cakes were the same then there was no interest on the deal. If Katherine’s cake was bigger than Alice’s then difference in size is interest on the loan (if it was smaller then the interest was negative and Alice makes a note to never bake a cake for Katherine ever again). Interest is a way of measuring the different value of money over time. Katherine really needed a cake today but didn’t have any flour. Next Sunday she’ll have loads of flour so she can bake a bigger cake for Alice than the one Alice cooked for her.

 

We can extend the example further – say Alice cooks a big cake for Katherine and in return Katherine gives Alice a sticky bun every day for a week. If 6 sticky buns used the same ingredients as a cake then that 7th sticky bun is Alice’s interest and the profit on the deal. If Alice did this a lot then (apart from becoming overweight and sick of sticky buns) she’d get called a loan shark or worse because 1 cake in 6 is 16.7% and 16.7% interest for a week works out at something like 6000% on an annual basis. Of course if she got paid one bun a month it would still be steep but much more reasonable (~30% annual rate).

 

Now lets assume lots of people deposit excess cakes with Alice and agree that they’ll take back either sticky buns or cakes when they feel a touch peckish. If Alice now had 30 cakes which she loaned out to Katherine and 29 other people, she’d get just a single sticky bun every day but in 7 months she’d have a 5 extra cakes (or cake equivalents – remember 1 cake = 6 buns and 30 loans of a cake for 7 buns gives you 30 extra buns). Nice work if you can get it especially if the other cakeowners who gave Alice their cake only ever want a sticky bun at a time and no more than one of them wants a bun each day. It goes a bit wrong however if one of the other cakeowners (Louise) shows up with no warning on Saturday a month down the road and demands her entire cake back now because it’s her child’s birthday party. Unless Alice has a spare cake (or can make one quickly) she can’t pay Louise back as she promised which will make her very unhappy – and of course she’ll tell the mothers of the other 5 kids who were invited to her birthday party and they’ll start wondering what happened to their cakes and on Monday Alice will have demands for 5 more cakes which she won’t have either and that news will spread and so on. That is what we call a bank run and it probably results Alice getting a load of sticky buns in places she won’t enjoy.

 

Now Alice could avoid this situation by not loaning out all the cakes she got (perhaps she gets 40 cakes but only loans out 30) or by writing a contract that says that you can’t get your cake for 6 months or that you have to wait 6 days after you request a cake for it to be provided to you or some combination. For example Alice might say that if you want your cake back now you get nothing, but if you leave it with her for a year you get a cake and a sticky bun. In other words Alice is paying you interest for leaving the cake with her for a fixed period of time and she might make a rule that you can only withdraw one bun a day unless you give prior notice. With these sorts of rules and with 10 spare cakes sitting in her freezer Alice can be confident that Louise will be satisfied when she wants her cake back. Alice will get a decent surplus of sticky buns even assuming that some people decide that they’d rather have a cake and a sticky bun next year than just a cake today.

 

But it also assumes that all the 30 people Alice loans cakes to give her a bun a month. If Maria doesn’t pay after 3 months and Nina doesn’t pay at all then Alice is out a cake and a half. If that’s all it’s not too serious. The other 28 people will pay their full amounts so instead of ending up with a surplus of 30 sticky buns Alice ends up with 19 (7 lost from Nina + 4 from Maria). But if she gets it wrong and another three are like Nina then that 19 bun profit will turn into a loss of 2 buns.

 

Of course Alice could solve this by paying Bob a couple of sticky buns to go around to Maria and Nina and stand over them menacingly while they cook their buns (a 2 bun loss is far less bad than an 11 bun loss) and if Bob does it right to Nina when she hasn’t paid for 2 months then maybe Maria hears about how nasty it all was and manages to pay off her loan even though she really wanted those sticky buns herself. Either way Nina and, possibly, Maria now have a terrible credit rating – no one will lend them a cake again unless they show they really have turned over a new leaf and they probably have to pay 8 sticky buns back instead of 7 to cover the risk that they don’t pay back any sticky buns unless (or even if) Bob goes around and (threatens to) beat them up..

 

Right now we know what money is, how it works, how loans and interest work and things like that. This is all a basis for what we need in a possible new currency. Our new currency needs to be trusted, consistent in value, storable and able to be used anonymously. Sounds easy….

 

 

Notes: Richard Tol in http://www.the-american-interest.com/2014/12/10/hot-stuff-cold-logic/

 

In a barter economy, one needs to know the price of everything relative to everything else. How many eggs for a liter of milk? How many slices of bread for a liter of beer? How many iPads for a yacht? In a monetary economy, however, one needs to know the price of everything in money only. In a barter economy, there are n2-2n prices (with n being the number of goods and services for sale). In a monetary economy, there are only n prices. That is why, at some time in the deep past, many human civilizations of diverse origins independently invented money.

Men, Women and Prophecy

*Yes, three of you have sent me guest posts.  But I woke up very late, and I hate to put guest posts up late.  I like them to have their full exposure.  So, they’ll run later.  I’ll also sometime today put up the ATH FAQ compiled for me by our inestimable Alma Boykin.*

When I was little, there was a half baked slew of prophecy floating around the consciousness of the village. Somewhat based on the Bible, somewhat based on stuff heard from grandparents, it held that fifty years before the end of the world, children would stop being born. Also, either there would stop being marriages or there would be polygamy. There was a lot of argument about that.

Elderly people would come to things like the opening of the school year and say they were reassuring themselves the world wasn’t ending yet.

At the time I used to think this was flat insane. Why would the human race stop reproducing?

Well, we’re not stopping, but the birth rate is collapsing in most industrial countries, and the fall in population is ONLY not catastrophic due to our added longevity.

I’m not claiming the prophecy really was a prophecy, btw. Though one has to wonder when one knows our species has gone through at least two genetic bottlenecks. I don’t mean there is some kind of mystical racial memory either, but one of the things I’ve always been fascinated by is the memories that pass on around the edges, as it were. The things half heard from the previous generation that are told our children. How much remains after 12 or 13 generations, considering it’s like a game of telephone, I don’t know – but some scraps might remain sort of a “beware not having children.”

Actually it’s very easy to plunge the birth rate for humans. All it takes is postponing births. Throughout history we’ve seen this.

I’ve long been of the opinion that there is a vast, unmentioned infertility epidemic. I went through it at a very young age, when most boomers were going through it because they’d left having babies too late. (Being ten years older than I.)

I have friends who got married late twenties early thirties and have kids, but I don’t know any who did so without at least SOME infertility treatment. There might be some (there always are. My friend’s parents who had 14 kids had them from early twenties till menopause.) However, the majority of women are wired to conceive in their late teens early twenties. After that things go… downhill. “Teen pregnancy” is not a social problem. It’s the way the human species was wired. (And yes, of course I know it’s used as an euphemism for young, umarried mothers. But still, the fact we use that term at all is wrong.)

The fact we don’t tell our women this and instead treat them like ersatz young men “Take care of your career first so you’ll be secure when you have babies” is a part of the problem.” Turns out that we’d be better off giving “scholarships for young mothers” and telling women to have their babies FIRST. (And yes, I’m staring this in the face, since both my sons and the girls they tend to be interested in are incredibly career oriented.)

It’s part of the lie of overpopulation (no, we don’t have overpopulation. Now, we don’t have exploding population. We’re a colonizing species. Overpopulation is a problem only bureaucrats could come up with. Malthus was wrong, as well as an *sshole. More population for a species like us, unless we’re artificially confined (and we’re not) just means more opportunity. Beyond that, there seems to be a natural, built in throttle like in most scavenging populations so that after a while our fertility throttles down.) Governments and societies started valuing “production” over “reproduction” never catching on that there isn’t one without the other.

But there is something else too to that entire “We’ll stop having marriages.” In places like the US and Japan we seem to be doing precisely that.

And that is the other part of treating women as ersatz males, combined with the blinkered idea that we need equal results. This has led to prejudicing education in favor of female styles, prejudicing society in favor of the promotion of women to better paid positions, pushing women into roles of leadership in the economy and business.

Notice my term: prejudicing. I’m a woman and I’m not in favor of “barefoot and pregnant” because though it might be best for the species as a whole, it sucks the life out of individuals and makes half the species slaves to its propagation.

I’m all for schools that treat people as equals. If that means fewer women have tech jobs in the end, or that more women get their feels crushed by men being better, cry me a river. I care for treating individuals as individuals, not as protected classes. Stop prejudicing and pushing and tweaking so you have so many innies in so many positions.

Because the problem with the society we’re pushing, where women are on top and men are unemployed is that men and women are different.

They’re different in their mating strategies, as well as in everything else. (And note, here I’m talking about humans as statistical units. Not individuals. Individuals exist on a continuum but statistics are true in the ‘majority sense.”

Most women want to marry above them. Men don’t care to marry above or below, usually their mating is visually driven.

But most women want to marry what they perceive as up the social scale. This might be for some a matter of marrying someone they consider “saintly” in a way or another. Literally for the very religious, more … ah… symbolically for, say, ecologically minded young people.

But for most women – the overwhelming majority of them – it means “marrying someone who can give me greater security.” Most of the time this means “someone who is richer/doing better than I.”

This is why we have all the “billionaire” romances. (Used to be millionaire.) Women will pick the rich guy over the poor one almost every time, and it has nothing to do with being mercenary. Evolution has wired them to look for security for their children.

What happens when almost all men are “socially inferior” to most women.

As happens I can tell you this. I don’t know if it was nation wide, in my generation, or just in the village. I know in the village in my birth year and oh, three either way, most of the boys were “bad seeds.” Most of them had criminal records. None of them went on to school past the “technical and vocational training” level, and even those there were fewer than women who went on to college.

Was it teaching? I don’t think so. Our teachers were the same they had been for decades. I think it was the revolution and sudden leniency to juvenile delinquency and perhaps ideas you shouldn’t beat teen boys with sticks (which yes, used to happen before). Anyone who was born in a more rural area will tell you that life is closer to the bone and what we consider delinquency in terms of violent fights, some theft and such is not rare… once per life. Then the switch or for worse cases a scare in the form of the law taking it very seriously indeed stops the nonsense. Which is why OVERALL rural areas are safer.

Well, the traditional structures of control of young males were removed.

This meant most of them went bad. Women don’t go bad that way.

Anyway, for whatever reason there were no men available in the village in my birth year – or no significant men – by the time we reached marriageable age.

Of 12 girls who graduated fourth grade (last grade in the village) my year, two married abroad. Four married local boys our age. Three married ridiculously YOUNGER boys (after the order had been restored) and three never married.

The expected number for “never married” is more like one. And usually there aren’t “and two married abroad.” Heck, marrying across the country was rare enough back then.

And the point is, when what you’re dealing with is not the village but the majority of civilization where are women who don’t find suitable men going to find them?

Mind you, I think as with infertility, assisted reproduction will come to our rescue to an extent. Most women want children, and a lot will get “assistance.” But that’s not a universal solution, even biologically, let alone sociologically.

So, the elderly people in the village might be right. Marriages might stop to the significant point of there being too few to make a difference. And children will more or less stop shortly thereafter.

Before you pop the bubbly for the defeat of overpopulation, remember that civilization is made of people. It’s only those who believe in a finite pie who believe fewer people means more wealth. The rest of us know that people CREATE wealth. (Which is why we’re all more wealthy than in Shakespeare’s day. Do the finite pie people think that, as in movies, the majority of the population then were Lords and Ladies?)

A world without people is an impoverished, struggling world for the few that remain. Since this is not an Atwood novel, the problem is not whether wealthy Londoners will treat dolls as children, but how CAN they be wealthy when there are so few people to produce and so few to buy what’s produced, which reduces options on what is made and available and…

You get my point, right? Yeah. Because I do.

A world without children is an impoverished world. Robots might produce some things, but robots take energy and maintenance and—

So, what are we going to do about it? We can stop lying to the young. We can tell them the facts of life about economics and overpopulation. And we can admit that while women should be equal under the law and have equal options, they are “equal” to men, but very different creatures.

That will start to respect women for what they are and stop treating them like defective men.

And then we can find ways to teach our young that don’t treat boys like defective girls and allow those who can to rise.

We can also get rid of the bureaucrats and their tendency to treat everyone as cogs in interchangeable machines.

Okay, that last might be a dream – but it’s a beautiful one, and I’m going to take it with me into my writing today.

It’s A Free-Range-Oysterific Promo Post

*But first a word from your sponsor — me — if you’re low on Hoyt books, remember the novels are all on sale until Jan 7.  Most of them are 2.99, and Witchfinder is 3.99 a price which you should not pass up!  And now for the Oyster one.*

Welcome back, one and all! I hope your festivities were joyous, whatever their form. The Oyster Clan has had a hectic but pleasant holiday season this year. A fattening one too, as the Oyster Wife is a marvelous cook, and my sainted mother not a whit behind her. On less culinary topics, we’ve a lovely post-holiday book haul for you this week, including the remainder of Ms. Catelli’s stories that I had to leave off last week. We’ve some new releases from familiar names as well, and a few reminders of past releases you might have missed. On a side note, I just finished the first editing pass today on the latest from one of our beloved lurkers*, and I’m very excited to share it with you all soon. We truly have some wonderful writers frequenting here. As always, future entries can (and should!) be sent to my email. Happy reading!

Jason Dyck, AKA The Free Range Oyster

Mercenary Word Polisher, Code Monkey, and neither butcher, nor baker, nor candlestick-maker

* Well, he’s beloved by me, but then he writes awesome books and gives me money to read them. What’s not to love?

Raymund Eich

Take the Shilling

The Confederated Worlds Book 1

The Confederated Worlds implanted in Tomas’ brain the skills to make him a soldier. He had to learn for himself how to survive interstellar war.

Tomas Neumann sought escape from his backwater planet and overbearing mother, and a mentor to replace his long-dead father. “Taking the shilling”—enlisting in the Confederated Worlds military—promised both. But despite the soldier’s skills implanted in his brain, combat still threatened to destroy him, in body and in spirit. Grieving for lost comrades, demoralized by a spiral of atrocities, could Tomas learn what he needed to survive, before facing his war’s ultimate challenge?

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The Blank Slate

A man must stop a tyrant after giving him power over the human mind.

Clay Shieffer, neuroscience entrepreneur, tried to ignore the police state growing under President Everton. When a mysterious hacker provides evidence, Clay faces the truth behind Everton’s election and his own unwitting complicity in it. Running from Federal agents and the U.S. Army, Clay must forge a rag-tag alliance to overthrow the president.

But President Everton now wields a weapon more formidable than a hydrogen bomb: Clay’s latest neuroscience invention…

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C.J. Carella

The Armageddon Girl Collection

New Olympus Omnibus

Armageddon Girl: Gamer chick Christine Dark is transported to a world where people with superpowers have existed since the 1920s and have created a brave new world of larger-than-life heroes and villains. After joining forces with a faceless vigilante and other unusual heroes, Christine discovers she has the power to save that world – or destroy it.

Doomsday Duet: n the sequel to Armageddon Girl, Christine Dark and Face-Off must face their inner demons while they try to save Earth Alpha, a world where superheroes are real and danger is everywhere. Can a former gamer chick endowed with cosmic powers and a murderous vigilante deal with their differences – and their growing attraction for one another – and escape the shadowy forces hunting them?

Apocalypse Dance: Christine Dark and Mark Martinez face their greatest challege yet. Captured by the Dominion of the Ukraine, where they face torture and death, they must find a way to outsmart the Iron Tsar, escape, and deliver the world from utter destruction. Meanwhile, other heroes and villains forge alliances or battle each other as the fate of Earth Alpha, an alternate reality where superheroes are only too real, hangs in the balance.

John Van Stry

The Hammer Commission

Mark’s job seems pretty dull, working as an investigator into crimes committed against Church property, theft of holy objects, vandalism; nothing terribly exciting but he does get to travel the world.

That’s just the window dressing. Mark does work for the Church, but as an elite member of a thousand year old secret society that hunts down devils, demons, and other evils. His job is not just to find them, but to remove, dispel, or kill them: he’s on the front lines of the secret ongoing war between Heaven and Hell. However as wars go, it has been a fairly easy one for the last few decades, with nothing seriously evil having been summoned since the last world war.

But all of that is about to change, and the question for Mark may not be can he survive, but can he survive long enough.

James Young

Ride of the Late Rain

The Vergassy Chronicles Book 1

The destroyer Shigure is the oldest destroyer in the fleet… or so she seems. Equipped with a powerful, new device, the “Late Rain” is chosen for a special, dangerous project. With a young crew and modifications that makes her vessel not what she seems, Commander Leslie Hawkins presses into unknown space to examine structures detected by an Confederation Fleet survey vessel… and discovers that Mankind is not alone.

An Unproven Concept – Kraken Edition

The Vergassy Chronicles Book 2

The Confederation of Man has overseen the prosperous expansion of humanity for almost eight centuries, with the Confederation Fleet its shield against all enemies both internal and external. Despite its numerous successes, the Fleet is a shield that is becoming warped by the schism between its Carrier and Line factions. In the year 3050, Fleet Admiral Malinverni has overseen the design and commissioning of a vessel intended to merge the best of both factions: the battlecruiser Constitution. Intended as a harbinger of a better future, the Constitution is considered a flawed concept by all except her crew. If either Fleet faction has its way, neither the Constitution nor her captain, Mackenzie Bolan, will ever get a chance to prove their naysayers incorrect.

The starliner Titanic is considered to be the epitome of her type. With a handpicked crew, the Titanic is expected to see to passengers’ every need and whim, be it a rare artifact of opulence to stringent, discreet security. Unfortunately Captain Abraham Herrod, her master, is confronted with the growing likelihood that his vessel may soon be rendered obsolete by the ever pressing march of technology. Pushed by his superiors, Captain Herrod must decide just how far he’s willing to go in an attempt to prolong the “Golden Age of Starliners.”

With all the unremitting action, mecha, and carnage of the original novel, An Unproven Concept (Kraken Edition) also includes the short story “Ride of the Late Rain” for the first time. In addition, this special edition contains artwork from professional illustrators and an excerpt from the alternate history novel Acts of War.

Acts of War

The Usurper’s War Book 2

Somehow I doubt that this is quite how anyone expected Adolf Hitler’s death to turn out… –Squadron Leader Adam Haynes, No. 303 (Polish) Squadron

August 1942. London is in flames. Heinrich Himmler’s Germany stands triumphant in the West, its “Most Dangerous Enemy” forced to the peace table by a hailstorm of nerve gas and incendiaries. With Adolf Hitler avenged and portions of the Royal Navy seized as war prizes, Nazi Germany casts its baleful gaze across the Atlantic towards an increasingly isolationist United States. With no causus belli, President Roosevelt must convince his fellow Americans that it is better to deal with a triumphant Germany now than to curse their children with the problem of a united, fascist Europe later.

As Germany and Japan prepare to launch the next phase of the conflict, Fate forces normal men and women to make hard choices in hopes of securing a better future. For Adam Haynes, Londonfall means he must continue an odyssey that began in the skies over Spain. American naval officer Eric Cobb finds that neutrality is a far cry from safety. Finally, Rear Admiral Tamon Yamaguchi must prepare himself and his men to fight a Pacific War that is far different than the surprise attack Imperial Japan had once planned but never executed.

Acts of War is the first novel of the Usurper’s War series, which charts a very different World War II. As young men and women are forced to answer their nation’s call, the choices they make and risks they take will write a different song for the Greatest Generation.

Mary Catelli

Fever and Snow

A short story of a curse, a king, and a child.

A warlord of fire can lay curses of fever. A woman of snow can freeze a man to death. Pierre, knight of the king, is burning with fever from the curse of the warlord when he learns a possibility that might save him — and the kingdom. It turns on a child.

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Dragon Slayer

The dragon must die. It haunts the land and strikes with fire and death without warning.

Prince Baudouin knows the perils, and how other knights have perished. Still, he is confident that he can slay the dragon. All he has to do is forge through the burnt wasteland about its mountain, and slay it.

All.

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Eyes of the Sorceress

A short story of sorcery, war, and treachery.

Apollonia proudly casts a spell for the king, to aid him in his battles, a spell that creates enchanted viewing. But when things go awry, she finds it more useful than she had ever dreamed – if only she can persuade one and all to listen to her.

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Curses And Wonders

Omnibus

A collection of tales of wonder and magic.

A prince sets out to win his way to the dragon’s lair.

A woman fights a curse on her lands.

A man returns to his castle, bringing a magical sword, and worse things.

And more tales.

Includes “Dragon Slayer”, “The Book of Bone”, “Mermaids’ Song”, “Witch-Prince Ways”, “Sword and Shadow”, “Eyes of the Sorceress”, “Fever and Snow” — and “The Emperor’s Clothes”, which is not sold separately.

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When Luck Comes In

We were too young.  Who the heck lets 22 year olds get married anyway?

We were doing it for all the wrong reasons.  I was on the rebound and wanted to prove to myself and the world that someone still wanted me, really.  He was escaping a zombie relationship.

He had the name (except for two letters) of the boyfriend I’d imagined to myself at 14.  (Hey, I was a very lonely geek girl.) Our engagement announcement caused at least one old friend to tell me I’d finally gone around the bend and needed to be committed.

When he proposed I intended to say no.  I had a lot of experience saying no.  I’d done it 6 times since turning 18, and that was the serious proposals, not the ones that came out of nowhere and where the guy was a little strange and scary. And there was every reason to say no — every rational reason — No matter how much I loved the US from my year here, marrying him meant losing all the credentials I’d worked so long to get; it meant losing very good job prospects; it meant losing the emotional support of my family; it meant leaving the city I loved; it meant casting everything to venture and going to a strange land and becoming someone else.  (You can’t acculturate and remain the same.  It’s not possible.)

It was the worst possible time.  Saying yes meant that I would leave before I finished my degree, and I only had six months to go.

But I couldn’t say no.  The possibility wasn’t there.  The words wouldn’t come.  Something grabbed hold of me and showed me that while life would go on if I said no, it would be flat and curiously empty.

I said yes. I said yes and said goodbye to security and certainty, not knowing what I was getting instead.

Our best man and matron of honor thought we were out of our minds. Our friends expected me back within the year, to the point they made plans that included me for the following year. My mother tried to talk me out of marrying while buying my wedding shoes. His family decided we had slighted them by not sending them a paper invitation and refused to attend.  (Actually because we got married in a civil ceremony six months before, then waited for my green card and went over to get married with two weeks notice, we didn’t see the paper invitations until we were THERE.)

We were of different religions, wildly different backgrounds.  We had different tastes in music. He’d never read my favorite books. I’d never watched his favorite shows.  (Except Columbo.  We could bond over Columbo.)

Our first few years were rocky. I had grown up in the expectation of being a career woman. (Who in heck would marry me, anyway?) My entire effort and orientation was towards work.  I’d grown up in a noisy house, full of the comings and goings of an extended family.  I defined myself by my degree, by my high grades, by doing well at the one thing I was sure of.

I am not one to take risks.  Not that kind of risk.  I like security.

My career prospects and certification died when I moved to the States (though I did go back and finish my degree, the next summer, by examination, a risky way to do it.)  My teaching certificate meant nothing because the NEA only accepted degrees from a couple of foreign universities, both in the United Kingdom.  And the NEA controls the certification exams.  I could have passed them, but I didn’t have a code for “institution attended” so the test would be discarded unmarked.

As for translation, there were maybe two openings a year for a full time translator in the US.  Neither of them in North Carolina.  Neither of them for one of my languages.

He didn’t QUITE make enough for two. Certainly not in the style I’d been accustomed to.

And I knew no one but him.  Sometimes while he was at work, the long hours of a beginning programmer, I got so lonely I turned on the TV for background, just so I didn’t imagine all sorts of noises in the house.

I couldn’t cook — thank heavens for cookbooks — and I certainly didn’t know how to manage a household. A couple of times we ran out of money and food a week before the next paycheck, and survived through luck.  (His company had parties, and he brought the leftovers home.)

He had no idea how foreign I really was, let alone his being completely ignorant the trouble of living with an incipient, beginning writer, all mood swings and undirected inspiration.  Heck, he didn’t know I was a writer.  I didn’t either.  I thought I’d taken my muse into the woods and shot her dead at fourteen.  I was a sensible woman, studying for a sensible job.

It’s been twenty nine years.  We only managed to be “financially unworried” for about a year and a half of that time.  We’ve moved 8 times, once across the country to a place where neither of us knew anyone. We’ve sacrificed a lot for the sake of my so called writing career with no better excuse than that it makes me saner, compared to what I would be without it.

We’ve adopted too many strays, animal and human. We’ve given up any pretense to fashion. We buy our cars used, then drive them to the ground. We know every thrift store in a hundred mile radius.  We know most greasy spoons.  If there’s a two-for-one special, a free special or a discount around we probably know about it.  It’s how we save the money for the three days 100 miles away that we call “vacation” when we get them, once a year or so.

We’ve never been to the Bahamas.  We’ve never taken a cruise.  That European tour we meant to do, really soon, when we had the money?  It’s been 29 years and we still aren’t even close to having the money.  Ditto on visiting our friends in other places, around the world.

What have we done instead?  We’ve created a family.  We’ve laughed all the laughs.  We’ve read a million or two of books and talked them over, endlessly.  We’ve discussed EVERYTHING, starting with those early years when we’d stay up till all hours discussing — of all things — religion (not that his co-workers believed that’s why he had dark circles under his eyes.) We’ve tried cooking new stuff. Some of it even worked.  We turned looking for pieces of furniture into the equivalent of safaris, to find just the right thing at a price we could afford.  We’ve found museums, ogled dinosaur skeletons, walked in parks where we nicknamed the ducks A L’Orange and Peking.  We discovered obscure movies, and books and songs and restaurants, and friends.  We’ve watched documentaries on fascinating subjects.  We’ve learned to remove and install cabinets.  And paint walls.  And fix drains.  And do royalties for indie publishers. And write novels.  And make covers.  And… and … and…  — we’ve learned ALL the things.  And had fun doing it.

We’ve got lost then found our way.  (Yes, metaphorically, too.)  We’ve held hands though a million romantic walks.  We’ve raised two boys, now men. Nice men, I think. We’ve researched…  everything.  We made friends.  We’ve lost friends, to distance and to change, and unfortunately to death. We’ve talked.  We’ve been silent.  (Remember, my love, all those times we saw an older couple next to us, saying nothing, just holding hands across the table at a restaurant, and we felt so sad because they had nothing to say to each other anymore?  Now we’re that older couple, and our younger selves had no idea, did they?)

We’ve painted and scraped and built and created.  We’ve plotted together over restaurant tables, and the breakfast table, and the middle of the night, when I wake up and go “I’ve got it.  That poor character.  I have to kill him.  But then… what does that last scene look like?” and he turns on the light, and is ready with the smart questions and the probing thoughts.

Our life, had I been alone, would have been… okay.  But with him, it’s been… amazing. Surprising. Exciting. Interesting. Unimaginably happy, even through the tears that come — they always come don’t they? — when life hands us not-so-pleasant surprises.

I pulled a hundred lifetimes worth of luck on the day, twenty nine years ago, when he claimed me before G-d and man.  A million cosmic jackpots lit up. Three lotteries worth of good fortune were sucked in.  A billion universes died, unborn, drained of life, probability, luck.

For that one moment, that one decision, we sucked in the energy of a googleplex of possible futures, full of flying cars and trips to other galaxies.

And then we did it again, and again, for each of the boys. To have them at all, against biological probability — given that my biology is what it is also known as the fertility of a small rock, in the Sahara, at noon — and to have them be who they are: steady and solid and brilliant and, like our marriage, both very much ours and utterly, wildly, wonderfully unexpected.

Galaxies, universes and futures were well lost.  I’d sacrifice them again, without a second thought, without a glance over my shoulder, for even the merest chance at what we have had. I’ll ruthlessly sacrifice them again for the chance at another thirty, forty, fifty years. (I’m greedy you see.)

Even if we never hit the big time it will be okay.

I won the cosmic lottery, against all odds, when I married Dan.

Happy anniversary, my love.

The Longest Night

I don’t know when Solstice was this winter. I think it was around the 23rd.

However, I do know I woke up at my normal time this morning – 6:30 am, and thought it must be three. The darkness around the room was impenetrable, a combination of snow and being close enough to the winter Solstice as makes little difference.

I could say that I understood why our ancestors might think the sun would never come back, except I don’t think our ancestors were that stupid. It flatters us to think so, but no.

Even before we were “human” as we understand it, our ancestors had some form of symbolic art, which implies a form of communication. Yes, it’s possible that like one or two tribes in the Amazon, they had no language with concept of time, and no memory of events.

I beg to doubt it. In all but the most favorable of environments, the inability to communicate from generation to generation dangers and patterns and habits would have made it unlikely we’d survive.

To put it another way, that caveman had a grandfather whom he might very well have met. He knew in his grandfather’s day, in his father’s day, and in his own day, since we’ll presume he was older than one, the light diminished to this point in the year, and then it came back slowly.

That said, having woken and looked at the clock, and seen no glimmer of light, I can say there is something of awe to the feeling. The night has passed, but the darkness persists. And there is a very foolish inner thought that goes “what if it were never to come back again.”

One knows better but one still thinks it.

Of course, I’m not sure Mike Walsh knows better. At least, one wouldn’t think it from his post.

Oh, sure, it’s not as easy to read history – and real history at that, not the expurgated strangeness of school books – as it is to remember the sun does eventually come up. And historical epochs and movements take longer than that.

However, if he spent some time reading, oh, the bound periodicals of WWI or a biography of Woodrow Wilson – a real one – or of FDR or even LBJ, he would see what we’re seeing from Obama is really nothing new. Oh, sure, it’s a new way of being a little tyrant, but it’s not particularly menacing and scary, particularly because unlike the people dealing with his wanna-be dictator “ancestors”, most people in America don’t buy what he’s selling. And fewer and fewer believe it every day that passes.

Mr. Walsh, however, is upset that we haven’t had bloody revolution, yet.

(Makes gesture of slapping one hand with the back of another, in a way that her mom forbid her to do when she was six and imitated a fisherwoman.) I ask you – is this sane?

Let’s add to the history Mr. Walsh hasn’t read in any depth an history of the American revolution.

I keep running into this “it’s time for another revolution. Why isn’t anyone rising?”

Because the people don’t rise that easily. Not even in a nation that had its birth in blood and revolution. Arguably the people don’t even when a majority of them is starving. Revolutions are not usually – most of them – a thing of “the majority of the people rose up and took up arms.” Sorry. Hollywood has lied to you.

Revolutions are usually – and this is why most of them end in horrible – the work of a small, privileged, organized band of intellectuals and conspirators with some ability to raise some muscle. The French revolution was an uprising of the bourgeois. What it unleashed was the elements of any civilized society that are always hoping to do mischief: the psychopaths, the sociopaths and the radical losers. It put them in charge and tied back the forces of order. This is because the bourgeois of the time were taken up with the idea of the noble savage, partly because it upended a social order that kept them unfairly down.

The result was a beast that ate itself.

Look at any of the South American revolutions: the “revolution” usually was a small cardre, usually military, who seized power and made it clear the wobbly week knees should be on their side. That’s it.

Americans… are different, and made of different stuff. And our revolution was different. That thing in the declaration of independence about the outrages? Yeah, there was a sloooooowwww simmer. Even when some hot heads – the Sons of Liberty—started committing counter-outrages, all the right thinking Americans shunned and condemned them. Until things got so bad that they had to rise.

Even then, it is estimated only 3% actively fought for independence.

People like Mr. Walsh – and many of his commenters – need to take a powder and read some real history. If there were a revolution NOW it would be a revolution of the upper classes against us. They are the ones organized and in position to deploy force rapidly, with overwhelming force.

This is not out of the question. It’s not likely, mind, because their acquaintance with the real world is, mostly, through television and Marxist tracts. Which means the real world has as much resemblance with their imaginings as cheese has to chalk. Or maybe less. So the actions they initiate hoping to bring about the same sort of flare up as the French or Russian revolutions will only work in the imaginary France and Russia they’ve seen in movies and read about. “The oppressed population will rise up” – and pose fetchingly for the wide angle shot. (Now I think about they should talk to Mr. Walsh. I predict they would deal extremely.)

Their first attempt was OWS and yep, that is their vision of a starving population, may G-d have mercy on their souls. Now, like good internationalist Marxists, they have decided real oppressed peasants are those who can tan, and they’re doing their precious best to ignite a race war.

I’m not going to say they can’t do mischief. Oh, they can. For one they can costs the lives of countless young people who can tan slightly better than I can, because the young are foolish and don’t always know when they’re being gaslighted. And they can cost a million black-on-white and vice versa friendships and marriages. They can make our social interaction gritty for a generation. (More if some hothead rises up and kills Obama, which will give agitators the ability to paint all white people as hating all black people for generations. No? Look at Kennedy murdered by a communist and the right in this country still being blamed for it.)

But even if they managed – they won’t – to make all of the black population rise up (instead of mutter, write unconsidered editorials, act like asses, and ignite a Muslim convert to kill two innocent cops, what would it gain them?

Nothing. Except maybe giving the white supremacists the upper hand for a generation.

Guys, a minority is called so for a reason. And in the melting pot, a lot of people that call themselves black do so because they had a black great-grandparent. It won’t work. You’ll never get those riled enough to do more than make a speech on campus.

The ones the left can get riled up enough are those who have no sense of time or the future, those living in the urban hell holes the left has created.

They’ll rise up. And set fire to their own neighborhoods. And it will make for interesting footage, but G-d forbid their revolt goes out of their enclaves. Because they’ll be destroyed and suddenly white supremacists will have credence.

Armed revolution is even less likely to happen from our elites against us than us against our elites. Revolutions are great for books and movies. But REAL revolutions which bring about a change anyone wants are few, slow, and most of them usher in worse stuff.

I know to a certain type of mind the idea of us all setting to and fighting each other till the last remnants of the sixties ethos are six feet deep is a great fantasy. Heck, even to my mind, at my worst moments. BUT what is the rest of the world doing, while we’re all killing each other? Has anyone thought of that?

There is a reason Heinlein’s revolutions are in planets hard to reach by the rest of humanity. Our Civil War was ALMOST a war of partition among foreign powers. That we managed to bring it off without the continent being divided between France and England is another of those reasons to believe G-d has a soft spot for us.

Yes, Obama is intending to govern by memo and executive order. Yes, he can do a horrible lot of damage in that time.

But, like his attempt to make the black population (or college students – snort) rise up, the results will be more unintentionally damaging than intentionally. No, I’m not saying he’s not doing it on purpose. It’s just that to do the damage he’s trying to do, we’d need to be a world out of a Marxist cartoon, where those who have less are permanently SIMMERING at their oppression, rather than you know, watching TV and working and having love affairs and stuff.

Most of his intended damage will fail, but most of his orders will do other damage, like his wife’s precious lunch program is doing damage to school budgets and students’ health. His orders have already bound out economy up in so much red tape we’re practically immobile.

But most of the damage he’s doing is to himself and his own party, in the long run. Look, it used to be if you heard strangers talk, in store or street, they’d say things like “Well, Obama means well.”

There was never the swelling of love for the Obamas that the press portrayed. The popularity of the name Michelle FELL when he was elected. (Interestingly, despite all the articles about the love for the Clintons, the first first lady’s name to FALL in popularity during the president’s tenure, was Hilary. Which makes you wonder what the people REALLY felt.)

However people either gave him the benefit of the doubt or said so in public.

No more. It’s impossible to be out in public for long without hearing someone near you rant about the “socialists” who are destroying the country. Sometimes they rant TO you – a total stranger – and dare you to say anything against it. I imagine this is what my husband’s ancestors were doing around the seventeen sixties, “D*mn King George and d*mn his eyes, and I will not drink his health, and I don’t care who knows!”

Yeah, I know what the polls say. You believe them? You tell the truth to a stranger over the phone? Besides, you’ve seen what the main stream Izvestia does with more solid numbers: production, consumption, employment. And you think they’re HONEST about the polls? Oh, child. Go over there and talk to Mr. Walsh and the commies. You’ve seen too many Hollywood movies.

I’m told vast swaths of the population most hit by Obama’s actions, doctors, nurses, tax preparers, students, are becoming radicalized. I don’t know. I get this third hand at least. But they’re becoming radicalized in a “read drudge and reason and go to the range on the weekend, and I ain’t afraid of nobody.”

The more he piles on, the worse it will get. Already, as Glenn has pointed out once or a hundred times, Irish democracy is setting in. “Yes, I know what the regulations say, but we can’t live that way.”

Look – people have always done it. This is why caught between minimum wage and immigration laws they hired illegals (and why we have an illegal immigration problem) when the alternative was going under. Also, I remember in the late seventies (I was an exchange student) most handy men would offer you half off if cash. Irish democracy.

And then there’s ingenuity and thank the Lord American can do. Which has denied the tin-pot president a chance to make our energy costs “skyrocket.

Let me say it: things are bad. Things will get worse.

But by historical standards, Mr. Obama’s actions are nothing new. Oh, the means are different, partly because we pay closer attention to our presidents and because he hasn’t – malgre him – managed to create a world war under which to sweep what he’s doing as “special powers.”

They’re also rare, which is a good thing, as too many of these presidents a century and it would eventually destroy us.

But that’s the thing about America. The branches are always trying to usurp power to just one of them, and the executive is the worst for clever foolishness.

But Mr. Obama will be ignored, contravened, built around and built under. People who think he’s followed with absolute devotion are reading too many articles from Izvestia and get all their news from Tass.

This has happened before and will doubtless happen again.

But beneath the would-be dictator’s actions, there is the real action. The real action is that the tide of public feeling is turning harder and faster than ever and is a complete rejection of the statism of the twentieth century.

Will we win the next election? Who knows? There’s fraud and the GOP’s Boehner for suicide (Jeb fracking Bush? Are you kidding? Christie? Are you high?)

But possess your souls in patience. If we elect (for given values of “elect”) Hilary it will just complete our transformation into “H*ll no, to socialism we won’t go” nation.

And yes, it might come to revolution. But if it’s our revolution, like the first one it will be decades in the making and it will be the revolt of those who just want to be left alone to make a living. A very effective moment, but by its nature taking decades of simmering. Because “the people” don’t “spontaneously” do anything. And it’s most likely to come in reaction to a frontal attack from above, to be fair.

So let’s hope it doesn’t have to come. Let’s hope either in the next two years the socialists totally discredit themselves, or if not that in the four after. You see, that which nourishes destroys them.

They have been beaten everywhere else and the process of kicking them out of Europe is starting. (Though what replaces them will be statist, of course, it’s Europe.)
But paradoxically they’ve come here. They’ve come here and squatted in our colleges, our bureaucracy, our upper classes, in those places that are so well off no cold breath of reality intrudes.

Which is the only place they can survive.

Even now the artistic class and the upper class and the “radical chic” class are their refuges here.

But because those classes have clout, our people have come to believe “socialism has a point.”

Seeing them in action is not only destroying that illusion: the economic disasters they create are making people too uncomfortable to aspire to being chic.

I’m not saying it won’t get worse. It’s not yet solstice in politics, and it makes sense to wak in the dark and be fearful.

But this has happened before, and light came back. And light was brighter than before. And we found our balance again.

And we will this time.

Better than in the twentieth century, we know that statism doesn’t work, that the rule of the “technocrats” is a lie. Our technology, our lives, our beliefs don’t lend themselves to that dream of the past that these people are trying to impose. 1984 is an unimaginable ideation in the States, with our open spaces, our guns, our personal technology. Farenheit 451 is more believable, but I think mostly we’ve turned the corner where it’s no longer possible. Not with our personal communications technology.

Stop shivering in the dark and muttering of revolution.

Socialism had to come here to die, because like an infection hiding in a far-flung organ, it had come here to live. Ours is the honor and the glory of defeating it.

It will get darker before the light comes.

And when the great battle comes, it might not be the big clashing of weapons in a battleground attended by Valkyries. In fact, it likely won’t be. The great battle will be “oh, ignore that, or we can’t live.” It will be “F*ck king George and F*ck his edicts.” It will be Washington losing power because no one is doing what it wants us to do, and raving like King Lear – in vain.

It’s not yet midnight. It’s not yet solstice. It’s going to get very dark.

But we know history and we know the light will come again.

And we also know we’re blessed with 4th generation red diaper babies which, like the kings of old are so dumb they couldn’t put a crown on their own head if you gave them ten tries. More likely they’d either wedge it on their foot or eat it.

Be not afraid.

If it comes to revolution, it will, but the time is not anywhere near yet. And if we end up doing that it will be because they started it.

But if they start it, we’ll win. And if they don’t start it, we win, anyway.

Reality is on our side.

It will get dark, it will get scary.  It might get bloody and deadly.  But we operate in the real world, and they don’t.  That gives us an enormous advantage.

In the end, we win, they lose.

Mercy Mild? – CACS

Mercy Mild? -CACS

This all is in reaction to our esteemed hostess, who made the following two comments in a post titled Sheep Who Think They’re Wolves:

Unfortunately over the years this has morphed into the more sinned against than sinning villain, into the repressed/tortured villain. Into the person who lashes out because, like a tortured dog, they can’t help it.

and

The problem with this is that all of us, every one here, I’d bet, knows someone who had a horrible childhood, was beaten, was kept in the cold and rain, or whatever, and has never committed a single crime.

I grew up on older books and movies. They might give you reason for a person resorting to a life of crime, but the mothers would still weep for their children when they made a bad situation worse by that choice. When given an understanding of why the bad choice was made everyone was clear on one thing: You shouldn’t a ought a done it.

Anyway, for some reason, this started a flood of movie images to come to mind.

One of the standing themes in the Warner Brother’s 1930 Hollywood crime dramas was dividing choices. They didn’t excuse the criminal behavior, but sometimes they did suggest that even the bad boy or man was capable of redemption.
Trailer for Angels With Dirty Faces

Post war realism had the socio and psychopaths who were the scum of human existence — gleefully pushing mothers in wheel chairs down stairs.
Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo in Kiss of Death>

Their fellow crooks knew they were something particularly loathsome. We didn’t like them and we weren’t supposed to.

When you were given ample reasons for someone’s brokenness most of us understood they were the rabid animals of the human race in need of removal.
Jimmy Cagney as Cody Jarrett in White Heat‘Made it ma! Top of the world!’

No one in the audience doubted that it was a good thing for everyone when Liberty Valence was shot.

Although we were made aware that Bill Sikes had once been a child of the streets, because of what he had become, an entirely selfish person who took joy in being a perverter of the innocent, we were relieved when he inadvertently hung himself while in murderous pursuit of Oliver Twist.

The turn may have started with one of the first Hollywood films to be made in the style of the French New Wave directors. There was a certain romanticism in spite of the violence to Bonnie and Clyde. Still, it is clear they were crooks — as in bent, not right.

The Godfather portrayed the beginning of the mob as the transfer of a form of shadow government into an area where the local government did not take care of the people. By the end it was clear they were victimizing people which was not to be considered a good thing, even within the family. Why else would the goal be to get Michael out of the family business?

Yes, the Motion Picture Code, originally instituted in 1930, had a lot to do with films consistently portraying clear images of criminal activities being unacceptable and the consequences of living a life of crime shown as unpleasant. Post WWII the code’s hold on films began to break down. People still preferred to see films where there was an underlying morality. There was still the understanding that crime was wrong, harmful not just to the immediate victims, but also to those living in places with high crime rates. Films that, even if they portrayed criminals as charming, did so with care.

Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid left me conflicted, they are charming, but in the end they remain murderous robbers and they are ultimately hunted down for it. In 1973’s repairing of Newman and Redford The Sting, the (anti) heros of this film are charming con men. It largely worked because it was clear that the target was a thoroughly unpleasant Chicago bookie that the equally corrupt law enforcement would not touch. It did not dwell on the general crimes that had been committed by the con men. It emphasized that the criminals are taking down other criminals – a form of retributive justice where the proper authorities fail to do their job.

So when did our stories so completely change and what are the effects of this change? When did we start to present an argument that a law abiding citizen should even entertain feelings of guilt because they had something to be stolen? When did actions that tear down a civilization — the inexcusable — become excusable? I don’t quite know, because at some point I gave up on watching or reading most new stuff, particularly when I discovered it had such a narrative.

A nebulous ‘they’ has been teaching us that to have stuff somehow justifies it being taken by force, and not just in the Marxist’s sense by the collective. This ‘they’ includes the community activists who teach we should seek to understand and in that understanding thereby excuse criminal behavior, are destroying society in the name of helping. Activists insist that the police unfairly target minorities, particularly young minorities. The activists further insist that lack of parity in the numbers of convictions between various social groups can only be the result of racism.

Society has been pushed to where we are reluctant to hold criminals responsible for their actions, or send them to jail when convicted, in part because of the fear of accusations of racism. In doing so they we have been hurting the very social groups from which they come. It is the minorities from bad neighborhoods that are most often the victims of crime. Why isn’t creating a situation where that occurs considered racism?

So poor minorities are victimized by crime. Having been victimized they have what is now acceptable excuse to turn to crime – and we are led to believe they have no other choice. I suggest that to say that any group has no other choice but to turn to crime is in itself racism.

Who this does compassion and understanding help? Maybe the community activist, but certainly not the community.

What can we do? One thing is to write new stories to capture the imagination with a different picture of what could and should be. Human Wave stories.

Someone Else’s Words

christmas

*Oh, and if some of your relatives got Kindles for xmas, don’t forget all my Goldport Press novels and one of the collections are on sale! Also, go to MGC and read Kate’s post.  Warning, DO NOT DRINK ANYTHING while reading it, or your monitor will be Wassailed.*

It’s late, there’s two beasts to roast (not the boys) and I have spent the last two days cleaning and setting up (late minute travel and illness make the holidays so much fun) so I haven’t written in two days and I’m starting to get the shakes.  Besides, I have a character to kill.  So if I get the beasts in the oven soon enough (we’re mountain time, so it’s not 8 yet) I might get two/three hours to lay down words.

Which is why I’m going to leave you with someone else’s words.  In this case Giovanni Guareschi in a story called “Men of Goodwill.”

It involves the parish priest, Don Camilo and the communist mayor, Peppone, who are in the middle of a heated political time.

Typos my own.  It starts with “Christmas was approaching and it was high time to get hte figures of the Crib out of their drawer, so that they might be cleaned, touched up here and there and any stains carefully removed.  it was already late, but Don Camilo was still at work in the presbytery.  He heard a knocking at the window and on seeing that it was Peppone went to open the door.”

There’s the body of the story I can’t copy because plagiarism but they talk while Peppone is co-opted into paining the figures — and then —

“”I feel as if I were in Jail,” [Peppone] said gloomily.

“there is a always a way out of every jail in this world,” replied Don Camilo.  “Jails can only confine the body, and the body matters so little.”

The baby was now finished, and it seemed as if His clear, bright coloring shone in Peppone’s huge dark hands.  Peppone looked at Him and he seemed to feel in his palms the living warmth of that little body.  He forgot all about being in jail.

“My son is learning a poem for Christmas,” Peppone announced proudly.  “every evening I hear his mother teaching it to him before he goes to sleep.  He’s a wonder!”

“I know,” agreed Don Camilo.  “Look how beautifully he recited the poem for the bishop!”

Peppone stiffened.  “That was one of the most rascally things you ever did!” he exclaimed.  “I shall get even with you yet.”

“There is plenty of time for getting even, or for dying,” Don Camilo replied.

Then he took the figure of the ass and set it down close to the Madonna as she bent over Her Child.  “that is Peppone’s son, and that is Peppone’s wife, and this one is Peppone,” said Don Camilo, laying his finger on the figure of the ass.

“And this one is Don Camilo,” Exclaimed Peppone, seizing the figure of the ox and adding it to the group.

“Oh, well! Animals always understand one another,” said Don Camilo.

And though Peppone said nothing he was now perfectly happy, because he still felt int he palm of his hand the living warmth of the pink Baby; and for a time the two men sat in the dim light looking at the little group of figures on the table and listening to the silence that had settled over the little world of Don Camilo, and that silence no longer seemed ominous but instead full of peace.”

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and may we animals always understand each other and be at peace.

 

 

Women in History or Women’s History? – Alma Boykin

*ARGH.  If you’re looking for the writing post, it’s not here.  I posted it here by mistake.  Kindly go over to Mad Genius Club.*

Women in History or Women’s History? – Alma Boykin

 

They’re different. The End.

Ow! [Rubs spot where blog owner poked her.] Oh, you wanted details? Sorry, OK. Gotcha. This will gloss over a lot of details and academic points, OK? Right, onwards and odd-wards we go.

In the beginning there was no such thing as Women’s History. This is not to say that women never played a role in history, or that women were not important during that ever-lengthening period we call “history.” But the first people to write down accounts of past events focused on what they thought were the big, important things, such as wars, treaties, the rise and fall of dynasties and governments (often the same thing). Because men played the largest roles in such things because war required physical strength and stamina, and free time that women didn’t have, they got the main roles. A few people writing what we would call historical accounts, usually justifications for why their patron’s side was in the right, did include women, usually as bad examples or as models of patience and piety.

By the 19th century, more women appeared in the historical record, thanks to Elizabeth I of England and a few other politically important women that historians wrote about. But still the majority of mentions focused on queens and other women in their roles as wives and mothers. Politics, diplomacy, and war still made up the bulk of historians’ accounts. First, the available sources in archives were mostly government documents and diaries written by people in government, so researchers focused on what they had. Second, women still remained within the domestic sphere (in Europe) and who was interested in that? Women had always been in the domestic sphere, aside from a few very notable (and book-worthy) examples who left documents or were mentioned in documents.

By the mid 20th century people began writing about common folks, including women. But it wasn’t until the 1960s and 1970s that Women’s History really got going as a separate field. First, people started moving out of the traditional archives and digging into museum collections, family libraries, church chronicles, often reading between the lines to reconstruct domestic life mentioned in business and domestic ledgers and accounts, and finding a lot of material that had been overlooked (or unavailable) before. The first major works about women in history that did not center on reigning queens appeared. Some of the Marxist historians, mostly in England and Europe, began looking at women participating in economic activities, peasants and laborers’ wives. From this came both standard Marxist works about women as an economic class, and really fascinating accounts of women in business, equal partners in their merchant-husbands’ businesses. Historians in general also became less willing to take chroniclers at face value, and began wondering if perhaps Countess Elizabeth Bathory had not been the mass murdering monster of legend, or if Margarete Maultasch (Margaret of Tirol) had really been as sexually profligate as later writers claimed.

Alas, the pendulum continued to swing farther and farther from the center, until Women’s History appeared as a separate discipline with its own theoretical approaches and sub-sub-specialties. And with consequences for those women currently “doing” history. During a very forthright Q&A session in grad school, one professor flat-out told the five of us female-type grad students that when we went looking for academic jobs, we would be asked if we could teach Women’s History, no matter what our actual specialty was. And the only correct answer was “Yes.” If we’d focused elsewhere, the proper response was, “Yes, but I will need a semester/ few months to familiarize myself with the literature and major theories in the field.” Women teach Women’s History, and if we didn’t want to, tough. To which my (silent) responses were 1) “Well that stinks.” 2) “Thpppth!” 3) “I don’ wanna and you can’t make me!”

Don’t get misunderstand me: I enjoy reading history that includes women. The last written/next to be published Colplatschki novel, Peaks of Grace, came about in large part because of the spring 2014 issue of Medieval Warfare magazine, which focused on women in warfare, including a very nice essay about women war leaders and why they disappeared from tradition and history (probably because of the rise of the state and of large non-personal armies, to squish a lot of discussion into a tiny packet.) As you would expect, now that historians know what to look for, we’re finding out all sorts of interesting things about how women worked with, around, and against official law and custom to run businesses, manage properties, influence policy and other things, as well as raise children, cook, and pray (the [in]famous Kinder, Küche, und Kirche trinity of German post-Reformation tradition.)

Where things go astray is Women’s History as an academic subfield with a power-based conceptual framework. The idea that power relations between men and women, and the social construction of gender, should be a major focus (if not the major focus) through which to look at the history of women shifted the field in the 1970s and especially in the 1980s-90s. Ideas imported from Marxism, critical race theory, and the power structures between individuals and the state discussed by M. Foucault and others began shaping how Women’s Historians approached the field. That’s where I lost any interest in the topic. Historical theory leaves me sleepy, and once things like gender othering, gender and power relations, and related topics come up, I tend to head for the exit. At the extreme, women, like non-white, non-straight, non-western males, become a totally separate, isolated topic of study, acted on and oppressed by patriarchal society and losing their natural rights and position to a combination f the Scientific Revolution and the rise of the republic as a political system. This is where “intersectionalism” appears, and history becomes a long slog of abuse, oppression, silencing, and stories of women who abandoned the opportunity to uplift their sisters by siding with the patriarchy and embracing the male role (see Elizabeth I, the abbesses of Quedlinberg, St. Catherine of Sienna, et al.)

Ecofeminism wandered in about this time, the late 1970s, as Women’s Historians explained how the Scientific Revolution disenfranchised women’s knowledge of nature by enforcing a masculine-centric domination of knowledge via experimentation that separates humans from the environment and demoted women to passive, confined, domestic actors subordinated to their fathers and husbands, just as Nature was subordinated to science. I’m exaggerating, a little, but at its worst Women’s History can be that shrill, complicated, and tooth-pullingly tedious.

Meanwhile, women still participate in history. As mothers, daughters, and wives, as helpmeets and partners, businesswomen and domestic managers, women work with, around, despite, and for men. And vice versa. One of the best books I read in the past three years was about families in what is now Germany between 1300-1550, by an author who used the church, legal, business, and family records of the patricians of Nuremburg to explore how life changed and how the family shaped business and society. Although centered on men, because they left the records, Steven Ozment’s book provides a lot of information about women and children, and how precious those stern patriarchs thought their wives, daughters, and sisters were. Let’s face it, after eight children are still-born or die before age two, when you finally have a boy (or girl) live past age five, you are going to be ecstatic, dote on them, and wrap them in every protection you can think of. And you are going to worry about their mother and her health and well being after each of those other losses. And you will prize that wife when she assists you with business and manages the household. Laural Thatcher Ulrich’s A Midwife’s Tale is another good example of what, to me, how women’s history should be: history with lots of women that talks about how women lived, loved, celebrated, mourned, and made their way in the world. Not history of women as a class of and for themselves, oppressed by everyone and everything and bemoaning the lost glorious ages of legal and social and sexual equality and even superiority (that probably never was).

The Light and The Darkness

As you know I’m working really hard to finish Through Fire, interrupted by some health stuff which is getting me down. So the world’s most awesome husband took me away from the keyboard yesterday night and on a date to the Denver zoo, to see the Christmas lights.

It was just starting to snow, as we approached and we were afraid we’d get frozen but it was surprisingly mild the entire time we were there, and the lights were awesome.

We’d gone once with the kids, when they were little, and the lights were mostly stationary, but now there are a number of moving light shows, and also stuff like oriental lanterns in the elephant area.

Because we went relatively late (had an appointment that let out at six thirty, so no choice there) and because it was starting to get nippy, we weren’t as mobbed with kids as you’d expect. At the end, we might have turned around and gone again, except there was a light drizzle of snow falling. So we adjourned to Pete’s kitchen, where we sat at the window, watching the snow paint patterns in the window and the wind shake the lights outside, while we sat inside all snuggly and warm.

Did I have a point to this, other than bragging about my husband?

When I was a very little girl, I thought the holidays were magical. You see, they used to outline the little medieval church tower in white lights. In a village where streetlights were few and far between and most of the houses not only had only one lightbulb per room (usually naked, in the middle of the room and like 40 watts, no matter how large the room,) but everyone also kept an oil lamp or candles, because the light was off as much as it was on, the lights outlining the tower in the dark (glimpsed from my window late at night) was a miracle.

Fireworks were miracles too, particularly the more complex ones that made pictures.

And of course, festas in summer were a thing of beauty, because of all the light and sound. In retrospect, these were rather pokey ambulatory festivals, mostly booths selling crafts (only these weren’t cool crafts, just most of the stuff around there and then was hand made.) And there were maybe three rides, one of them the obligatory tethered airplanes and the other probably bumper cars, leaving the third to either a roller coaster or a carousel.

Why am I going on about this, just now?

Because in the middle of that amazing light show it occurred to me “as bad as things are…” As in, back then, my little self would have thought that lighted zoo a wonderland out of dreams.

My kids, of course, take it for granted.

But there is a difference between taking it for granted and imagining that, somehow, strangely, the past, with its privations, the past without any of these marvels, was a wonderland.

I’m not going to say my childhood was awful. In many ways, it was a magical place. But it was a magical place despite the privations and the lack of entertainment.

I was blessed with a father who would walk with me through the local fields and woods and not only show me the local fauna and flora (and tell me stories about it) but also read the inscriptions in Roman ruins we stumbled upon. I had a father who in the summer would walk me to the nearest pond to see the fireflies over it, and who taught me to make a pan flute out of reeds. (And who would also take me on an expedition to feed and observe the ants in a massive anthill down by the fields. And always, always, be ready with history or legend, or poem to illustrate something. And I was blessed with a grandmother (dad’s mom) who made up stories for me involving an alternate of the village populated with shape shifters and magical beings.

Add to that a brother and a cousin who were willing to let me tag along with them on their expeditions and who tolerated my thievery of their books, and it was a very good childhood.

What it was lacking was more on the material front: non-scratchy clothes, heated rooms (and bathrooms!) in winter, medicine that wouldn’t be available for decades and – well… entertainment.

Look, I’m a very boring sort of person. Even now, my favorite entertainment is reading. Surrounded by games and movies, I choose books.

But back then even the books were limited. Not only couldn’t we afford them that often, but fewer were printed than here, so the choice was far more limited.

Of course we read everything – I read history and mystery and romance (and when my brother found it SF) because I read everything everyone in the family bought.

Even the newspapers’ serializations of old books ended up clipped out and kept to re-read later.

I don’t think any kid born here and now understands that re-reading wasn’t a choice. You re-read because you simply couldn’t find enough to read.

That today I can research anything – I was just looking up hot buttered rum (shut up) – by typing a sentence on the net, would be enough to make me think this was paradise when I was a kid.

And this is why all the programs of the progressives have been outstripped. They had plans and ideas to bring about equality in 1930s terms. One stack-a-prole apartment, one ration of chicken a week, two suits of clothing a year: EQUALITY.

Instead, we have people living wildly divergent lives in the way they want to live them, and all these people can do is bleat about class and equality.

How do you determine class when, even if I were twice as rich, my life wouldn’t be much different day to day? I’d still live in a house that’s warmed in winter and cooled in summer; I’d still have light and music for the asking (I remember my brother’s transistor radio being a seven day wonder in the village.) I’d still have a computer and be able to read a vast amount of things for free. (And write with minimal effort.)

How do you determine equality when how happy and contented people are has a lot to do with what they choose to do with this immense common patrimony of science and abundance we have?

How can you even insist on equality?

In the end all their bleating is revealed for what it is: a plea for power. They want to control who gets the light, and who is shunted off into the dark.

Well, they’re going to have to think again.

We won’t go quietly into that good night. We’ll stay here and bask in moving pictures made of light.

They like the past so well, they can start their own self-restricted communities. We can always use more Amish at least for the cheese.

As for me, and my house, we’re going to go see Interstellar again tomorrow. We might even go do it in Imax. Because we can.