Brian's Winter Quotes

Pain was as much a part of this life as the summer and the winter and the rain, and there was no greater asshole than the one who believed you can cure it.

even after all these winters, I see you sitting there, perched at the edge of sunlight, feeling like the invitation of spring

Do what you can as you can. Trouble, problems, will come no matter what you do , and you must respond as they come.

Initially, he worried that he might be going crazy. But then he decided if you felt you were crazy you weren't really crazy because he had heard somewhere that crazy people didn't know they were insane.

This used to be a mean monster until he got sick one winter with the flu & stayed in bed & watched too much Little House on the Prairie & now the littlest thing & he starts to cry.

He had learned this: Nothing that lived, nothing that walked or crawled or flew or swam or slithered or oozed—nothing, not one thing on God’s earth wanted to die. No matter what people thought or said about chickens or fish or cattle—they all wanted to live.

Everyone has that one line they swear they'll never cross, the one thing they say they'll never do. Not something serious like I'll never kill anyone or I'll never invade Russia in the winter. Usually, it's something less earth-shattering. I'll never cheat on her. I'll never work at a job I hate. I'll never give up on my dreams. We draw the line. Maybe we even believe it. That's why it's so hard when we break that promise we make to ourselves. Sage Hendricks was my line.

All I need is some barbecue sauce,” he said aloud, grease dripping down his chin. “And a Coke . . .” When

I notice he doesn't have his meteorite bag and see out the window it's probably going to pour any minute, but wee need to et out of here. Immediately. "We're going to search for meteorites," I say, like that's what most people do on winter mornings. I never really told either of them too much about last summer, which is reflected in both of their flummoxed faces. But who freaking cares? Not us. In a flash, we're through the door, across the street and into the woods, running for no reason and laughing for no reason and totally out of breath and out of our minds when Brian catches me by my shirt, whips me around, and with one strong hand flat against my chest, he pushes me against a tree and kisses me so hard I go blind.

All I need is some barbecue sauce,” he said aloud, grease dripping down his chin. “And a Coke . . .

The hatchet. The key to it all. Nothing without the hatchet. Just that would take all his thanks. And

he

hundred-mile

.....it was like having a pet nuclear device.

The hatchet. The key to it all. Nothing without the hatchet. Just that would take all his thanks.

Just as bad things could snowball, Brian found that good things could come fast as well.

The light bounced off the water and shimmered against the buildings on the other side of the river. Joseph walked, listening to the sound of what was beneath his feet, and soon he noticed he was alone. He turned and saw Frankie had stopped beside Albert and filled her jacket pockets. Looking at the two of them, Joseph wondered for a moment if Leo had ever come down here to go mudlarking, his red hair shining in the sun. the vision seemed so vivid, but then Joseph remembered that Leo wasn't real, and the boy dissolved like smoke into the winter sky.

Inevitable pickup trucks complete with full gun racks, chainsaws, fishing poles, and big, sneering dogs in the back, line the streets and parking lots. Meek murmur of autumn skies, Ford and Chevy outfits to roll through town, as people get ready for a long, gray, foggy winter, big, four-wheel-drive pickups with snow blades attached, the box loaded down, with a high stack of cordwood topped by a huge elk carcass, to go disheartened in the midst of wretched weather, cold, raw, continually snowing.

It stopped him, the idea of giving thanks. At first his mind just stopped and he thought, for what? For the plane crash, for being here? I should thank somebody for that? Then a small voice, almost a whisper, came into his mind and all it said was: It could have been worse; you could have been down in the plane with the pilot. And

He moved around, did his toilet—drawing a picture in the snow when he did—and was amazed how well the boots worked, kept his feet warm and comfortable.

Do what you can as you can. Trouble, problems, will come no matter what you do, and you must respond as they come.

Colder than the winter wind howling its dirge through the Southwest Forest. Colder than the snow blanketing tree, rock and earth in its silent shroud. Colder than ice that lay on water and hung in shards from branches and bushes. Colder than these was the smile of Ferahgo the Assassin!

Autumn is a fleeting season, melancholy by nature. Its ghostly beauty cultivates a fertile atmosphere for memories that wrote their history on a tablet of fallen leaves - I recall them with the greatest clarity... Whatever else autumn may be, it is the prophet of winter. Winter lasts forever.

Brian Wilson went to bed for three years. Jean-Michel Basquiat would spend all day in bed. Monica Ali, Charles Bukowski, Marcel Proust, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Tracey Emin, Emily Dickinson, Edith Sitwell, Frida Kahlo, William Wordsworth, René Descartes, Mark Twain, Henri Matisse, Kathy Acker, Derek Jarman and Patti Smith all worked or work from bed and they’re productive people. (Am I protesting too much?) Humans take to their beds for all sorts of reasons: because they’re overwhelmed by life, need to rest, think, recover from illness and trauma, because they’re cold, lonely, scared, depressed – sometimes I lie in bed for weeks with a puddle of depression in my sternum – to work, even to protest (Emily Dickinson, John and Yoko). Polar bears spend six months of the year sleeping, dormice too. Half their lives are spent asleep, no one calls them lazy. There’s a region in the South of France, near the Alps, where whole villages used to sleep through the seven months of winter – I might be descended from them. And in 1900, it was recorded that peasants from Pskov in northwest Russia would fall into a deep winter sleep called lotska for half the year: ‘for six whole months out of the twelve to be in the state of Nirvana longed for by Eastern sages, free from the stress of life, from the need to labour, from the multitudinous burdens, anxieties, and vexations of existence’.‡ Even when I’m well I like to lie in bed and think. It’s as if

Mossflower lay deep in the grip of midwinter beneath a sky of leaden gray that showed tinges of scarlet and orange on the horizon. A cold mantle of snow draped the landscape, covering the flatlands to the west. Snow was everywhere, filling ditches, drifting high against hedgerows, making paths invisible, smoothing the contours of earth in its white embrace. The gaunt, leafless ceiling of Mossflower Wood was penetrated by constant snowfall, which carpeted the sprawling woodland floor, building canopies on evergreen shrubs and bushes. Winter had muted the earth; the muffled stillness was broken only by a traveler’s paws.

What he did instead was clean his shelter. He had been sleeping on the foam pad that had come with the survival pack and he straightened everything up and hung his bag out in the sun to air-dry and then used the hatchet to cut the ends of new evergreen boughs and laid them like a carpet in the shelter. As soon as he brought the boughs inside and the heat from the fire warmed them they gave off the most wonderful smell, filled the whole shelter with the odor of spring, and he brought the bag back inside and spread the pad and bag and felt as if he were in a new home. The berries boiled first and he added snow water to them and kept them boiling until he had a kind of mush in the pan. By that time the meat had cooked and he set it off to the side and tasted the berry

List any ten speeds for time: summer morning, winter dusk, boring lecture, first time making love with woman you actually really love, drunkenness, moment of death, car crash, heart attack, any and all meetings of more than seven people, childhood, and not one happens at the same speed as the others, some are blindingly fast and over instantly and others drone and moan on until you contemplate removing your spleen with a pepper shaker just for entertainment’s sake.

Let me wander here forever, through the glades where once I played, Long ago in carefree seasons, mid the noontide sun and shade. I will see again before me, all those smiling friends I knew, gone alas to memory's keeping, faithful comrades good and true. Oh, those days of youth and splendour, when we dreamed of glorious war, vows were made to keep forever, and return back here once more. Then the clouds began to gather, winter came, we marched away, singing songs of love and valour, off we went into the fray. Comes a warrior returning, to autumn's gold-clad trees, where the leaves do fall like teardrops, on the gently sighing breeze. Casting sword and shield aside now, I stand weary and forlorn, In the silence of the woodlands, I will rest until the dawn. Let me sleep and dream forever, of the golden days of yore, and those friends who marched off with me, who'll return alas no more.

scents gossip of previous winters.

On Mars, Venus, Mercury, and the moons of Jupiter, human beings were more free—free to found their own petty nations and ruin their own lives their own way. But

Evil is loose in the world. I have to go.” “I don’t believe in evil. Mistakes, yes. Not evil.” “Then perhaps you are afraid to believe it exists. It exists wherever men are. It

Spring would only be half as beautiful if winter weren’t before,

Violence was regarded as an acceptable solution to many problems which would never have originated had violence not been in the air in the first place.

I've got a pet skunk who is a terrorist.

His mother stared into his eyes and paused for a moment. She stood completely still, as if she'd transformed into a statue. Joseph found himself thinking again about the end of The Winter's Tale and the queen's return to life. He still felt angry that the young prince Mamillius hadn't been saved, too, and he thought about Marcus, but as he looked up at his mother's face, a new thought came to him. Maybe the play wasn't about miracles. No, maybe it was about the passage of time, and the need for patience, and the ability to forgive. Maybe Shakespeare was saying that even in a world where miracles can happen, there's still going to pain, and lost, and regret. Because sometimes people die and you can't bring them back. That's what life is Joseph realized, miracles and sadness, side by side.

These things matter to me, Daniel, says the man with six days to live. They are sitting on the porch in the last light. These things matter to me, son. The way the hawks huddle their shoulders angrily against hissing snow. Wrens whirring in the bare bones of bushes in winter. The way swallows and swifts veer and whirl and swim and slice and carve and curve and swerve. The way that frozen dew outlines every blade of grass. Salmonberries thimbleberries cloudberries snowberries elderberries salalberries gooseberries. My children learning to read. My wife's voice velvet in my ear at night in the dark under the covers. Her hair in my nose as we slept curled like spoons. The sinuous pace of rivers and minks and cats. Fresh bread with too much butter. My children's hands when they cup my face in their hands. Toys. Exuberance. Mowing the lawn. Tiny wrenches and screwdrivers. Tears of sorrow, which are the salt sea of the heart. Sleep in every form from doze to bone-weary. Pay stubs. Trains. The shivering ache of a saxophone and the yearning of a soprano. Folding laundry hot from the dryer. A spotless kitchen floor. The sound of bagpipes. The way horses smell in spring. Red wines. Furnaces. Stone walls. Sweat. Postcards on which the sender has written so much that he or she can barely squeeze in the signature. Opera on the radio. Bathrobes, back rubs. Potatoes. Mink oil on boots. The bands at wedding receptions. Box-elder bugs. The postman's grin. Linen table napkins. Tent flaps. The green sifting powdery snow of cedar pollen on my porch every year. Raccoons. The way a heron labors through the sky with such a vast elderly dignity. The cheerful ears of dogs. Smoked fish and the smokehouses where fish are smoked. The way barbers sweep up circles of hair after a haircut. Handkerchiefs. Poems read aloud by poets. Cigar-scissors. Book marginalia written with the lightest possible pencil as if the reader is whispering to the writer. People who keep dead languages alive. Fresh-mown lawns. First-basemen's mitts. Dish-racks. My wife's breasts. Lumber. Newspapers folded under arms. Hats. The way my children smelled after their baths when they were little. Sneakers. The way my father's face shone right after he shaved. Pants that fit. Soap half gone. Weeds forcing their way through sidewalks. Worms. The sound of ice shaken in drinks. Nutcrackers. Boxing matches. Diapers. Rain in every form from mist to sluice. The sound of my daughters typing their papers for school. My wife's eyes, as blue and green and gray as the sea. The sea, as blue and green and gray as her eyes. Her eyes. Her.

All Summer in a Day” by Ray Bradbury Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo Big Nate series by Lincoln Peirce The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Book Thief  by Markus Zusak Brian’s Hunt by Gary Paulsen Brian’s Winter by Gary Paulsen Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis The Call of the Wild by Jack London The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis Diary of a Wimpy Kid series by Jeff Kinney Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury The Giver by Lois Lowry Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling Hatchet by Gary Paulsen The High King (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien Holes by Louis Sachar The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins I Am LeBron James by Grace Norwich I Am Stephen Curry by Jon Fishman Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell Johnny Tremain by Esther Hoskins Forbes Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson LeBron’s Dream Team: How Five Friends Made History by LeBron James and Buzz Bissinger The Lightning Thief  (Percy Jackson and the Olympians) by Rick Riordan A Long Walk to Water by Linda Sue Park The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle Number the Stars by Lois Lowry The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton The River by Gary Paulsen The Sailor Dog by Margaret Wise Brown Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor “A Sound of Thunder” by Ray Bradbury Star Wars Expanded Universe novels (written by many authors) Star Wars series (written by many authors) The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann D. Wyss Tales from a Not-So-Graceful Ice Princess (Dork Diaries) by Rachel Renée Russell Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt Under the Blood-Red Sun by Graham Salisbury The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

I’m a migrant worker picking frozen peas, and a clodhopper hiding behind a white sheet. I’m a shootout at Ruby Ridge, and a freefall of flames. I am closed for the winter, and crawling in my playpen. I am cold, and quick chatter and beautiful smiles. I am a man missing a limb, and lettuce and tomatoes. I am a palace, and fresh milk and goat cheese. I’m the great emptiness among Cubans, and a job that requires the auditing of truth and lies. I’m a confounding calm that will shatter fear and complacency, and a town full of self-defined renegades and recluses. I’m a public execution, and a lanky husband waiting by the checkout.

In 2008, some of the scientists who modeled the original 1983 nuclear winter scenario investigated the likely result of a theoretical regional nuclear war between India and Pakistan, a war they postulated to involve only 100 Hiroshima-scale nuclear weapons, yielding a total of only 1.5 megatons—no more than the yield of some single warheads in the U.S. and Russian arsenals. They were shocked to discover that because such an exchange would inevitably be targeted on cities filled with combustible materials, the resulting firestorms would inject massive volumes of black smoke into the upper atmosphere which would spread around the world, cooling the earth long enough and sufficiently to produce worldwide agricultural collapse. Twenty million prompt deaths from blast, fire, and radiation, Alan Robock and Owen Brian Toon projected, and another billion deaths in the months that followed from mass starvation—from a mere 1.5-megaton regional nuclear war.

One long night that winter, lying on his hard bunk in the endless darkness, body failing him, London made a decision, a resolution even. No more jute mills or coal yards. No more pickle factories or dollar-a-day jobs. No more slaving for another man’s capital. He would do what he had long dreamed of. He would set his own way. London pulled out a pencil and, standing awkwardly on his weakened legs, wrote a message on the icy log next to his bed: “Jack London, Miner, author, Jan 27, 1898.” From then on, he was determined to be a writer. He had staked his claim.

He took my hand and stopped walking then shook his head when I looked up at him. “Look, I didn’t want to do this on your birthday, but this isn’t working out.” I raised an eyebrow at him. No shit, Sherlock. I waited for him to continue. “This whole arrangement with you and Lane, it’s weird. You’re not kids anymore. I can put up with your choice of livelihood. Hell, I can even get used to the fact that you refuse to do yourself up in the morning before I wake up when you spend the night.” He paused at my frown. “But I won’t play second place man in a woman’s life. If you want to have any chance with me, you’re going to have to leave him. Move out; get your own place. Just quit having him around all the time.” “If I want to have a chance with you?” Wow, this man was a piece of work. I gazed over to Lane who didn’t look too happy as he watched what was happening. I turned back to Brian. “But who would get custody of Iggy? We can’t do that to him. It would break his fragile little heart! And joint custody won’t work. We can’t just move an iguana around in the middle of winter. Plus, have you tried moving that tank? It’s huge…” I said the last of my speech to his back as he simply turned and walked away. “Jackass.

Here are the four keys to successful commitments: 1. Strong desire: In order to fully commit to something, you need a clear and personally compelling reason. Without a strong desire you will struggle when the implementation gets difficult, but with a compelling desire, seemingly insurmountable obstacles are seen as challenges to be met. The desired end result needs to be meaningful enough to get you through the hard times and keep you on track. 2. Keystone actions: Once you have an intense desire to accomplish something, you then need to identify the core actions that will produce the result you’re after. In today’s world, many of us have become spectators rather than participants. We must remember that it’s what we do that counts. In most endeavors there are often many activities that help you accomplish your goal. However there are usually a few core activities that account for the majority of the results, and in some cases there are only one or two keystone actions that ultimately produce the result. It is critical that you identify these keystones and focus on them. 3. Count the costs: Commitments require sacrifice. In any effort there are benefits and costs. Too often we claim to commit to something without considering the costs, the hardships that will have to be overcome to accomplish your desire. Costs can include time, money, risk, uncertainty, loss of comfort, and so on. Identifying the costs before you commit allows you to consciously choose whether you are willing to pay the price of your commitment. When you face any of these costs, it is extremely helpful to recognize that you anticipated them and decided that reaching your goal was worth it. 4. Act on commitments, not feelings: There will be times when you won’t feel like doing the critical activities. We’ve all been there. Getting out of bed at 5:30 a.m. to jog in the winter cold can be daunting, especially when you’re in a toasty warm bed. It is during these times that you will need to learn to act on your commitments instead of your feelings. If you don’t, you will never build any momentum and will get stuck continually restarting or, as is so often the case, giving up. Learning to do the things you need to do, regardless of how you feel, is a core discipline for success.

Totally Biased List of Tookie’s Favorite Books Ghost-Managing Book List The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead Asleep, by Banana Yoshimoto The Hatak Witches, by Devon A. Mihesuah Beloved, by Toni Morrison The Through, by A. Rafael Johnson Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders Savage Conversations, by LeAnne Howe The Regeneration Trilogy, by Pat Barker Exit Ghost, by Philip Roth Songs for Discharming, by Denise Sweet Hiroshima Bugi: Atomu 57, by Gerald Vizenor Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

Prayer for the Dads Enduring the Epic Winter Rains Along the Muddy Sidelines at Pee Wee Soccer Games Brothers, I have stood where you stand, in ankle-deep mud, trying not to call instructions and warnings to my child, trying to restrict myself to supportive remarks and not roars of fury at the gangly mute teenage referee who totally missed an assault upon my beloved progeny; and I have also shuffled from leg to leg for an entire hour in an effort to stay warm; and I have also realized I was supposed to bring snacks at halftime five minutes before halftime, and dashed to the store for disgusting liquids in colors unlike any natural color issued from the Creator; and I too have pretended not to care about the score, or about my child’s athletic performance, but said cheery nonsense about how I did not care; and I too have resisted the urge to bring whiskey to the game in a thermos, and so battle the incredible slicing wet winds; and I too have resisted the urge to bring the newspaper or a magazine and at least get some reading done during the long periods of languor as small knots of children surround the ball like wolves around a deer and happily kick each other in the shins; and I too have carefully not said a word when my child and six mud-soaked teammates cram into my car and bang out their cleats on my pristine car floor and leave streaks of mud and disgusting plastic juice on the windows; and I too know that this cold wet hour is a great hour, for you are with your child, and your child is happy, and the Coach of all things gave you that child, and soon enough you will be like me, the father of teenagers who no longer stands along the sidelines laughing with the other dads in the rain. Be there now, brothers, and know how great the gift; for everything has its season, and the world spins ever faster. And so: amen.

One find in Western Australia turned up zircon crystals dated to 4.4 billion years ago, just a couple of hundred million years after the earth and the solar system formed. By analyzing their detailed composition, researchers have suggested that ancient conditions may have been far more agreeable than previously thought. Early earth may have been a relatively calm water world, with small landmasses dotting a surface mostly covered by ocean.15 That’s not to say that earth’s history didn’t have its moments of flaming drama. Roughly fifty to one hundred million years after its birth, earth likely collided with a Mars-sized planet called Theia, which would have vaporized the earth’s crust, obliterated Theia, and blown a cloud of dust and gas thousands of kilometers into space. In time, that cloud would have clumped up gravitationally to form the moon, one of the larger planetary satellites in the solar system and a nightly reminder of that violent encounter. Another reminder is provided by the seasons. We experience hot summers and cold winters because earth’s tilted axis affects the angle of incoming sunlight, with summer being a period of direct rays and winter being a period of oblique ones. The smashup with Theia is the likely cause of earth’s cant. And though less sensational than a planetary collision, both the earth and the moon endured periods of significant pummelings by smaller meteors. The moon’s lack of eroding winds and its static crust have preserved the scars but earth’s thrashing, less visible now, was just as severe. Some early impacts may have partially or even fully vaporized all water on earth’s surface. Despite that, the zircon archives provide evidence that within a few hundred million years of its formation, earth may have cooled sufficiently for atmospheric steam to rain down, fill the oceans, and yield a terrain not all that dissimilar from the earth we now know. At least, that’s one conclusion reached by reading the crystals.

We knew there would be a fire before we blew them. There wasn’t much helping it. The wind caught the flames right away and whipped the wheat field into a frenzy, blowing toward the primeval mud-walled village a couple of acres away. There was an irrigation ditch running in between, so it probably wouldn’t spread. Probably. There was nothing we could do, so we left. I never heard if our fire spread. Trey’s certainly did. Two weeks later, when he blew a cordless-telephone/mortar combo on the side of a different road far west of Kirkuk, a spark snared the nearby wheat field, almost ripe with the winter crop. His fire didn’t burn down the village, but it did destroy the entire harvest.

The oaks were a mellow orange, the maples a blazing red, the birches a creamy yellow, and then ippy air between them was suffused with the golden light of late afternoon. It bit gently, with a promise of winter and the icy teeth to come.

I lift his chin and gaze into his face, so darkly beautiful, and I lower my mouth to his without a word... Sometimes, there is no need for words. It is not a romantic kiss, but a reassuring one. "You need to let me go, Brian..." "And you, I, Matthias," he says sadly, as I lift my head, and gaze into the eyes of Timothy, my husband, who has silently approached us on foot, sword drawn. As I have just stated, sometimes words are unnecessary. Timothy looks as if the weight of the entire world has fallen upon him. His eyes are wide and solemn, his face, gaunt. One solitary tear trickles down his cheek. His wings drag on the ground, the feathers filthy and dark with mud. "Matthias, how could you?!" he whispers huskily. "You...of all people...betray me, with a...with a kiss?" I open my mouth to protest, but no words emerge. Indeed, what can I say?

Obadiah and I were married on that lanai," I tell him "--the night before Timothy was resurrected. I thought that I'd be with him forever…I thought that I was his, and that he was mine...I thought, I-I-I thought--" "Shhhhhh," Arik reassures me. "I understand now, I do…Benediction made me feel much the same way, Ja? I felt that there was no life without him…but there is, Brian...don't you see? I forgave Beni' everything, even when he hurt me; even when he killed me. Well, not this time. Never again. It does not mean that I don't love him--I will always love him--but I love myself, too. At last, I love me. That's what I have to show you as your brother and your friend, Dear.

But what about my house in Heaven?" I asked, my tone soft and piteous. "Whatever would I do there? It's filled with my memories of Obadiah. We built it together with our own hands. We laid the marble and carved the statues. I sewed the curtains, the bedclothes and the tapestries. I even created the flowers and the landscaping which surrounded our grand mansion beside the sea…" I begin to sob, and Arik pulls me close. I rest my cheek against his chest and close my eyes. "Wh-When we first got to Heaven--me an' Obadiah--we were all each other had. Everyone else was still down on earth, mournin' us. Our physical bodies had been destroyed by Hana's guillotines. Timothy knew that his own death was comin', and he had specifically asked for the two of us to go and make a place for him in Heaven. When we arrived, Heaven was beautiful, but empty. I was suddenly able to see again, and the colors…my heart just danced, y'know? I began to create right away: houses, flowers, animals…it was glorious. I was never happier. It filled up my heart and pushed out the anguish an' guilt that I felt about leavin' all of you behind on earth to suffer. Obadiah and I were filled with so much joy then. I had never seen him so happy. An' the horses, Arik…the horses were his…beautiful, winged creatures, completely dedicated to him, but forever free...he would never have dreamed of restraining them. We would sit on the lanai and watch them...these beautiful creatures, who had nothing in their hearts but love…" I snuggle closer as he presses my head against his chest and weeps with me.

They arrested Matthias and me, and beat me within an inch of my immortal life. I was beyond pain...my poor body was a prison cell. Strips of flesh hung from my scourged back like macabre party favors, and Ville, one of Hana's henchmen, took great delight in rubbing salt into my wounds. What hurt the most were his words... Murderer. Liar. Faggot. Whore. Blasphemer. He took his pleasure from hurting me, and my screams were orgasmic to him. A crown of thorns was placed upon my head, and I bled as the briars pierced my flesh...I was starved, and I couldn't think straight. The morning before my crucifixion, I had no food or water. Ville beat me within an inch of my life, and his ring cut my face. I begged him to stop, and he spit on me... All because I dared to declare myself the Son of God. I prayed to Benediction to let Matthias remember his promise...I was so afraid of suffering...but Matty had been steadfast and true. He had given me the wine laced with belladonna, and had pierced my side to release the Godhead. As my legs were taken by the paralysis from the belladonna, he had laid me gently upon the cross and kissed me goodbye...his lips felt warm through the veil that was covering his face and protecting him from the deadly rays of the sun. The stakes were driven through my palms, then my feet...I took a last loving look at My Matty, and drew my last... ...Then Brian and Obadiah were there on either side of me in the darkness, and we were flying upwards, into the clouds...

...But I am the most horrified at the slim young man who is upon his knees, clad in the same white trousers as I, his long, black hair framing his face like soft, shining curtains as he rests his head on his clasped, shackled hands and prays. "Brian," I sob, my anguish causing my voice to break. "I don't want you in this place..." He raises his head and pulls me down beside him. His sightless eyes seem to look straight into mine. "You aren't alone anymore, Obadiah," he says gently. I weep, and take him back against me the best that I can, with my shackled wrists, and we rest against one another...two vessels ready for the last journey. "I couldn't let you go without me, 'Baddy," he says softly. "I'd never find a love like yours again, even if I lived for a million years! There is only one you. When a person is gifted with a love like this, it should be defended at all costs..." I weep then, for real...for this precious child, who will pay the ultimate price for loving me...how he must love me, indeed...

Matty, you are crazy, cuckoo, banana-crackers!

Ghost-Managing Book List The Uninvited Guests, by Sadie Jones Ceremonies of the Damned, by Adrian C. Louis Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice Father of Lies, by Brian Evenson The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead Asleep, by Banana Yoshimoto The Hatak Witches, by Devon A. Mihesuah Beloved, by Toni Morrison The Through, by A. Rafael Johnson Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders Savage Conversations, by LeAnne Howe The Regeneration Trilogy, by Pat Barker Exit Ghost, by Philip Roth Songs for Discharming, by Denise Sweet Hiroshima Bugi: Atomu 57, by Gerald Vizenor Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabal Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

What was I saying? I was waxing poetic and working toward pretentious, if I recall. Oh, yes, the smell of a fine, fall football Saturday. Spring is such a girl. She gets credit for love, hope, renewal, and the dream of what might be. Summer is all, ‘Hey dude, it’s warm; let’s party.’ It’s truly the fraternity brother of the four seasons. Fall, to me, seems like the bad-ass who is about to hop on his Harley and drive off into the sunset because he’s not going to listen to that bitch winter go on and on about how nobody likes her and the snow drifts make her look fat.

Isa. 34:4 All the host of heaven shall rot away, and the skies roll up like a scroll. All their host shall fall, as leaves fall from the vine.   Rev. 6:13-14 [An earthquake occurs] and the stars of the sky fell to the earth as the fig tree sheds its winter fruit when shaken by a gale. The sky vanished like a scroll that is being rolled up, and every mountain and island was removed from its place.   Matt. 24:29 “The stars will fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”   Job 26:11 “The pillars of heaven tremble, and are astounded at His rebuke.   2Sam. 22:8 Then the earth reeled and rocked; the foundations of the heavens trembled and quaked.   Is. 13:13 Therefore I shall make the heavens tremble, and the earth will be shaken out of its place at the wrath of the LORD of hosts.   Joel 2:10 The earth quakes before them, the heavens tremble.

Twelve years ago I left Boston and New York, and moved east and west at the same time. East, to a little village in Devon, England, a town I’ve been familiar with for years, since my friends Brian and Wendy Froud and Alan Lee all live there. It had long been my dream to live in England, so I finally bought a little old cottage over there. But I decided, both for visa and health reasons, living there half the year would be better than trying to cope with cold, wet Dartmoor winters. At that point, Beth Meacham had moved out to Arizona, and I discovered how wonderful the Southwest is, particularly in the wintertime. Now I spend every winter-spring in Tucson and every summer-autumn in England. Both places strongly affect my writing and my painting. They’re very opposite landscapes, and each has a very different mythic history. In Tucson, the population is a mix of Native Americans, Mexican Americans, and Euro-Americans of various immigrant backgrounds — so the folklore of the place is a mix of all those things, as well as the music and the architecture. The desert has its own colors, light, and rhythms. In Devon, by contrast, it’s all Celtic and green and leafy, and the color palette of the place comes straight out of old English paintings — which is more familiar to me, growing up loving the Pre-Raphaelites and England’s ‘Golden Age’ illustrators. I’ve learned to love an entirely different palette in Arizona, where the starkness of the desert is offset by the brilliance of the light, the cactus in bloom, and the wild colors of Mexican decor.

He began talking to an imagined woman, achieving an eloquence that was never his when he was face to face with anyone else.

The night was alive. So thickly was the snow falling that, brushing against a human face in its descent, it resembled the fur of a great beast. The fur was less cold than suffocating: it occupied space normally taken up by air and sound. But when the sledge stopped, the staid brazen tongue of a bell could be distantly heard.

I am so filled with joy to see Benediction back to his old self; I throw my arms around him as well. His arm encircles my waist, and he pulls both Brian and me close to him. It feels good to hold him, for a good friend is more vital than blood.

The dormouse was a jolly plump old fellow, clad in a rust-colored jerkin, his white beard curled and trimmed neatly. An infant mole, who could not sleep because of the onset of spring, sat beside him on a mossy beechlog in the orchard. Together they shared an early breakfast of oatcakes, hot from the kitchens, and two of last autumn’s russet apples. Dawn was touching the earth with its rosy paws, promising sunny spring days as a compensation for the long winter Redwall Abbey had endured. Soft white clouds with golden underbellies hung on the still air, dewdrops glistened on new green grass, budding narcissus and snowdrop awaited the coming of the sun-warmed day. The dormouse nodded sagely. “Soon be pickin’ a Nameday for this good season, aye, soon.” The small mole chewed slowly at his oatcake, wrinkling a black button snout as he gazed up at the elder. “You’m said you’m tell oi a story, zurr.

A woman needs fatalism more than a man. A woman’s role in life is to listen, and when I listen I never hear anything but the howl of the wind. I prefer the sound of my own voice.

Family must rely upon family, since governments do not comprehend families.

The New Testament speaks of “a great famine all over the world” that took place in the reign of emperor Claudius (Acts 11:27-29). Josephus wrote of famines and earthquakes, especially near the time period of A.D. 70 (Wars of the Jews 6.299-300; 1.370-371; 4.286-287; 5.25-26; 6.193-200). Tacitus wrote of famines and earthquakes throughout the Roman empire. This year witnessed many prodigies [signs and omens].... repeated earthquakes... further portents were seen in a shortage of corn, resulting in famine... It was established that there was no more than fifteen days supply of food in the city [Rome].  Only Heaven’s special favour and a mild winter prevented catastrophe.27

It’s so pretty up here,” she says, sighing with what sounds like contentment. “Yep.  I love coming here to decompress.  I do it several times a year, but usually not in winter.” “I like the river,” says Liam, looking up from his coloring.  “It’s cold but I still swim in it.  Daddy says I have merman jeans.  But he’s silly cuz mermans don’t wear pants.  They have fish tails so they have scales.” “Not jeans.  Gene.  Like in your DNA.” “I know.  That’s what I said.  But I don’t wear my jeans in the water, cuz that would make them all wet, and I don’t like to have wet pants or wet underwear.” Nicole laughs softly, turning to look in the back seat.  “Are you going to show me how you swim in the river, Liam?” “Yep.” Brian looks in his rearview mirror at his son again.  “We need to show this girl how to fish, Li-Li.  She’s never fished before.” Liam keeps coloring.  “I’ll show her how.  But she has to bait her own hook.  That’s the rule.” Nicole faces Brian.  “What do you fish with?” “Worms.” She grimaces.  “No, thank you.  I’ll just watch.” Brian smiles, knowing he’ll be able to convince her to try.  He’ll bait her hook as long as she needs him to, rules be damned.  He just has to explain to Liam that it’s okay to bait hooks for girls and that it’s not sexist to want to spare them the ickiness of it.  The kid probably won’t understand though; he thinks squirmy worms are fun to play with.  Brian’s had to dissuade him from putting worms in his pockets for years.

What he desires is more along the lines of the sentiment expressed in the ancient poem “Oh, Heaven”: My wish to be close to you Will never wane, though my life be long Only when the mountain peaks have worn away Rivers have dried up It thunders in the winter Snows in the summer And Heaven and Earth collide Would I ever dare to say goodbye

whouuuff

bear,