April 10th, 2006

Acoustic

The Photographer

The Photographer
by Everett A Warren

An excerpt



There was no questioning the man's talent as a photographer, as an artist; equally, there was no doubt as to the depths of his eccentricities.

You could gather up all those who had known him in life, whether superficial acquaintances or those with more familiarity than is comfortable in polite company, and not one would offer up an oh-so-common eulogy: not one would describe him as a good man, a good father, or any number of other bland or superfluously grand benedictions.

He was a man, although some refuse to think of him as thus, for whether or not there are monsters walking this kind Earth and threatening us as we go about our existence, there was at least one who breathed who was monstrous beyond belief.

We are currently working to unlock more of his secrets - his lair, if you will, cast in a vault of concrete, with no apparent method of access, save for that of a mouse crawling through the copious air shafts. We expect to find horrors - nightmares and visions already plague the work crew, but I lead a dedicated group of volunteers who would - and, it seems, must - dig to the far ends of the world to bring to light what has lain in darkness for too long.

Many of them are parents, my volunteers, parents who once had one or more child than they do at the present time, and their cause is hope - hope, or, at the least, knowing. For that sense of closure, they work long hours, puzzling over the mysteries left behind.

And why do I remain here? Why am I so intent on this goal that I donate immense amounts of my own time, despite that it takes me from my regular practice and from my dear family? Those questions can be answered almost wholly with a similar reply to that which my entire crew will give: I am a father. No, the question you want to ask, but are somewhat afraid to, is: why are the authorities allowing me here, let alone investing me as a leader in this effort, when it is I who killed the man with my bare hands?



Copyright (c) 2006 Everett Ambrose Warren

Acoustic

Updatia

We have failed for one more week, and here, we're just moving into it.

Rachel and Justin both have a stomach bug, and Brandon slept until 10:00am, making it very likely that he has something Not Quite Right as well.

We continue to not have a single week with all of us healthy.

On the way back from Justin's birthday dinner, Rachel got sick in the car, leaving us pulled over in a falling-rock zone, with both Deb and Rachel at risk of getting flattened by motorists who refuse to leave the lane they're in, even when the other lane is clear. Thankfully, that didn't happen, although there were some close calls, especially when Rachel almost backed out into the highway. Later that night, Justin got hit with it suddenly, which is unfortunate - a not-so-fun end to an otherwise good birthday.

Deb has once again decided I'm on too many medications and need to get a second opinion. I'm loathe to do so because: 1) time; 2) money; 3) many docs have been trying to get me to go on blood pressure meds since I was 25, so it's not realistic to expect them to suddenly say: "Naw, you're fine; 163/112 is perfectly normal for someone on four blood pressure meds, it's not really a concern." Different meds may help, but this doc is already messing with the mix and seeing what happens, so going somewhere else would mean starting over, and repeating all of what's been happening so far. Deb also insists I'm on 15 meds, thus greatly reducing my impression of her as Someone Who Can Count, because I know that 15 != 3 bp pills + 1 allergy pill + 1 nose spray + 1 daily inhaler + 1 rescue inhaler + 1 OTC heartburn med (which I'm not, actually, currently on, because I finished the 14 day course but am waiting to see if it's still needed; the price of said OTC meds is what started her off.) Then again, you can't argue with her, as was proven the other day when she shouted "Woah!" and I did, and the car backing up into us almost hit us until I noticed him and floored it, thus moving out of the way, which we would have been, if she hadn't shouted.