Lee Goldberg – A Writer’s Life –  has an interesting post on creating suspense.

It’s amazing how hard it is to do.

one of those days that goes by so fast, it takes you by surprise?  The sun goes down, it seems, hours too early.  Yeah, me too.  What do you suppose we can do about this, short of getting up earlier?

Things really are as bad as I thought, aren’t they? Bush has sailed up, above and beyond the law, and the military is rotting from the head down, like bad fish. Americans are not supposed to kidnap women and blackmail their husbands into surrendering. We don’t do that kind of thing, right? We’re the good guys! Do I sound like a whineyass weirdo liberal? Maybe, but the paranoia is catching. It’s spread all the way to Andrew Sullivan’s blog at Time.com.

“Sure, it’s against the Geneva Conventions. Sure, those Conventions are supposed to apply in Iraq. But this is the Bush administration. King George doesn’t have to obey the law; and his military can do anything they want.”

I don’t mind my subconscious making decisions, I just wish it would discuss them with me first.

I was just strolling through my day, singing repeatedly, "Support the Troops, Support the Troops, Support the Troops," when suddenly I seem to have stumbled into a pothole.

If I told you that, during WWII the Nazi’s kidnapped the wives of suspected French Resistance fighters, and held them hostage until their husbands surrendered, you’d find that plausible, yes?  But if I told you the US Army was doing that in Iraq – now – you wouldn’t believe it, right?  Believe it.

Oh yes, it be a pothole alright.  A quagmire extraordinaire.  I predicted this when the war started back in early 2003.  I said that you can’t send good young people off to war and expect to get back anything but good young people who have been changed by war.  I’m not blaming them — though this is really unconscionable shit right here — nor saying they should be court-martialed or ostracized or anything like that. War is insane, and I’m just saying end the damn war. 

And Impeach Bush.

I love dogs, don’t you?  Here’s a great essay.  

“Nothing lackadaisical or halfhearted here. Dogs aren’t mulling over their walk tomorrow, their meal tonight or their nap in 10 minutes. Dogs live in the moment. Enthusiastically, they embrace each second of the here and now, be it a day in the field guiding cattle, a Sunday in the yard chasing squirrels or simply a restful afternoon snoozing in a pool of sunshine. Suddenly, dog-tired sounds more like an aspiration than a complaint.”

Happy Birthday, Wolfgang!

I started listening to, and playing, the music of Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, etc., when I was eight and started taking piano lessons.  I took lessons and played in recitals for ten years, then gave lessons during college.  

Mozart’s music – his transcendent genius – has made my life richer, deeper, more enjoyable.  I truly wish the world had treated him better.  

at Slate …

The Power-Madness of King George
Is Bush turning America into an elective dictatorship?
By Jacob Weisberg

Is anything standing between the current practices of spying, lying, torture, and detention without habeas corpus, and the next step: arrest of Democratic candidates as political prisoners and censorship of the press? If there is, could someone please explain it? Because the way I see it, if President Bush wants to do something in the interest of national security, he can simply do it. And nobody is going to stop him.

Please tell me I’m wrong, and why.

In our town, the day is rare that begins in gray, on which the curtain rises with less than a fanfare of splendor; God’s glory shining on the ocean, the hills, and the town. So even those with head colds and mounting debt stand a moment on their front porches, on stairways leading to cluttered apartments, and beside the open doors of their little cars, and sigh. A moment’s ritual signifying that things could be worse.

At nine o’clock someone sweeps the tiled loggia of the public library, unlocks the door and lights the lights. The retired men drink coffee outside the donut shop. The veterinarian listens to a puppy’s heart and everything sounds fine.

Another man sleeps late, because he can, misses half the morning – God’s love upon the driveway and the grass. So when he finally gets the newspaper it’s warm, the dew soaked in and baked away. He steps from the shower thinking of apples, thinks of apples as he shaves, then eats one while his coffee drips.

I lied. All through June and most of July we live in a cloud that stretches for a thousand miles out to sea. We struggle up and leave our hearts, damp and sour, wadded on the bathroom floor. We eat our toast and tie our shoes and go. The chairs outside the donut shop lean against the tables, draining mist. All day we keep the headlights on, which seems to help. In February, fear the rain.

All this doesn’t bother our friend. He loves the color gray, with all its implications for consciousness, the muted contrast of flowers. And when the sun goes down and he sits in his room, there’s no dramatic sunset to be overlooked, then mourned. He listens carefully as the freeway echoes from the buildings all around, so he’s surrounded by the sighing of people.

Through the open window, he smells nothing that reminds him of his mother boiling blackeyed peas she spent the morning shelling as she watched him play. That must all be in my mind, he thinks. He closes the window, and goes to put his shoes away. But isn’t that me? My mind isn’t something separate, something I can set aside like shoes. My mind is me and peas are in my mind; therefore, I am blackeyed peas.

He holds his cup, moves slowly through the quiet house, notes that the carpet needs cleaning. Smudges of dirt on the hardwood floors. He hopes for an earthquake – just a little one – to stir things up. Because sometimes he’s so tired of the light, harsh in his eyes, and as the evening rolls in, pressing down on him, he dims the lights after dinner. He stands at the window, looking out at the nothing that the night has brought. That’s peace: the blank windows, the hum of good appliances, a cup of tea.

© 2006 by J. Kyle Kimberlin

Gotta make sure everybody gets a chance to see this movie , in case I decide to take it down.  Pretty good, if you like silly dogs, which I do.

OK, this business with A Million Little Pieces is getting out of hand.  Writing is about the exploration of being human, not about explication of the author’s life.  I write stuff every day that’s partly about me, and partly about us, and partly about dogs and seagulls and trees.  So what?  If you can relate, great!  If not, change the channel; even in the middle of the day, there’s something on besides Oprah.