St. Augustine: Quantum Measurement in the Making?

While doing Shadowstrider research, this time on quantum measurement and the troubles therein (i.e. Schrödinger's Cat), I came across this. Although not the research I was aiming to find, it brings up hypotheses that are geared toward my character's personality and how she would analyze the given situation.

In other words, instead of sounding like I'm writing straight from a physics book (which I've been accused of on occasion) I decided to have Ahaovathea take a more existential POV concerning Time ("time is a protraction of the mind") rather than her mother's POV, which definitely follows a more literal scientific definition.

The only area where I imagine her thinking differently is St. Augustine's theory that "temporal existence is taken to be equivalent to 'being in the present.'" As a Native American, I think Ahaovathea would definitely disagree with both that and the theory that past and future, in a sense, do not exist at all. Although this is a main focus on this treaty, it is one point my character would certainly not agree upon.

My research and wonderful discussions with Native Americans have showed one constant perception that is so different from "Western" thought: Time is fluid, alive, past and future are living things, and the present moment is a knife's edge dividing the two. The Hopi believe that life is filled with things either manifest (thus belonging to the past) or coming into manifestation (and thus categorized as future). A house, tree, memory, etc. exist and are manifest, but hopes, dreams, and expectations are things of the future.

If the future did not exist, does this also mean our dreams do not exist? And yet we have dreams, which proves the existence (even if existentially) that there is a living future out there.

So in that sense, St. Augustine (as is common among European-influenced cultures) veers far from the indigenous respect for Time. Instead of acknowledging the existence of these two major temporal forces, he brushes past and future off as inconsequential.

However, the end result is the same as if you took Ahaovathea's ideas. Time is a protraction of the mind, but St. Augustine's conclusion negates the inclusion that the mind could protrude into past and future.

Like tentacles on an octopus, we reach out in all directions and grasp the world around us. We reach into the world, and we are the world. We reach into Time, and we are Time.

Any comments to debate this temporal issue are encouraged. I love debating the mechanics of Time and hearing the ideas of others. I've flipflopped views on Time, destiny, and choice throughout Shadowstrider, allowing the different members of the family to express unique POVs.


[St. Augustine's treatment of time occurs in the eleventh book of the Confessions, and is connected to his investigation of the opening words of Genesis.]


1. There's no sense in asking what God did before creation because time itself is a creature. God, as for Boethius, is in eternal present. Hence, God precedes all things, including time, ontologically but not temporally.

2. Time seems something we all know well; however, upon further analysis it turns out to be something we barely understand. Some say its the motion of the heavens. But this cannot be right because:

• if motion of heavens stops but a potter's wheel spins, could it not turn faster or slower? Moreover, scripture tells us that the sun stopped and yet time went on;
  
• by time we measure the motion of bodies, and so that of the heavens.

3. The issue is so complicated that if no one asks me what time is, I know; if one asks me, I do not know. And yet, we can say a few things:

• if nothing passed away, no past; if nothing were coming, no future; if nothing were, no present;
  
• the past doesn't exist anymore; the future doesn't exist yet; the present must be transient, from future to past (otherwise it would be eternity), and it cannot be extended, otherwise it would overlap with past and future.
  
  NOTES:
  
  • Time, then, involves a flux from future through present to past.
    
  • Temporal existence is taken to be equivalent to "being in the present."
    
  • The treatment of the lack of extension of the present is identical to Aristotle's.

4. The non-existence of past and future and the restriction of existence to an extensionless present are seemingly incompatible with two activities we engage in every time: relating the past (and foretelling the future), and measuring time.

• Relating the past and foretelling the future are not possible because what is not (past and future) cannot be related or foretold.
  
• Measuring time is not possible because:
  
  1. We cannot measure past and future since they do not exist (what is not, cannot be measured). How, then, can we say "a long time past" or "a long time to come"?
  2. We cannot measure the present because it has no extension.
  
  NOTE:
  
  A similar problem in involved in the attempt to explain how we can measure the duration of anything, e.g. a sound. It cannot be measured before or after it exists, and we cannot measure while its present, otherwise we don't measure the whole of it. In short, we cannot measure past and future because they don't exist; we cannot measure the present because it's unextended; we cannot measure passing time because it's not complete.

5. Augustine's solution:

1. When we relate the past or foretell the future, we behold our present memories of things past (effects of past causes) and consider present "signs" of future things (causes of future events).

2. When I temporally measure things, I don't measure things themselves, but my representations of them: I measure the "protraction" of the impressions of things in the mind. For example, a "long future is a long expectation of the future;" a "long past a long memory of the past."

NOTES:

• Hence, time is a protraction of the mind: the future is expectation, the present enduring consideration, and the past memory.
  
• But why is measuring representations (instead of the things represented) a solution? Cannot all the arguments about things be reproposed about representations of things? The answer is that a long past is not a "long memory of the past" in the sense that it's a memory which lasts a long time, but an (instantaneous?) memory of a long past (that is, temporal length is not a formal feature of the memory, but an intentional feature of it).

Where were you?

Where were you?

This question used to apply to Kennedy. Everyone knew where they were the day JFK was assassinated. Whether you believe is was a mass conspiracy or a lone gunman, it was an event that shook our nature and reshaped the fabric of our culture.

Now we face a new milestone. It was not just the death toll of those four planes and their devastating effects. It's not just the war on terror and its lasting effects. Whether you are pro-war, pro-peace, or prosaically indifferent to the whole thing, whether you are American, Mexican, Canadian, Japanese, British, Muslim, Buddhist, or even French (insert obligatory sneer, followed by politically correct "just kidding"), September 11, 2001 is a day that shook this world.

Those terrorists wanted something visual, and they got it! The site of those massive buildings falling, of the Pentagon in flames, of the atrocious loss of life on that Pennsylvania field, was a horror now ingrained into the human psyche. Centuries from now, children will read about this day as the first move in events that will shape the 21st Century. Millenniums will pass, and the story of the Two Towers (don't perk up so excitedly, Tolkien fans) will be recited around campfires, a story considered a myth, but an enduring one, like the Tower of Babel or the fall of Jericho.

So I ask you: where were you on 9/11?



I had gone to college early that morning. I had just finished a boring stint studying in the math lab. I noticed more than the usual amount of people on the computers looking up what I assumed was political news. Images of President Bush and views of New York. Odd for a math lab.

I finished early and decided to call up my then-boyfriend/now-husband to see if he could meet me for an early lunch. Matt sounded terrified, asking if I was alright. I was casually walking down the steps of the science/math building, thinking what a lovely day it was (ironic, because it was about to become dark). As I walked down, he frantically explained, "It's World War III out there! They've destroyed the World Trade Center, blew it up with airplanes, and they hit the Pentagon too. We're at WAR!!!"

Odd, but the news of the attack on the Pentagon hit me worse at that moment. The mind focuses on what it can grasp. Blowing of the WTC? That was something out of Hollywood. I imagined maybe a gapping hole, not that they were actually destroyed. But the Pentagon? A symbol of military prowess! How?

I stopped dead in my tracks, whispered "What?" in disbelief, and grabbed hold of the sprawling steps' handrail, barely able to keep hold of the phone as Matt gave me what few details were known for a certainty.

I looked around at the people around me. It was as if I had been blind just a moment before.

Lovely day???

I suddenly saw huddles of young women walking through the hallways, holding onto each other as they cried. I saw an 18-year-old Freshman walking like wood, his eyes strained, his jaw tight to hold in the anger and numbed horror. And there were some still walking to and fro to class, blissfully unaware, laughing and fooling around as college students should, blind, as I had been blind, to the gnashing and weeping filling the campus.

I vividly recall seeing a young Muslim woman sitting on her prayer rug on the Quad grass, she and a group of other Muslims joined together for daily prayer, now busy listening to a radio in gapping disbelief (this was, of course, before the words radical Muslims and the racial fear associated with it ever entered our innocent minds, a time when seeing Muslims praying in the Quad was not a deal at all). I remember she was shouting, "They are cowards, who do this! Cowards!" At the time, there was no clue who might have pulled off such a terrorist act.

Matt rushed to the school to pick me up, insisting I not go to anymore of my classes. I protested at first, but when I saw the images on TV, school was the last thing on my mind. Matt lived near John Wayne Airport, and the roaring sound of incoming and outgoing planes was usual, hardly even noticed after a while. On that day, the skies were silent, which added to the odd solemness. I called my mom, and she did not want me to take the bus back home. Even at that point, there was a fear toward public transportation. My parents would go on to drive me to school for the next week, fearing a bus bomb.

I did go to school the next day, a Wednesday. I had a light schedule, but I had band class that night. i remember sitting with the other French hornists, discussing what we saw on the TV, how the planes turned to the side for maximum damage, about where Flight 93 might have been heading, wondering still who might have orchestrated it all (if you remember, Osama bin Laden denied any involvement for years, and to this day the FBI admits he is still only a suspect, albeit a rather believable scapegoat).

The following days were numbed. I knew no victims, but I knew some people living in NYC at the time who saw the whole thing play out in too-real horror. Matt's cousin lived mere blocks away from the World Trade Center. A WTC employee my sister frequently corresponded with for work was killed. Plus there was the whole bus-bomb scare, and that was my sole means of transportation. The ripples of that day are still felt six years later, and will likely continue to affect us throughout our lives.



So, that's my story. That's where I was on that day, walking down the steps exiting the math lab, happy at such a beautiful morning. And into that stereotypical optimism and ignorance, the spear of hatred was thrust. Still, although some may toss spears and arrows of hate and fear at us, Godly love, respect, and honor shall prevail.

The Volcano

I was riding through Portland a couple days ago with my folks. It was a lovely clear day, so as we crossed Marquam Bridge, I was able to point out both Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens to them. It's rare enough to see Mt. Hood with all the clouds we usually have, but even on clear days St Helens is hard to see. It's rare indeed to see it so pristine! But it was a lovely cloudless day ... except for the cloud coming from St. Helens! I didn't take this picture, but this is almost exactly what I saw, snow and all.

I've only seen the volcano 2-3 other times and never on an active day. It's actually a little unnerving! I know it's only steam, but it makes you think about what could happen ... and what did happen back in 1980.

Around here, 27 years have not really dimmed the memories of the native Oregonians. They still have their stories of the day the volcano blew. Then they glance over to "our volcano," Mt. Hood, the two looking at each other like giant siblings glaring down through the ages, and you can see in their eyes a wondering "what if" driving an old fear into them.

Not My Week

Ever have "one of those days"? Well, I've been having one of those weeks.

First, my parents are visiting, which is usually cool, I like my folks, but they have two Pomeranians now. I'm allergic to dogs, and these two are as poofy as they get. They want to do all sorts of shopping while up here in Oregon so they don't have to pay taxes. They've already bought an electric grill, a toaster, some tools, a cargo attachment for their RV, and a laptop for my little sister. That's some major money! I hate shopping, just ain't my thing, but my hubby's working, so I have to show them around. And my parents takes the dogs everywhere they go. And dogs love me! They like to get up right into my face, and one, Kissmo, gives me licks, sending me into sneeze fits. If I touch them to push them aside, my hands start itching madly. But I'm not going to complain when my mother has spent over $200 already on blouses and some very nice dresses that I would never have bothered buying on my own. So, shopping isn't my thing, and the dogs bug me, but okay, I'll deal!

But then, as I was walking around with my dad, I hit a pothole or something, started to fall toward a truck (not cool). Luckily, I caught myself on a street sign before getting run over, but I sprained my ankle and reinjured my knee (which has never really healed), plus in the process of catching myself I sprained my wrist and broke my finger. So now I'm limping and I have a metal splint on my right index finger, and I'm right handed, so my life just got 60% harder to do simple tasks. Working on the computer in general is now tough. Try working a mouse some day with your index finger bulked up and sticking straight out, clicking with your middle and ring fingers. Not fun.

Today, my hubby and I had the day off with my folks staying in the RV enjoying the rain. We decided to try a new Asian restaurant called Hot Plate. The food was good, but while I was eating the sweet'n'sour soup (soup of all things) my tooth that has been needing fixed for ... well, too long (hush now, I have a reason to hate dentists, I'm deathly allergic to all numbing stuff, so dental work is unpleasant, to say the least) ... anyway, the tooth broke, right there at the table. I sudden felt a crack, reached back with my tongue, and it's wobbly like a six-year-old. Just broke off, all I had to do was pull it out and put a napkin up there for a couple seconds, hardly bled at all. Now my mouth hurts, and the front part of my tooth feels like it wants to break too ... and the pain is shooting up my nose, which makes me sneeze ... and I'm on my period, so all you women know how sneezing on your period is just not fun.

So I'm limping, toting a broken finger around in a metal splint, my mouth swollen, my gut bloated, cramping up a storm, and riding around town with my folks, shopping which I hate doing, with their dogs which I'm allergic to, and my dad keeps forgetting to take his happy pills so he's acting like a grumpy old man arguing with my mom about everything until they really do sound like an old couple.

Oh, and did I mention my cat is having a kitty crisis? He's fallen in love with our neighbor's cute little Persian - who, by the way, hates his feline guts - so now he mopes around, hates us, scratches and bites a lot more, and he jets toward the door if he even thinks he hears it opening. He's not allowed outside, especially not with Fluffy out there giving him disdainful looks, so when he does sneak out I have to chase him down before the neighbor's dogs scare him up a tree... limping... cramping... with a broken finger... and sneezing from dog danger and broken tooth pain.

It's just not my week!

It Ain't Enya

There are many songs out there claiming to be Enya... but aren't. Maybe it's a synth lover who thinks the only way they'll get exposure is to claim to be someone famous. Maybe it's a 12-year-old screwing around on mommy's computer and doesn't know the name of the song they just downloaded. Or maybe it's some idiot college kid who hears something and says "oo, oo, I know, that's New Age, so it's gotta be that chick, wutzername, Enya!"

Who knows how it really starts, but at some point someone puts the wrong artist on there. Johnny Cash and Neil Diamond are often mixed too, so it's not just New Age artists. Suddenly, Enya fans see a song they've never heard before, pay their 10 cents or whatever, only to find... it ain't Enya.

My friends know I love Celtic music, so I often get random "have you ever heard of [insert artist]?" which, of course, I've probably never heard of them, and it sends me rummaging through Amazon or Download.com for samples of this newly discovered person. I like that. I discovered Anahata that way.

Other times, I get "I have a song I bet you don't have" and low and behold, I don't have it. Nor did the artist ever make it! Many do that claiming an Enya song I don't own. (I have all of her albums, but she releases some songs only on singles. I don't have all those, but I WANT THEM!) Their claim often turns out to be Loreena McKennitt or Lisa Gerrard or Enya's older siblings in Clannad, all of whom I love.

A year ago when Enya's new album Amarantine came out, someone asked if I had the "Amarantine Promo." I was like, "Sure, you mean Comb of the Winds..." No, no, not the single, I mean the Promo. Like Monsoon Chariot. Monsoon what? Never heard of it. Where can I buy it? Oh, it's not in stores, it's bootlegged, internet only, mysterious 13th track, only in Russia or something.

So I risk the wrath of the RIAA and (hush now) I downloaded these "Enya promos." Sure enough, I've never heard of them. One is titled Amarantine, but it's a fast, heavily percussive song that builds intensity upon one word, "Angelica," even more intense than Enya's other driving song, The River Sings, certainly nothing like the happy, sleepy, optimist "Amarantine, Amarantine" of the album song. In fact, some of these aren't Enya-ish at all. Some plain out aren't Enya. One's a man! I did not download them all, only a few, but I had a problem. Here were some apocryphal songs, maybe-but-most-likely-not by Enya, and I had no clue who really did them.

And I was growing to really like them!

Now, when it comes to my music, I'm a perfectionist. I want all the info inputted properly. If it's off my own collections, no problem, but it's harder if it's from a friend who made a CD of songs they thought I'd like (which is not pirating; it's the same thing we did back in the '80s with tapes and it was legal!) That music doesn't always have the info to transfer over. I'll spend hours searching for the right album, what year, what track number, who wrote the song, a picture of the front of the album. Yes, I obsess a little!

So now I have songs I like, don't want to get rid of them, and they're not the right artist, possibly not even the right name of the song. So off I go, digging into the arcana of Enya forums, hunting for "songs not by Enya." There are plenty of gripers ranting about the difference between Loreena, Lisa, Moire, and Enya, complaining about a new generation of Celtic and New Age musicians masking their songs as Enya, but not much for who actually did these songs. Mostly, they have guesses. It might be him, it's possibly her, admitting many of these are not unknown artists trying to break out, but famous artists people just ignorantly mistook for being Enya. While I'm racking up demerits from the RIAA, I checked these possible songs against the promo songs. Nothing like it at all!

This is a list of the false-Enya songs on the "Amaratine Promo," who did them, and I added links so you can check out the album on Amazon. Support the artists! Or at least spread the word about them.

[UPDATE - Feb. 2014]

I've updated the original list, thanks to a bunch of people jumping in and filling in the blanks. You guys are awesome!

01 Amarantine = Angelica, by Seay, 1 Voice (2005)
02 Remember Now, by 2002, The Emerald Way (2006)
03 World of Wonders, by F.R.E.U.D., Time Passangers (1998)
04 Fading Hues = Longing for Ashira, by Enam, M'anchelii (2001)
05 Caeli et Terra = Sanctus, by Anael, Unconditional (1998)
06 Dragonfly = In the Hollows of Trees, by Gary Stadler & Singh Kaur, Fairy NightSongs
07 Mor Rioghain = Siren Song, by Seay, 1 Voice (2005)
08 Along Meadow Streams = Marcomé, by Librarsi, Seven Seas (1996)
09 Arcadia, by Miriam Stockley, Miriam (1999)
10 Cagaran Gaolach = Musa-Mare Lullaby, by Wendy Stark, Child of Transference (1999)
11 In the Arms of Eternity = In The Arms Of Morpheus, by Emoke, Swimming in Dark Water (2003)
12 Iapetus = Mystery, by Lorellei, Spiritus - Breath of Life (1996)
13 Monsoon Chariot = Still, by Seay, 1 Voice (2005)

Okay, so that's the list, a bit more detailed than anything in the Enya forums, if I may brag. Thanks for all the input!

If you downloaded these songs, do everyone a favor and rename them. Please give credit where it's due. And if you realize, "hey, I have that song and I LIKE IT," please check out the artist who really did it. You just might want to buy the album.

Bill Guffey - Requiescat in pace

I happened to do a Google search for an old friend of mine, Mr. Bill Guffey, only to find he passed away two months ago. This is truly heartbreaking to me, mostly because I didn't have a chance to say goodbye.

William "BG" Guffey was the original keyboardist in the band Shooting Star, which was the first American band to sign onto Virgin Records. I met him online around 2001 while playing the MMORPG called Utopia. He went by the name Nicolai, and I happened to guess that his reference was to Nicolai Hel of the novel Shibumi. He guessed my online name, Rhov, was a shortened version of Rhovanion of Tolkein's Middle Earth. We were both literature nerds!

That began many years of witty conversations, enjoying his vast knowledge (he was a member of Mensa and truly brilliant). He liked that I understood obscure cultural references and I actually read Tom Robbins... and enjoyed it! We were leaders in our Utopia game, both of us serving as Monarch for a time, both always the lead magical characters in our kingdom, planning elaborate attacks in the middle of the night. The "Nic and Rhov combo t/m strike" could not be beat! We made lots of friends in those years. I learned about his musical past, which intrigued me, being a musician too. He told me about his family and the son he loved more than anything in the world. He sent me photos of family gatherings, and after a few years it was like I knew them all. He told me much about his personal life, which I could write novels on! The man really lived it up! Weird how online friendships can be so close!

We both stopped playing Utopia at about the same time, but we still kept in touch. Then, about two years ago, shortly after I got married, BG caught me on AIM and told me he was moving away and might not be able to chat anymore. He was going to Europe to pursue a dream. I was proud of him. He had been quite sick over the years, and I felt he deserved rest and happiness. I emailed him a few more times after that, heard some news, but then he never replied. I was busy with being a wife, so our friendship just drifted. Little did I know his trouble with his liver was getting the better of him.

Now, this morning, I caught his obituary on Dan Martin's site. I'm simply stunned. I'm listening to Shooting Star's ballad "Sweet Elatia," my personal favorite. BG never did figure out what Elatia was a reference to, if it was just based from the word "elate" or if it had a deeper meaning; it was something he never thought about until I asked him. It's such a beautiful song. Shooting Star fans notoriously ignore the group's ballads, but for me they are highlights of the albums. I like "Elatia" for the sailing references (I love sailing) and that it's just so peaceful. I honestly could "lay back, let go, close my eyes, and just sail on." I'm also listening to BG's wild keyboard pounding in "Last Chance." He would tell me stories about his days as "the King," getting crazy with the band guys, wooing the women, but how he was so shy to go on stage, the band had to get him totally drunk. It was a rule, there must be a beer sitting on Mr. Guffey's keyboard, that way he could stay buzzed through a concert and be able to face the crowds.

I think back to stories he had, of missing Woodstock to chase after a girl, of seeing the Beatles in concert, of meeting Elton John and many other great performers, of playing with bands all over the Midwest, and many escapades of his that I can't mention for legal reasons. Mostly he talked about his son. Little Billy was his life, and he was so proud of him, bragged about him so much that I ended up knowing this boy as if we had grown up together.

That was Bill Guffey, a devoted father, a lover of music and fine literature, a brilliant man hiding behind that shaggy head of hair. Although our friendship was internet-based, he eventually became one of my best friends. He even inspire one of my characters in the Shadowstrider series. BG thought it a laugh that the character K.J. is a "long-haired man from the Midwest."

BG... you will be deeply missed by friends, by family, and by fans.


William "BG" Guffey, "The King" - 1952-2007


No, I'm not a born saint,
Can't change the course of time,
Can't perform magic,
Can't step into your walk of life.
...
We're just people, people in life.
Together, together we survive.
Give your hand, I'll give you mine.
Don't be scared to take it.
We're here for such a short, short time.

I wanted to show you, I want you to know
That I really care about the hardships you've known.
I want to say believe me, you're not alone.
You're not alone!

Cause we're all in this together.
We're all in this together.
Reach out for a friend
Cause in the end
We're just people,
Just friends.
Just people...
Just friends!

The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills

If any of you read The Wheel of Time series, you'll have caught the title reference right away. If not... go to a bookstore and buy Robert Jordan's books, starting with The Eye of the World. They are really well worth it.

It's been a while since I've sat down to actually read. Weird, I know, since I'm a writer and a bookworm. But there is a fine line a writer must walk, a choice to be made: to read or to write. Now, when I start reading, I'll sit for three or four hours at a time, totally absorbed, all life coming to an abrupt caesura as my whole being is swept into a fantasy world. Maybe that's why I prefer fiction; I like escape. Similarly, when I start writing, I can slip away for days, weeks, yes even months. I sleep, but only as long as I need to think clearly enough to see the keyboard. I eat, but at the computer. Earl Grey is my companion. These two existences cannot easily coexist. Either I am in my book, or in someone else's. Too much time and energy is placed in both activities to multitask it.

When I was in high school and college, writing like this was impossible. Short stories has to suffice. Poetry was what got me through my cravings. Something I could sit down for an hour and finish, feeling fulfilled, accomplished, and yet yearning to return - one day - to that great story that has already consumed seventeen years of my life.

I am what some people consider unemployed. I like to think of it as freelancing. I work, don't get me wrong. I work long, hard hours, sitting at a desk and doing research, typing until I have to soak my fingers in hot water. This, right now, is a break from research. I've been looking up info on the M79 Grenade Launcher. Why? Because it is mentioned in the story, and I want to squeeze it into a few niches. Why again? I dunno, 'cause it's cool? As my main character says: "Do not ask why, just know that it is."

My "freelancing" is not just to sit on my rump and write, please don't think that. I have agoraphobia and rheum-arthritis, which makes employment difficult. Some days (like today) the flareups are so bad I can't do anything. My right hand is dead today. Typing one-handed is hard work. I can't walk much further than the kitchen. I hurt... everywhere! Employment in a 9-5 is impossible in this state. Here at home, I can write, or at least do research. I can try to do something. With no "other" job to distract me, I can focus on what I really want to work on, my career passion: my writing. That is my true joy, my ambrosia to drink up and fill me with sweet belletristic ecstasy.

But these flareups are hitting more frequent. The medicines just aren't helping. Thus, I chose an alternative treatment: Robert Jordan. The Wheel of Time takes me away from the pains in my body and places me in characters, be it Rand or Mat or Perrin or Egwene. So many characters to step into, explore, see their world as I try to forget my own. They have pains, yes, and mental anguishes I could never fathom, but it's easier to cope with the afflictions of the characters in my head than with my own aches and anguishes, with swollen joints and fingers that won't straighten, with panic attacks at the stupidest things that leave me embarrassed and frustrated and wanting to scream aloud. When the drugs bring no relief, it's easier to escape.

Reading takes me away from writing, of course, but right now I can't write much. I stop every other sentence to rub out wrists, feeling the bones within pop and crunch in complaint. I chide myself for trying stubbornly to use the right hand that is curled like the dying branches of some ancient oak. Writing on days like this is torture. Yet I know, if it were not for the books to read, I would press on. Why? "Do not ask why, just know that it is." Honestly why: because I'm a stubborn-ass perfectionist who is terrified I won't get to finish the story.

Not being fatalistic or anything, I've just always seen unfinished works as the ultimate tragedy, especially when critics claim the work is an artist's masterpiece. So great... and not complete. I think of Frank Herbert. Surely, Chapterhouse could not be the ending he wanted. I think of Tolkien and the Silmarilion, not to mention the plethora of notes he left behind, to be taken up by his son in hopes of finishing the complex universe his brilliant father created. I think of Kafka, Hemingway, Lord Byron, Chaucer, Spencer and the Faerie Queen, Dickens and who the heck killed Edwin Drood, Schubert and the Unfinished Symphony, Bach and The Art Of Fugue, John Lennon and Free As A Bird (ok, so the remained Beatles finished it, but who's to say if that was Lennon's vision for the song). Unfinished works are one of the ultimate tragedies for me, yet I suppose every artist, be they writer, musician, architect, or painter, eventually succumbs to Azrael's arms with something left unfinished.

Robert Jordan (aka James Rigney), I hope, does not fall victim to this fate. With one more book to go until he finishes the Wheel series, Mr. Rigney has been diagnosed with amyloidosis. Not that I know a bloody thing about the disease, but I know it is fatal. Not just for the sake of personally wanting to see the loose ends tied up, but for the sake of future projects such a creative man surely must have planned in his boundless mind, and for his family and friends, and for the man himself, from one aspiring author to one well established and esteemed, I hope he beats this disease. Write if it makes you happy, Mr. Rigney, but rest up and get well!

Ah, but the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. My own story reflects such concepts of fate, a theory I personally am not certain about. Fate, many believe, will deal what cards are meant. Robati, the Road of Time (that's what I call it in Shadowstrider, and I'm tickled pink that Jordan calls it the Wheel of Time, so similar)... the Road of Time takes us on our path, and we walk its route. Can we defy fate? Fate, or the disease at least, states that this author, who I have just discovered and yet instantly feel an affinity toward, is destined for a lifespan of 4 years. Perhaps Mr. Rigney is ta'veren and will pull his string in the weave the way he wants.

Oh, I could quote phrases from his books, from my books, from a hundred other stories out there that deal with such topics. I won't. Only because Robati has set me on a path meeting a bottle of Motrin and some pain killers. I'll return to reading Jordan's books... and I will enjoy the escape.