#everetthunt

I was grinding the grist in my brain on how to finish up the GODS OF OMAN. Calnoon Atoye Itah, one of the Omans, was still alive and was in hiding someplace because of Rohab's vow to kill him (he was the second Oman of the three). I wanted Pitus to rescue him so that they could leave Earth together at the ending. I had Pitus upload everything aboard Calnoon's ship through an interactive tutelary program that the Omans called the “Game of Fame” into the main computer, mainly to make an instructor to help Pitus repair the Oman ship. He uploaded, among other items, a video showing a youthful Atoye with his Osage friend Kawa, and to his surprise (and a little of my own) the program became self-aware due to the enormous information piled into it.   Since the computer became “alive” from using this “Game of Fame” program, I had discovered the next several moves in my story line. Pitus, upon seeing the hologram of Atoye, recognized him as a young version of someone else he met early on in the story. Where was the real Atoye? This was my next important question. Boston, New York, and Philadelphia first came to mind. After all, He promised Kinar (the third alien) he would wait for him in Boston when they separated in the Prologue. But that was 144 years before. He could now be anywhere on the globe. London, Jerusalem, Paris, Rio de Janeiro; none of these places were good because, I had no plans of any of these cities. None of my atlases had any and the internet wasn't all that good back in the early nineties. Then a couple of days later, perusing a bound copy of The Universal Magazine, I found, in the April 1750 issue, a big wide copperplate of “the South East Prospect of Colchester in the County of Essex”. The scene as you can see, is beautifully detailed. Staring at it like a crystal-gazer, I easily imagined myself down on those meadows, down by the docks, on that bridge over the Coln, under the trees and on the streets of that city. THAT is where Pitus will find Atoye, and, also, Rohab! I wandered, in my mind's eye, all over that city, and on the road to Witham from the Essex County map as a sort of scout, making scenes and scenarios to have my protagonist's showdown with Rohab and find Atoye. It showed me quite literally that a picture can truly be worth a thousand words. Read the full article

In our culture, and probably every other, a person starts out with a birth name that honors an ancestor, or some beloved other either of fame or fortune. I'll use Washington Irving, “Lincoln” Steffens, the 20th century muckraker journalist, and “Roosevelt Magee” (my father's interpretation of the gal in the Hoagy Carmichael song) as examples. In Native American tradition, a name of someone, as they go through life, changes as the result of what they did, or what happens to them. As Pitus Peston roamed the western wilderness, (see blog about the naming of Pitus, Larger than life character part 2), meeting several of the First Nation tribes, he too, picked up some colorful epithets; One-Who-Asks-Questions, White Hare, Seer-of-Dreams, and Drove-of-Buffaloes. One-Who-Asks-Questions, came from the Biloxis when he was seeking the first of two alien pillars marking the direction of the Oman's space craft, though Pitus didn't know it was a space ship at the time. White Hare came from his being so swift of foot after hiking the thousands of miles in the wilds of Louisiana Territory that he was seen by a reliable witness to run down a deer and kill it with a club. Seer-of-Dreams was earned when he correctly guessed the dream of a Navajo warrior and thus saved his skin. Then there was Sha-to-ga-oche, or Drove of Buffaloes. Here's how Pitus got that one:  “When preparations were made, all three left camp for the Osage Village. It was nearly a seven-mile walk, but to the Canadians, who were experienced backwoodsmen, and to Pitus who was used to tramping in the wilderness, it was little more than a pleasant afternoon stroll. When they arrived, Louis spoke to a young warrior who ushered them into the village. He directed the three to a lodge in the center of the village and had them stay outside while he entered. The young man shortly came back out and they all went into the lodge. Louis spoke to the Chief, who sat on a low stool at the fire in the center of the lodge. "Nom-ba Waw-po-ja… greetings!" Two Owls returned the greeting and bid all present to be seated. The pipe was called for and lit by a brave and then held for the Chief who took a few whiffs from it and handed it to Louis. After Louis and Jean each shared the pipe, it was given to Pitus. After this, some food was brought in. As pleasantries went, this was a particularly pleasant one for Pitus. When he tasted the small square of brown loaf given him, he smiled with pleasure at the delicious taste it had. What is this cake?" Pitus asked the woman who gave it. "Stan-in-ca."  "Of what is it made?" "A mixture of beaten corn and persimmon," came the answer in translation. "It is very good,” replied Pitus cordially. To this she smiled and left. Then Louis and Jean engaged in the business of procuring permission to hunt along the river and its environs for furs. What it actually consisted of was a negotiation of the price for a "rental" of the use of the hunting ground. Having displayed several items of which some were useful, and some useless for anything but their curious appearance, a portion of the goods was claimed by Two Owls and ordered to be taken away. During this discussion, Pitus felt a wind coming and raised carefully to pass it, hoping that it would not be detected and cause any embarrassment. It was not, however to be done secretively, it making a "thunderous ovation". At this, all conversation ceased and all eyes turned toward Pitus. After an instant of time, in which Pitus imagined he had insulted the Chief, and breached protocol to such an extent that it likely ruined the deal his friends were consummating, a great peal of laughter broke forth in which a few of the men put their hands to their noses in a gesture of defense. For the next few minutes, Pitus was the center of attention, the dubious honor resulting in his being christened "Sha-to-ga-oche" (Drove of Buffalos). This name was particularly amusing to Two Owls who gestured at Pitus and nodded his head in agreement. Pitus, who quickly figured out that all was well by the reaction of the group playfully reared up on his side in a mock gesture of the famous maneuver, to which several of the men held forth their hands for him to be merciful and spare them. Read the full article

What if you found yourself awakened into the deep future, say a million years from now. Seems like it would be a wonderfully fascinating thing to wake up into a world like that, wouldn't it? But, what if you retained all your memories of an eon past and one of those memories was the frightful recollection that you died a common death with millions of your kind, precipitated by a calamity you yourself caused? With a conscience that without let poured acid onto your bare soul, there could be no place either now or any other time where you could live in peace, let alone, happiness. Now you can be sympathetic with the situation of the Bromilian, Sethys Torn.   Torn died an eon in the past when the Gazutins took revenge on the Bromilians for trespassing on their fifth-dimensional world. These powerful people killed Bromila by removing its sun, plunging the whole planet into a deep freeze. Sethys Torn was the team leader of the tragic expedition that entered the fifth dimension using a device called the Urn or Chalice of Jiva. He was condemned for the deaths of the other members of the expedition by the Bromilian rulers, but before their justice could be meted out, the Gazutans applied their own version of justice. This Bromila was now a dark planet adrift in interstellar space, lost to the ages until found by Pitus. Along with Peston, among others, was a Jamboroon by the name of Lugan, whose heritage was Bromilian. He was searching for Sethys for a very special reason. Sethys was found and taken back to Jamborone for burial in the family crypt. Instead, for purposes of restoration of the frozen remains, he was taken to a rather seedy Qetteran named Hanor Pipes. An accident in the laxation process revived Torn. Then it starts to get interesting. Torn was taken to Qetterxilict to convalesce from his million-year slumber. He was left by himself much of the time, but then he was not ever really alone. That noisy conscience of his hectored him ceaselessly driving him to the brink of self-destruction; With the encouraging presence of his brother and his alien friends gone, the old specter of guilt remained. Sethys looked out the window of his private solarium at the crystalline expanse of Jood. Though primitive by Sethy's standards, compared to where he came from it didn't look all that different, but for the absence of green. It took him back to his old home of Dachoon with Plato-Rachaa in the distance with its glass spires, spheres and cones stretching far out into the distance. In his mind's eye he could see beyond the city's limit to the forests covering the land in greenery until giving way to the blues and purples of the miles, until further view was blocked by gray snow-capped mountains. Artyn, the sleeping volcano, could be seen in the east from his back porch, streams of steam rising out of its snow-capped cone. Thermal energy had been tapped from its bowels for millenia. It was beautiful in Sethys' memory. Then the cloud came over and crushed his pleasant nostalgia. What would it be now on Bromila, but darkness, coldness and death? “All those I knew who were kind, talented and accomplished, who I saw transform themselves from novice to master...what became of all these?” he asked to no one but himself. “What of my friends...and all their children? They were snuffed out in their primes because of me.” A coldness swept over his soul like the opening of the door in a blizzard. “I have no place in this world. All who see me will know what I have done and wish to kill me. Maybe I should save them the trouble.” He was now standing at a window looking out over Jood. It was afternoon there, and night at Kesst on Oman. “I have no weapon to end myself, not even a knife.” He looked about the room. Not so much as a fork remained from his morning meal. There was the window, though. The solarium looked out over a sufficient height to kill with a fall. He opened the window and peered out and down at a stone paved patio below. It looked tiny from the high window. A sparse collection of people sat about at tables and lounges far below drinking in the rays of the sun. All he would have to do is lean out. Then he thought, “What if I fall and do not die? They would repair my crippled body and cheat me of death. Then I would be hated by most and pitied by the rest.” In spite of this worst case possibility, he seemed to have made his decision. Out he leaned, shifting his balance from the floor to the void outside, his feet getting lighter and lighter. Suddenly, there was a sound from behind. Then he was given the three options, one of which promised to rid him of his guilt and strike back at his old foe. Read the full article

In the GOLDEN AGE OF ROOLANDOO, Pitus managed to escape from the galaxy, but he then had to witness the terrifying spectacle of seeing both Roolandoo (Milky Way) and Angandoo (Andromeda) crushed and obliterated into a massive black hole by the hands of Nemotis. Every thing he loved and everyone he loved was gone. Now he alone lived of the trillions of sentient beings that had lived among those stars, thrown into the pitiless pit of Oogothot. The stars... even they were gone! How would you feel at such a moment? Pitus escaped from the doomed galaxies, and the enormous black hole their demise created, but then an even greater blackness confronted him. Nemotis looked down on the terrible fruit of his labor, with a hideous smile of murderous satisfaction. He then looked outward, straight toward Pitus and his ship. “No,” Pitus wailed, “pray do not see me, I beseech Almighty God!” He stared back at the gigantic form of Nemotis, like a prey paralyzed by its hunter, waiting for his strike any moment, and then the fearsome creature faded away and was gone. “He didn't see me!” Pitus said almost in a chant of elation. This feeling spent its joy quickly as the weight of understanding struck him. Pitus listened to the silence. He then heard the cadence of his heart, but nothing else. “My God! They are all gone! Billions upon billions of souls snuffed out. I am all that is left. I am utterly alone!” He had stood to watch the terrible deed come to pass. Now he fell back into his seat behind the nav-com. Aloof from all, even the sweet memory of the sound of Orinesse, rained misery upon his heart. “This is more than mortal man can bear! Guide me Lord God in this desperate time! Beside him on the console lay Atoye's brisler. Pitus reached out and clutched it. “All those I ever knew and all those teeming multitudes are gone, swallowed by the horrible Oogothot. He looked down at the weapon in his hand. Then as if by foredoomed senseless action, he cranked the barrel to maximum. The muzzle flared red with destructive power. He raised it to his temple. It would be over in an instant. Fortunately for all those lost souls and for Pitus himself, he did not press the trigger on that proton gun. He had to turn this horrid calamity around somehow. He would have to stop Arcturus Junes from committing that wanton act of murder. But How? He was not able to retrieve the Chalice of Jiva from Habine. Now even it no longer existed. There was only one other way to climb out of the the tapestry of the time, and it loomed right before his eyes; Oogothot! The idea is that since a black hole's interior is separated from the rest of this universe, it is separated also from the procession of time. The Omans knew that the conditions at the singularity in the heart of a black hole are like what existed when the Universe began; infinitely dense and stupendously hot, in the trillions of degrees. Photons emanated from this core at cosmic ray wavelengths and frequencies. As they shot forth from this core, the tremendous pull of gravity opposed them, stretching out their wavelengths through the spectrum until, as they approached the event horizon, they “tired” to an utter stop as long radio waves falling back into the depths picking up speed and energy till they returned to their master, only to begin a new doomed cycle of escape. The Omans also knew that warping space from inside the horizon displaced not only space but also time. Pitus had to go back one million years. To do this he had to enter the event horizon and sink to a certain depth (corresponding to green light), and then warp back out of it. The ship was dark energy propelled. He had to descend to the right depth and dump a large fraction of his dark fuel to create the anti gravitic thrust. He could do it but once. You know he made it. See how he did it. Read the full article

In ROOLANDOO an integral part of the story was the location of Bromila, a planet whose sun was removed by the xenophobic Gezutans as a retaliation for encroaching on their realm in fifth dimensional space. Anyone who could reach them with an expedition, they thought, could also reach them with an army. Though a short sighted and rash response, given the comparative power of the Gezutans, this was the reason the Kan-Oxx-Voo ceased to be.   Of the three planets within the KOV, Bromila was the only one with a chance of remaining intact from the assault of the Gazutans. Lon Vidia, located on our side of Milky Way, was collided with its moon. Grom Salome was baked alive by adding the mass of the Bromilian sun to the star of the Grom Salome system, doubling the surface temperature, shortening the year, and boiling all the oceans away. Bromila was the place to find the advanced technology in frozen stasis.   One of the marvels of Bromila was in the housing. In the city of Dachoon the explorers found a series of five enormous buildings greater than a mile in each dimension. Altoz, the Qetteran architect and Pitus explored one of the buildings. This is what Altoz has to say about it;   “What are you looking for, Altoz?” asked Pitus.   “This structure's heart,” said Altoz. Pitus looked at Altoz curiously. “You wax allegorical,” he said.   “This great structure,” Altoz said, “this behemoth of concrete, steel, titanium, and a hundred other things, to me is a miracle. It is like a living being.”   “How so?” asked Pitus.   Altoz pointed upward to the ceiling. “Those pipes carry everything from water, to fuel, to air, just like the arteries and veins of our bodies nourish and sustain ourselves.” He pointed along the walls. In a technology like this, one would not expect wiring, but here it is. It is the robust nervous system of this place taking energy, light, and heat to every corner of its frame. These massive columns,” he said pointing to one nearby, “make up the enormous frame like our bones gives form to our bodies. The many processors, computers, and 'smart' sensors, make up the brain of this place. To a philosopher this may never have been alive, but any engineer with a heart would tell you otherwise.”   “I see your point,” said Pitus, “and to it, the people within its walls are like the beneficial microbes that sustain it and fend off disease.”   “You do see my point,” said Altoz. “I want to see the heating units, the center of electrical power, and the machines that get water to the faucets on the five-hundredth floor. I also want to see if this building has some sort of gravity-inertial assist, or if it is stand-alone construction.”   I can't claim this as an original idea. I heard it at work one day from an engineer “with heart”. Read the full article

Having only my own experience, that is, the experience of mankind, I tried to imagine what a belief in the supernatural would be for the many societies of aliens Pitus Peston encountered in his peregrinations. I established this concept right from the beginning in GODS OF OMAN, after Pitus managed to get into the Oman ship and begin to understand the computers and data contained therein. As Pitus was taking in the information of the data files, he ran across the Book of Aldit-Hor. This was the Oman version of Genesis. It seemed logical to me that any sentient race would have someone, just like us, who asked the big questions, and may have a cultural belief in a first cause, aka god. In VENDETTA, I came up with a creation story for the Omans, and in the GOLDEN AGE OF ROOLANDOO I took it to the next level. Orban, the “CEO” of Oman society, was an accomplished scholar in philosophy and history. He was well versed in the Oman creation legend. When he was delving into the private correspondence of one Brubek Talos with Hibber, the Shakespeare of Oman literature, Talos revealed that Aldit-Hor was a Gezutan! Here's the moment that Orban discovered this in his perusal of the Talos letters; “Some of this is in the Quomadrin,” thought Orban. “but not the method they used. Where in Aldit's nose did he learn about this?” The screen's brightness began to weary his eyes. Orban tapped a spot on the keypad a couple of times and softened the background. Two taps on another spot sharpened the contrast. “Keep.” he said. The computer retained the settings. He scrolled to the next page. “Though the investigators had no notion that solid matter could exist with just three spacial dimensions, its sudden appearance was undeniable. Three members of the scientific team, Dartu-Zee, Aldit-Hor, and Kinnan-Linn entered this new realm to investigate.” “Kinnan-Linn and Aldit-Hor...,” breathed Orban. “Not gods, but sentient, and powerful creatures...no wonder this was hidden.” Orban stopped and sat back in his chair. As youths, he and all other Omans were taught the Creation Story. In it, Aldit-Hor was named the Lord of all Creation. How many times through his long life did he call reverently and otherwise upon the name of this 'God'? Now he would have to spell God with a small g. Orban remained motionless for a long moment. He loved gaining knowledge. It was the serum of his soul. This however, sent tremors through his utter foundation. “My piety just went to perdition!” He stared off into the room that now seemed to close in on him along with the rest of the universe. A quote from Hibber came to mind. “Learning is not always pleasant. To learn, one must take risks.” This bothered him so much that he desperately attempted to ascribe divine nature to his fast retreating deities by applying the known holy attributes: He took a pause, and a swig of forte. Instantly a disturbing thought came back. His new crisis of faith was dogging him. If Aldit-Hor was a person, even from a greater dimension, he was still a person with a beginning and maybe an end. How then, could he continue to believe in this person who every other Oman believed to be an eternal deity? He suddenly realized that he was an oman cast adrift in a sea without even a flotsam of faith to grab onto in times of spiritual peril. A wave of loneliness and cold fragility swept over him. Somehow he had to think around this spiritual catastrophe. Orban reviewed the Oman list of attributes for God; “Omnipotence,” he thought, “Power and might without limit. If they could destroy the Universe, that would qualify. Eternal: What we know about higher dimensions excludes time as a controlling factor. Infinitude: If their universe includes ours, it suggests something greater. It might not be eternal by our understanding, but it could be for practical purposes. I will give them that as well. Sovereignty: I believe they showed that. The remaining attributes of wisdom, holiness, omniscience, faithfulness, omnipresence, self existence, I do not know. As to Love, mercy, justice, and goodness, I do not see it, with the possible exception of Dartu-Zee. She showed all these qualities. If I must have a god to believe in to settle my spirit, then it shall be Her.” He at last, found that flotsam of faith in the waves to grab on to. Almost instantly, a calming sense of stability washed over him. He smiled and reached once again for a hit off the bottle of forte, sort of as a celebration.” I relate this because, almost anyone who reads the Pitus Peston stories from HARNUK on will like Orban. He seems always like the “adult in the room”, yet he has his vulnerabilities like everyone else. By the way, if I am starting to lose some of the more devout Christians with my “alternative liturgy”, if you persevere to the end of ROOLANDOO, you will see that I have vindicated myself. Read the full article

Some writers can take a piece of paper and draw a plot line on it and fit in every detail of their prospective story on this line. If only I had this degree of organization! I have to get some idea of what I want to write about, of course- maybe cluster a few ideas together for me to launch into the thing. That is the extent of my story conception. I have to get into it and then see where it goes. In truth, if I knew every detail of the story I was about to write, I probably wouldn't bother writing it. This writing thing for me has to be fun, and fun is finding new things, uncovering hidden treasures of ideas, and being surprised by what comes “down the chute”. After all, I mentioned in one of my first blogs that I started doing this for a relief from boredom. Knowing everything that is happening or is going to happen might be good for feelings of security, but, let's face it; it would be boring as hell. I used to dig in old dumps for bottles when I was a kid. It was fun because I was grubbing around in the dirt for something of value, when there was no guarantee that I would find anything. It was a form of prospecting. The real fun starts when a scrape in the wall of the pit you dug reveals the base of a bottle you recognize as potentially valuable. Maybe it is a first glimpse of a cobalt blue bottle. Cobalt blue is often used for poison bottles and nearly all of them are worth big bucks. Maybe the base has that scar of glass in the center. This means that it is a hand made bottle at least as old as the Civil War era. Again, big bucks. Admittedly, most often the prize turns out to be something less hot, or you tug on the bottle to find out it is only half a bottle. It's the same with thoughts. A lot of them turn out to be emotionally flat, or something that seems good in the moment, but turn out to block a better idea formed later. Then you are faced with canning a few thousand previously inspired words in order to follow the new direction the story is heading. I don't lament this overmuch. I use cut to remove the stuff that's not working, but then I paste it into a catchall folder, just in case it turns out to be useful some place else. My neighbor used to save the plastic bags from inside the cereal boxes. I do the same thing with swatches of paragraphs and phrases. My patchwork method may not be efficient, but if I sew together enough swatches of the right material in the right shape in the right place, I end up with a full-size garment. I have five of them in my closet. Why not try one of them on?   Read the full article

I just love books. I like collecting them, reading them, writing them, and even repairing them. I started some years ago assembling my legacy library, full of ancient and medieval history, early technology, philosophy, religion, 19th, 18th, and 17th century literature. I am trying to get a hold on learning to read Latin and spent no small amount of money on very old books in that language so as to have some “skin” in the endeavor. “O or m, s, t, mus tis unt....” you Latin language students all know that chant! I learned the rudiments of book binding from a master craftsman by the name of George Baer who lived retired in Bolton Landing (think Lake George). This was back in 1972. Then there came college, marriage, raising the kids, and working almost every day. Not much time for book binding. Then...59 ½ came and I could get into my retirement savings. I had a 30 by 32 steel building built with a polished cement floor, gas fireplace (wood smoke is bad for books), wall space for paintings and copperplate engravings, Persian rugs, AND, plenty of room for 300 feet of book shelves. They are nearly filled to capacity already. Most books past 200 years of age come to me in rather bad shape. The leather covers, if still present, almost always are broken off the text block, due to the dried out old leather giving out at the hinges. There are sometimes stains, from being partly immersed in floods, spines scorched by fires, and some are in such a state that, to make them readable, I would have to totally dismantle them, re-join the pages, sew them back into a book, and put a new leather or book cloth cover on them. I'm sure I would cringe if I could hear the story of what some of the books I have reconstructed went through during their two or three century lives. On the other hand, the quality of the linen based paper of the really old books is often so good, well, I have a 1652 copy of Thomas Fuller's The Holy State, the pages of which are as porcelain white as what you may have just put into the tray of your copier. As I was typing this blog into my computer, I took a second to glance at a 2011 newspaper clipping of me when I finished my third book, PITUS PESTON AND THE LOOSE END. It sets in the frame on my wall the color of weak tea. The difference in quality between old and new screams at me sometimes. Restoring books has to be something that you love to do. The work is often tedious. What keeps the fire in my belly from going out? If I do a good job of it, there is a very good chance that the three or four hundred-year-old tome I rescue from perdition may get to be read by someone in the 23rd or 24th century. Maybe even some Jean-Luc Piccard will take it for a ride into space! Read the full article