New Digs

    2022 has been a year, already of upheaval. This also includes the reassignment of my professional life.

    After sixteen years, during which I studied and credentialed in a specialized field. I am moving across to another tract to see out my working life. I am hoping that the return to less combative late night telephone conversations and a regular schedule will allow for the completion of the major project, which, must be completed.

Workmanship of a Writer

 

Uggh.

California is about to go back into lockdown as the Covid 19 virus continues to ransack the State. Not all Counties will go into lock down to the same degree, nor at the same time. This creates a situation for me as a writer as my residency and office are located in two different counties, approximately eighty (80) miles apart.

Eighty miles is a long way for a virus to move when everything is shut down. A secondary residency has been taken in a hotel where I can shelter in place for as long as needed without bankrupting the accounts.  Ideally, days at a time are preferred, not weeks.

My Father, currently located in a  state where the temperatures are reaching almost 50 Celsius, has ridden out the winter of the virus, but unlike Southern California, there are less people per square mile in Australia. Social distancing is automatic in a country of sweeping plains. 

The completion of works during this time has not occurred, not through failure, but with the occupancy of time by virus impediments, I would say that I written less this year than last.

Not the greatest workmanship of a writer when compared to Stephen King or James Patterson. 

The Preservation of One

   Everyone who was alive, knows where they were on this day in 2001. It ranks higher than the Kennedy Assassination, Man on the Moon, even the passing of Elvis.

   It even outweighs the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor. 

   Of the four events I mentioned, only one is joyous. We recall the horrors of our life, and I am no exception.

   The events of September 11 2001 changed the world, and my path on this world. With hindsight now, I can pinpoint that moment as the change in my professional life, which subsequently resulted in my immigration to the United States. 

    After the events of September 11, there was nothing I could do to help those, but, with the skillset I had previously acquired, I could help those going forward. Even if those going forward, number just one.

    As the Covid 19 situation in California continues to contain me in my residency, as  tend to someone who cannot, or should not, venture outside. Additionally, the California Wildfires place a heavier burden with reduced air quality. Again, as I tend to someone who cannot, or should not, venture outside.

    Sometimes the service we provide is not for the betterment of all, but for the preservation of the one. 

Lap 54, Day 162

 

Second half. 

As the California "stay at home" orders continue to escalate with the returning surge of Covid-19, the desire to write is,,,diminishing. It's not that I don't have the discipline, it's more along the lines that other than medical facilities, it's been five months inside the same room.  Some call it cabin fever.

I always thought that I could single handed sail long distances. Not necessarily a circumnavigation, but I thought I could do oceanic crossings, stay a while, continue on. Maybe I will have that ability one day but after five months, I'm no so sure.

Today I celebrated another lap of the solar system and head out again, without my daughters. In a conversation with my Father this evening I spoke briefly about them. He, the man who lost his own children, but regained them miraculously, was a better Father than I. I never regained mine.

Still, I had lasagna tonight as if they were here. 

Day 147

   One hundred and forty seven days ago I went into isolation with the California lockdown. That's five months. The "need" to remain at  home isolated from the pandemic was a "protection" assignment. Protecting someone else.

  In five months I have gained about fifteen pounds, predominately through inactivity. Just recently I have begun a light exercise program in which I ensure that the dogs (plural) are walked each night.  They are not my dogs.

  The days are somewhat disjointed as there is not regimented rising time, but the meals are as scheduled three times a day - with a slight variance for the evening meal based on travel time for another occupant of the house. I'm not making two evening meals a day.

  Before I came to the United States, I was an accomplished sailor on the racing circuit. I often wondered if I had it in me to sail single handed long distances. Though I never aspired to sole circumnavigate the globe, it was a question in my mind of could I transfer my race skills to cruising skills.

  I'm no longer sure I could solo circumnavigate. I'm sure that the days would be vastly different but in my twelve square feet office, I have found myself...wandering about. There is always something to do, but not always something I want to do.  And I found the reason for that.

  It's been one hundred and forty seven days since I went into isolation. That's five months. 

    They're not my dogs. 5 Months.  One hundred and forty seven days. 

Citizenship Forthcoming

  Citizenship!

  The USINS has announced that their offices are reopening, and my citizenship ceremony has been scheduled for 24 June 2020.

  Fifteen years and a day after I was granted a Green Card, the long road has come to an end

  With the Covid19 situation in California returning to pandemic levels, there will be no fanfare, no open ceremony, no guests.

  A quiet introduction into my new country or origin.

40 Days and 40 Nights

  40 days and 40nights have passed since I personally went into isolation due to the pandemic.

  Accomplishments? Not a lot, other than surviving.

  Did I have to accomplish anything in this time? No.

  Did I need to accomplish anything in this time?  No.

  What happened was during this time, others who were in need turned to me for their safety so that they did not fall to the virus.

  And what did I gain out this?

  Nothing.

  But I wasn't expecting to. I just did my job, as an essential worker to the two people who needed it the most.

  And, I did write a lot more than I expected.

California...feels like 1974.

  California, during the pandemic, fells like 1974.

  In 1974, my parents were living in the married quarters of the local army base. On a Saturday morning, my mother would drive about 20 minutes away to a large retail center where we would do our grocery shopping. The aisles were packed as trading on a Saturday ceased at either noon or 12:30pm.

  Up and down the aisles we would travel, filling the cart, amid the noise of people chatting. If you weren't in the store when the doors open, by the time you reached some sections, the shelves would be bare and from past experiences, you knew that they would not be restocked before the end of the day, so you moved on without that item.

  At the checkouts there were lines of people seven and eight deep, but there was room to move as each shopper gave a courtesy to the other occupants in the store. The groceries and items were bagged into a light brown paper bag, and placed back in the cart.

  The parking lot was multi level, so on days when you parked on the lowest level, when you exited the store, you couldn't tell what the weather was like. You would look down and see streams of water beginning to run downhill through the parking lot and you knew it was raining. If you were exiting the store at noon, the rush would be over, and you might see the other stores closing up for the weekend. By the time 1:00pm arrived, everything was closed. People were home, no one was on the street, traffic was non existent.

  California feels a bit like those Saturday mornings in 1974. With the health issue across the nation, the eyes that I have 46 years later take in a different perspective, but it still has the same feel about.

  Except that in 1974, those were some of the best memories of my childhood. Not a lot of memories from the Covid crisis that I want to carry for the next 46 years. 

The Abduction of Sarah

 

                It is twelve years today since I last saw my youngest daughter, Sarah. At the time, she was twelve years and thirteen days old. In a few weeks when Christmas arrives, I will have not seen my Daughter for more than half of her life.

                And what atrocity occurred to warrant this segregation of Daughter and Father?

                Her Mother and I divorced.

                Weeks after our divorce, her Mother remarried, and later had a child with the other man. Sarah became the “lost” child, as her Mother began to fabricate a life for her new family. Apparently, unnoticed by her Mother, Sarah slipped into a life of vice and crime, and like all divorced Fathers, I found out about it too late. Upon learning of her situation, when I telephoned Sarah’s school principal, I was informed that Sarah was “a child at risk.”

                I telephoned her Mother and suggested that Sarah reside with me, where Sarah could be monitored and have oversight while she corrected her ways and got on with her schooling. Within seven days of that conversation, her Mother absconded with our child, fled across three State lines, and took up residency in a jurisdiction where I had no reach.

                Had I done those same actions, there would be Amber alerts, wall to wall television coverage until the child was found, and then, I would have been swiftly incarcerated. But, because it was her Mother that broke the same Federal and State laws that I am bound to, there would be no repercussions, no enforcement and no consequences.

                Her Mother would rather destroy the child, than co parent with me.

                And I would have to start over, again. Except this time, I would have to restart the documentation to ensure access to our child with another country, another state, another government and another school.

                The slippage of time would rob me of her 13^th through 21^st birthdays. I would not know of her milestone events, her health, her academic awards, or her graduation. There would be no Christmas or holidays together, and my Father became collateral damage, unable to see his Grandchild. This would be in addition, to whatever lies the child was told about me.

                When the telephone went unanswered at our scheduled calling time, her mail began to be returned. Scrawled in her Mother’s handwriting on the envelopes and packages were the words “no longer at this address”.

                It would be years before I could classify her Mother’s actions as “Parental Alienation.”  I’d always treated her Mothers actions as nothing less than child abduction, albeit the discovery was after the fact.

                A parent knows within minutes, sometimes hours, when their child is abducted. An alienated parent doesn’t find out until much later.

                The parent of an abducted child has multiple law enforcement agencies chasing down leads, investigating sightings and sharing information. An alienated parent has to do their own leg work.

                The parent of an abducted child fears for their child’s life. An alienated parent fears that the child will never recover their life.

                The parent of an abducted child knows that the longer it takes, the less likelihood the child will be found.  An alienated parent usually starts at this point, as they learn of what has already occurred. They are playing from behind the moment they discover that their child has been “abducted”. For me, it was almost nine months before I uncovered that Sarah was “a child at risk”.  A perpetrator given nine months head start knows that the authorities have little chance of catching them.

                It is too late for my youngest daughter, Sarah. If She is still alive, She is now an adult who chooses to have no contact with her Father. It is reasonable to assume that Sarah was told lies by her Mother, which She accepted as truth, as I was not physically present to refute them. My only hope is to wait until my daughter questions one of those lies, and then seeks me out to verify. I pray that Sarah has better critical thinking skills that Her Mother.  Sarah’s Mother is also the daughter of an alienated Father.

                Before we were married, her Mother and I were walking along the beach together when we ran into her Father. In the weeks thereafter, Sarah’s Mother sought clarity over the horror stories that Her Mother had told, and her Father refuted them. When Sarah’s Mother independently verified her Father’s version, She learned that Her Mother had manufactured the stories about her Father, in order to cover up immoral sins. Sarah’s Mother choose not to repair the relationship with her Father, because She could not accept that her Mother’s account of her Father’s absence in her life, were all lies.

                It is twelve years today since I last saw my youngest daughter, Sarah. At the time she was twelve years and thirteen days old. You can diminish the actions of her Mother to “Parental Alienation” as much as you like, but as her Father, this is the story of the abduction of my youngest daughter, Sarah.

The Path to Citizenship

  Not going to be a happy end of year.

  The Path to Citizenship started today with the submission of an application and the payment of fees.

  With the Daughters gone, there is no longer a reason to not obtain the permanency of my adopted country.

  As a Dear Old Friend continues to remind me, "this is now my home."

  They are not yet convinced. nor am I.

Not The Other Way Round

  There is nothing That I am enjoying, about caring for an elderly parent.

  There is little that I am, personally, accomplishing, either writing, or any in other important facet of my life.

  However, in despair, there suddenly appears a signal.

  A discussion that was had several months ago, returned to me laying in bed earlier this week. A possible second major project, broken into three parts, covering three parts of the State of California.

  I hate to propose any matter at this time, the time required for me to care for the elderly parent has to be fitted around the writing, not the other way round.

To Get The Message

  Another Saturday night at home.

  Again.

  My eye is sore. My foot is bleeding from a fall. My glasses are bent.

  Life is (almost) good.

  These are the challenges that age brings to writers.

  Some people learn the first time. Others, need to loose everything two...maybe three times, to get the message. 

Demons, Awaiting the Arrival

  All writers abhor going home.

  For some, it's a case of not having achieved enough. For others, it's a case of facing the music on what they have achieved.

  For I, it's facing the demons.

  I have looked at photographs and not recognized my hometown. I have examined a map and not know locations. I have emailed others, to be greeted by non response.

  The demons are awaiting my arrival.

Photoshoot

Photoshoot.

Not All Bad - Part II

Recall I said that it wasn't all bad after I submitted a feature article, the first in three years?

Look for the article to be published in the coming months.  Submission accepted.

Not All Bad

Not all bad things have evolved from this period.

Yesterday I was able to submit a feature article, the first such submission in almost three years. Why?

For the past three years I have been gainfully employed in an industry that pays for a forty hour week and demands a hundred hour week. Between the Southern California commute and sleeping, I can examine almost every aspect of my life that has been vanquished for the industry. It is not wonder now that my body is sleeping more, recovering from the damage that has been exerted.

That doesn't pay the bills though.

Not out of the woods yet.

I'll get there after I have a nap. 

Protecting The Writting Time

  At 16:45 Friday 30 March 2018,  Good Friday the world changed.

  The much maligned opportunity to acquire quality writing time came to fruition and presented itself before me as an initial unwelcome visitor. While the past seven days have been spent composing documents for the annual tax return, I have been allowed to make notes, jot ideas and began composing a feature story that I have long held dear to my heart.

  I have also returned to a evolving story line, also near and dear to my heart, which holds a partial connection to the previously mentioned feature story. That developing story has also had more attention to it in the past seven days that it has had in the prior months.

  Not every one gets another opportunity to write. This one, shall be protected.

Healthy Time

Earlier this week I was in San Francisco, a city I first visited in the 20th Century.  Since then, I have made a number of return journeys to the city. Business,  work, and with my family.  It is the location of the moment when I realized that my Father's health was failing.

This week, it became the catalyst for a change of direction.

I'm runnin out of healthy time. 

Writer's Lament for 2017

At this time in December,  most people look back on their accomplishments and make resolutions for the next year

As a writer, 2017 was the first year I did not have a major publication. How did this happen?

In December 2016 I received a new assignment at my employment. That task was a lot of creation and documentation. I was just getting the place secure when in July I received another assignment. That, my current assignment, has blacked out my writing time as I grapple with sixteen hours days seven days a week.

Not that it's an excuse, but it robbed my writing time. Lesson learned: protect my writing time.

T'was not as though I did not write, I wrote in the moments that I could, in the arenas I am comfortable with, in the genres I tried. I just didn't "follow through" and spec enough to have a major publication.

2018 will need several major publications.

Happy New Year.

Vale Murphy

Vale, Murphy.

Geocacher, author, friend.