YOU ARE CURRENTLY SEEING BLOG POSTS IN PROPER CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER. While in this mode, the links at the bottom and top of each page are not correctly labeled. However, the left pointing arrow always advances forward in time, and the right pointing arrow retreats.
Since, amazingly, I’m still around, we’re starting the next — and probably the last — narrative. I’m calling it “The Asclepion.” Which (for those lots of you who don’t know ancient Greek and those few who don’t know how to Google) refers to a healing temple.
There will be lots of authors for this part, not just me or Janice. Also, it might get into real time. I’ve set things up so Menniss can insert things by himself.
That seems to make him nervous so he’s sending things to me and I’m fixing em up a bit. I asked Francine if she’d contribute too, but she hasn’t said yes. (She hasn’t said no either. She’s frying size-dwarfing fish.) So, in the mean time, I’m going to write her parts all on my own, with a lot of poetic license. — Ox
Actually, he wrote most of Narrative 4 too and his parts of Narrative 6, only he didn’t know he was writing a narrative. You see, he got in a confessing mood after he realized what a major creep he’d been, and I let him confess everything to me. In writing. And then I posted it.
(Didn’t tell him about the posting. Oops.)
Anyway, he’s a colorful writer, if a bit black and white. And depressing as heck. — Ox
FYI, The Asclepion is almost real time now. Live blogging immortality!
In case bad stuff happens, I got two writers stashed away safe, and they’ll keep writing (maybe working with raw stuff from Menniss or even Francine.)
Why am I so sanguine about the bad stuff? Why don’t I freak like Menniss did? Because of two reasons, one big one and the other one pretty big too.
And two other reasons.
Reason # 3: I just don’t freak. A little Ox apologia here:
We live in a world where critters eat each other alive. All the time. Foxes do it. Birds do it. (Bees don’t do it so much, but they’re an exception. Actually, most bees don’t do the other thing either.)
The other day, I watched a horse rip a dandelion from the ground and even though there wasn’t very much blood I thought: Yi, yi, it’s a tough world. And that’s not even getting into what bacteria do, the little monsters.
Also, horribly sad stuff happens, if not to you than to other people. So you have to find a way to deal.
My solution: be Oxadrenals.
(What’s your solution? Even if you haven’t personally outlived your children, I can guarantee pretty much every second it’s happening to someone in the world. Don’t they count? Is it just their problem?)
Reason # 4 The people I have workingdown here are creative, unpredictable and half crazy. Like me. Not a single solid, studious type.
Which makes it hard for the Illuminati. They’re too organized, thoughtful and sane to figure us out. We don’t throw straight punches. Everything we do comes at em like a left hook from nowhere. — Ox
The latest update by Janice is so intensely beautiful I’m reproducing most of it here:
Rembrandt’s paintings don’t just show faces. They bring out what’s behind the face; they show thoughts and feelings; they show souls. Other painters do that too, but I think Rembrandt’s the best, especially for old people. And Leyla was really, really old. She had big white cataracts across both eyes and swollen legs and blue lips, but the main thing was the wrinkles. Like when they put an old Native American on the cover of National Geographic and all you can do is stare at the wrinkles and see stories? Leyla had lived three and a half thousand years, give or take, and her wrinkles were Grand Canyon deep with stories. So deep you could go backpacking in them. (more…)
OK, what Kate wrote in her comment got me thinking. She’s right. This really might be too much for Francine.
Not sure what to do. — Janice
This is the final installment of the Asclepion,written by two of my ghostwriters, “SB” and “KT.” They put it in first person, but it’s actually made up out of what the camera and microphones showed them.
ObservingAll will shortly make an announcement that shows how well I sing the froid. (gulp) — Ox