Angel in the Night

More than a decade ago, I'd just gotten my first SLR, off eBay, for Christmas, and I was trying to take pictures of everything.  There was an angel statue at an outdoor garden shop that I was enamored of.  Unfortunately, the owners didn't want to let me.  Not being one to allow that to stop me, I drafted a friend to bring me back in the middle of the night to sneak in and keep watch while I took a few.  These are a couple I came across.  You'll excuse the scanning quality, as technology wasn't what it is now, but I'm still proud of them, all the same. 

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Anne in Bloom

While I realize that everyone who gets a new camera goes right out to shoot flowers, because both camera and subject lend themselves well to it and are therefore excellent ways to get to one's footing in photography, I had no intention of doing so.  But then Anne, our peace lily, began to bloom for the first time in the years she's been with us.  There's a story there, and isn't there always, but the timing of her debut moved me deeply.  Anyway, enjoy the pictures.

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Mystery Story - Part One (Rough Draft)

In the books I read as a kid, a case always started with a smoking hot girl walking into the office.  She was all long legs, big eyes and new-to-the-city innocence, with a dash of that ephemeral wanton charm bubbling just beneath the surface, practically bursting to be let out for the dashing hero.  Me, I get world-weary, middle-aged nuns.  I’m not sure if that says something about the world or my status as a hero. 

Not that I’d ever claim to be a hero.  Heroism is a tiresome, thankless job, and I very much like to be thanked.  With money.  And the occasional show of feminine affection.  Looking at the sister, I didn’t figure I’d get much of either.  I sighed inwardly and smiled my best welcoming smile, motioning for her to take a seat in the big, cushy chair across from mine.  While I had a desk, it was buried somewhere in the corner beneath books, papers and sundry other things esoteric and geeky.

She sat down, perfect posture, and I heard the jangle of keys.  She wasn’t carrying a purse. 

“What can I do for you, sister?” I asked, putting my feet up on the ottoman. 

“I’m not sure,” she replied, actually managing to almost completely suppress her disapproval over my somewhat lax attitude toward professionalism. 

In my defense, I wasn’t technically a professional anything.  I was mostly just a guy who got things done for people who needed it.

“I’ve found that often makes my job a little tougher, though not always impossible,” I told her, grinning. 

She didn’t return it.  Instead, she gave my boots a quick glance, then looked back at me, her eyebrows lifting microscopically.  Unable to break her gaze, I felt my legs, seemingly of their own accord, slowly withdrawing and finding a place on the floor as my back straightened.  She gave me a barely perceptible nod, as if the world was again as it should be.  I’d have suspected her of witchcraft, but there was no magic involved, just sheer force of will.  I think I even sat up a little straighter.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.  “Mind if I ask why you’re here?  I don’t tend to get a lot of, ah, non-secular visitors.”

“I understand,” she said.  “I’ll admit that I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important, or if I hadn’t exhausted my other options.  You are truly my last resort.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” I replied dryly.  It didn’t faze her. 

“I was sent here by a friend,” she continued.  “Not a member of the congregation, of course, but someone who I knew from before I received the calling.”

“Mind if I ask who?” I was curious, as my line of work made it so that I was strictly word-of-mouth.  There wasn’t a listing in the yellow pages for guys who were willing to use not-strictly-legal means to solve problems. 

“I do,” she said curtly.

“Fair enough,” I shrugged.  “Go on.”  Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.  “Please,” I added quickly.

“A few months ago, one of our postulants…” she began.

“Sorry, postulant?”

“A young woman who sought to enter the order, but had yet to take her vows,” she clarified.  I nodded.  “Her name was Abby.”

She hesitated and I studied her face.  The hard lines I’d mistaken for the standard prim and proper stiffness of religious types, I realized were the scars of a life lived by someone who rarely took the easy way out.  There were wrinkles, sure, like the worry-lines dug deep in her forehead, but there were also the little lines at the edge of a mouth that was used to smiling.  It was the kind of armor you developed whether you liked it or not when you saw the worst of the world day in and day out, fought the darkness, losing more than you won, but still kept pushing to make it better anyway.  I leaned in closer.

“Take your time,” I told her.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

She took a deep, steadying breath before she went on, her hand reaching into the pocket of her coat.  She closed her eyes for a moment and when she looked up at me, I saw a deep sadness in her eyes.

“Abby was special,” she told me earnestly.  “She came from a…difficult background.  Her family didn’t have much, and what they did have, she saw little of.  Her mother didn’t have time for her and her father…” Her voice trailed off.  I nodded, my jaw tightening.  She didn’t need to say it.

“I remember the day she arrived at the convent,” she went on, a proud, fierce smile creeping across her face.  “She couldn’t have been a day over seventeen and obviously hadn’t eaten in days and hadn’t slept.  There were bruises and track marks on her arms and I could see she’d been crying, but she held herself up straight.  She said she’d heard the call and it was time for her to make a new life.”

“So she was an addict?” I asked, gently as I could.

“She was,” the sister replied, placing a heavy emphasis on was.  She held up her hand as if to stop me from going any further.  “But that isn’t all she was.”

I nodded.  “People aren’t usually just the one thing, when it comes down to it,” I told her.  She seemed to approve.

“I’ll be the first to admit that there was a period of acclimation with Abby.  I sat with her many of those first nights, while the vestiges of it left her system.  It wasn’t easy,” she said matter-of-factly.  “It never is.  But it wasn’t my first time, nor is it likely to be my last.”

“Once it was all over, though, Abby became one of the most devoted postulants I’ve ever known.  She had one of the brightest, most insatiable minds I’d ever come across, and that kind of energy you only find in the young and those touched by God.  I think she was both.”

“She sounds like a good kid,” I offered.

“She is.  She has a talent for doing the real work of Christ, the charity and the outreach.  She told me once that the reason God had made her life the way it had been was so she could better understand and help those around her.”  The sister’s eyes shone as she spoke, her voice thick. 

At her age, that kind of wisdom was both beautiful and heartbreaking.  I’d known kids like Abby.  I wish I could say they’d all made it out like she had, but I try not to only lie to myself about the things that don’t matter.

“There was nothing in the world that meant more to her than helping others.  She was driven and kind and wonderfully compassionate.  She…,” her voice trailed off.

“What happened to Abby?”

The sister’s eyes fluttered and she swallowed hard.  “That’s the problem, Mr. Andrus,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.  “We don't know.”

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A Thought: On the Burden of Blessings

If you are strong, it is your place to shoulder the burden of others, until they are able to shoulder it themselves.  If you are wise, it is your place to foster enlightenment.  If you are intelligent, it is your place to teach.  In so doing, those you have helped, as once you were, are then responsible for doing the same for others, thus lightening the weight you must carry in the world, because of those blessings.

Total self-sufficiency is a myth propagated by those who do not wish to share their own blessings, whether out of ignorance or selfishness.  We are all helped, daily, by those around us, even if we don't realize it.  We were raised, we were educated, if we fall, there are those will are willing and able to catch us, for as long as we need it.  If everyone gave a little, it would not be an unreasonable burden for anyone. Read more!

A Request (or Two)...

In order to become a better writer, I'm constantly reading books about writing by authors whose work I enjoy.  One that I've come back to over and over again is Bradbury's Zen and the Art of Writing.  I got it for my first Dead Day Party, from a friend of mine, and I've loved it since.  Every writer should read it.  Seriously.

That being said, one of the things Bradbury said he did to become a better writer was, of course, to write every day.  The problem, though, is that even the best imaginations (and I think a case could be made that he fits that category well) need a little bit of a kickstart now and then.

I've also been wanting to work on flash fiction, which is writing a story in a thousand words or less.  It teaches a writer to hone technique and get better at saying more with less.  So I propose this strategy, and as for your help.  Give me titles (let's keep it work safe, please) and I'll pick one a day to write a story of 1,000 words or less, then post it here.  I'll attempt to do one a day for every day of June.  Give me as many as you like, and I'll always be sure to give you credit.  If you got here via stumble, digg, facebook or anything else, feel free to post in the comments and please like me so I can get more folks helping out.  Thanks!


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A Thought: On Humidity

If there is more than a ten degree difference between the actual temperature and the, "how it feels," temperature, it's too damned humid. Read more!

Let Me Tell You About the Day I Died

Let Me Tell You About The Day I Died

Let me tell you what I remember

About the day I died.

I’d like to say

The birds were singing

The sun was shining

And I woke up with a smile.

But the truth is,

And the truth is important,

That I don’t remember.

There was no rain,

And, as it was spring,

There was likely a bird or two.

You hear people say,

“In the end,

It’s the little things that matter.”

That’s truth, it is,

But it isn’t.

And it’s not their fault,

They don’t know,

Can’t know,

Because it isn’t the end for them.

Close, yes,

But, at the end,

The very end,

When vision fades,

There are no words.

Only breaths,

One, then another,

And sound.

I didn’t see my life,

Which they also said would happen.

I heard it,

Hours, years,

In a moment,

As I passed.

The Carpenters,

As performed by a music box,

A song to which I knew no words.

The jump-up excitement

Of Benny Goodman

And his slow, nameless instrumentals

To which they danced

Across the living room,

When I was a child.

There were Motown medleys,

A healthy dose of grunge,

Classical, folk, jazz and the blues,
Even a little country,

And more 80s pop

Than strictly necessary.

(Not that I complained,

Never.)

Hallelujahs, Famous Blue Raincoats,

The Smiths, of course,
Singing me to sleep,

And The Beatles,

A thousand others,

Carrying me into,

And back out of,

My life.

Conjuring faces,
Memories, people, places,
Things I'd lost,
Some found, some not,
Heartbreak and hope

Fade to Black,

Because he said it was his,

Hang,

Because I said it was his.

All in All,

A touch of Sarah McLachlan,

And some Mazzy Star,

For her.

Near the end,

And I knew it was,
In that way you do,

The Counting Crows

And memories of two children

Sitting in the grass

Of my grandmother’s house

In a world no one else saw.

Finally,

As the music faded,

I heard her singing to me,

Maybe she was,

I could almost feel her hand,

That I was her sunshine.

And I was happy.

-Z. Hebert

05/22/12

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Kickstarter: Wolve's in the Walls

Superb local playwright Cody Daigle has adapted Neil Gaiman's wonderful, "Wolves in the Walls," for the stage, to debut here in Lafayette. Please, please, PLEASE help make this happen. Re-post, share, donate, even if it's just a little. I guarantee it will be worth your time. Even Gaiman himself has donated.

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A Thought: On Astronomers and Astrologers

The key difference between astrologers and astronomers is that each think the other is missing the point. Read more!

A Thought: On Video Game Heroes

Video Game Heroes: Subverting natural selection in countless fantasy worlds since the early 80s. Read more!

Lost in Diablo

You wouldn't think that even Blizzard, masters of the sly homage, could manage to sneak a reference to a show like Lost into a game like Diablo 3, but there I was, wandering the desert, when I stumbled upon it. Read more!

A Thought: On Whiners

Seriously, people.  The online necessity for playing Diablo 3 does kind of suck.  But I haven't heard this much uproar over the inherent unfairness of anything in a long time.  You all knew six months ago that it was going to require an online connection to play, so you didn't HAVE to buy it.  You don't HAVE to play it.  You could, if you were really that upset about it, just not buy the damned game.  You aren't being forced to do anything.  You are choosing to accept it.  If these were teenagers, I MIGHT be more lenient, but these are adults, my age and older.  Grow up.

How about you start getting indignant about something that actually matters?  You can't play your video game?  That must suck for you.  Where is your rage over the state of our country's education system?  What about the fact that the vast majority of the country is suffering because of divisive politics and the rampant pursuit of profits?  

Also, the game is stupidly fun and runs flawlessly.  That is all. Read more!

An Ominous Morn...

And so I arose, making my way across the vast plains of the internet, and found them nearly barren.  Nowhere on the boards was a voice raised, save for the mad ramblings of those who had been there, seen it happen.  The world of Azeroth, and all its paler cousins, all but empty, and no sound save the subtle, omnipresent hum of the download servers at far-off Blizzard and the fierce, feverish click of a million mice.  For, as I slept, Diablo had returned. Read more!

A Thought: On What to Carry and What to Leave Behind

I think part of finding happiness is life is in learning what to carry from the past to the future.  Always carry the happy things, even, or especially, when they're rare, so that when they aren't around, you have something to hold to.  As for the bad, the mistakes and the worries and the heartache, only carry them long enough to learn what they're meant to teach you, then thank them, leave them by the road and keep moving, taking with you only the lesson, not the sorrow, as the latter will weigh you down, while the former will lift you up. Read more!

Book Review: King's "The Wind Through the Keyhole"

"There's nothing like stories on a windy night when folks have found a warm place in a cold world." - Stephen King, The Wind Through the Keyhole

I once wrote that Stephen King, like most of life’s great pleasures, is a bit of an acquired taste.  On the one hand, King is easily one of the more imaginative writers of his generation and capable of crafting some truly elegant prose.  On the other, though, one of the more consistent complaints regarding his work, even coming from King himself, is that his writing, overall, isn’t as good as his storytelling and that he has some trouble with endings.

As much as I’d like to argue with the latter point, I can’t.  Even with his magnum opus, The Dark Tower Cycle, the ending felt, and one could argue that this was inevitable with an epic of such scope and power, somewhat anticlimactic.  While I enjoyed the ending, I will admit that I had to tack on a bit of speculation to really feel the kind of closure I expect from good fiction. 

To me, though, even given that, the whole journey of Roland and his Ka-tet was more than worth it and is easily on of my favorite series of all time.  The characters were rich and developed and the mythology was brilliant.  Even the cameos of other people, places and things from the rest of his work (and that of some others), which could have come off as corny or trite fit seamlessly into the narrative.

Among the books, Wizard and Glass was easily my favorite.  The reason for this is that King is, above all else, an incredible storyteller.  When Roland tells the story of Mejis and Susan Delgado, King is finally able to slip fully into his skin.  In so doing, he becomes a sort of contemporary incarnation of the old world storyteller, the man who traveled from place to place, carrying on his shoulders the history and belief of his people.  There was a reason those men were venerated, because it is in a well-told story that we can both lost and find ourselves and, for that brief moment, King, as Roland, allows us to feel like children again, listening to our parents tell us of worlds far away.

In The Wind Through the Keyhole, King returns to that format, with Roland’s Ka-tet holing up to wait out a storm.  To pass the long, cold night in a desolate world, Roland tells another story of his youth, one that comes between the events in Mejis and the fall of Gilead, the kingdom over which his father is Steward.  The tale is one of horror and justice and courage, as any good quest story should be, and King once again finds that fantastic narrative voice.  What’s more, during the story, young Roland begins to tell another, a kind of Mid-World fairytale about a boy named Tim Ross and the journey he takes to save someone he loves.

The two stories, though seemingly unconnected, nevertheless weave together perfectly, creating a kind of resonant harmony for anyone willing to take the time to truly listen and understand the subtle tones which connect them. 

Though the book can be read and followed as a stand-alone novel, with little of the impact lost, I found myself, as I finished it, finally feeling that deep sense of closure that the original series left me wanting, though I couldn’t yet explain why.  I realize that I probably won’t have to urge fans of the series to read it, as they likely have, but if you haven’t, give it a shot and save this one for last.  It will be time well spent.

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The List: Updated

Last month, as I approached the halfway point of my 31st year, I took a look at my list in order to sort of measure my accomplishments thus far.  Looking over it, though, I realized that a number of the goals had no measurable level of achievement.  So I went back and revised the list.  I did my best to attempt to make finite, achievable goals while not compromising the list.  All that being said, here's the new list.

Physical

• Create and maintain a long-term free weight workout
• Work up to being able to do at least 30 minutes of cardio at a time
• Learn short-form Tai Chi and Qi Gong
• Create and maintain a healthy lifestyle conducive to steady weight loss

Spiritual

• Reach a basic understanding of the tenets of a non-Christian theo-philosophical belief

Personal

• Make three new friends
• Find a penpal who lives at least 200 miles away and begin paper correspondence
• Learn at least 25 new skills

Professional

• Become certified in social studies
• Find gainful employment
• Find and subscribe to an educational research journal

Academic

• Achieve proficiency with one foreign language
• Work through two college-level texts
• Read and review 15 books (10 fiction & 5 non-fiction)
• Memorize 3 poems or monologues

Music

• Learn musical notation
• Learn 10 new covers
• Write 3 new songs
• Discover twenty new bands/artists

Writing

• Create and maintain a website, generating steady traffic
• Finish first fantasy novel
• Write 5 short stories
• Write 5 essays
• Write 10 poems
• Write a one-act play
• Enter 3 writing contests
• Publish at least one piece of writing

Art

• Fill a sketch book
• Take twelve new photo sets
• Complete three woodworking projects
• Learn to cook 10 new dishes

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Hearts of Hope: Walk a Mile in Her Shoes

As I've mentioned in the past, I'm a volunteer with my local sexual assault response center, Hearts of Hope.  They held one of their annual fundraisers a few weeks ago and asked that I be there to take a few pictures.  The fundraiser, called Walk a Mile in Her Shoes, is a fantastic idea where men (and women) raise money then walk a mile in high heels of no less than two inches (and usually WAY more, as you'll see).  It's an incredibly fun event to raise money for a serious cause.

So enjoy the pictures and, if you can find the time, visit their website here, see what they're about and help out, if you can.  As always, all the content here is copyright Zach Hebert.

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It's called CONTACT JUGGLING

Okay, guys.  The thing Bowie does in Labyrinth is called contact juggling, not Fushigi, which is just a brand of ball used for it.  When you say Fushigi to mean contact juggling, it's like using Coke to mean any type of soda.  Read more!

For Maurice Sendak

As a matter of principle, I tend to stay away from these postmortem posts.  Whenever someone of note dies, it seems as though everyone comes out of the woodwork to try and find some kind of link said person had with their lives, however tenuous.  When the deceased gained fame through television, the movies or music, the overall interest seems to be high.  When the person was a famous author, unless they happened to be one of the rare few that have been embraced by the counterculture, not so much.

This morning, though I saw a short headline mentioning the death of Maurice Sendak, I didn't see any of the usual pandering.  There weren't hundreds of posts all over my Facebook wall, or my twitter feed, talking about how much he would be missed, the way they did following the deaths of Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson, when everyone seemed to forget the decade or more of jokes and instead chose to talk about how much their music had impacted their lives.  But not for Sendak.

The funny thing is, for my generation, a few before and a few after, I can just about guarantee his work had an impact.  Even if you didn't read the Little Bear books, which he illustrated, (and you really missed out there), I know that, must more likely than not, you read about Max's adventures Where the Wild Things Are.  Or maybe you just saw the movie, which was not nearly the same thing and you really ought to go and read the book.

It was a favorite of mine and taught me that my imagination was a brilliant and powerful thing, even when it was dark.  It most definitely had an impact on my own writing and the way I view the world.  It was easily the most intellectually complex children's book I've ever read.  It didn't talk down to me, which I hated, even then, and, for a kid who didn't have what you'd have called the most stable home life, it offered a kind of reassurance that I rarely found in books about Dick, Jane, slow-moving dogs or stubborn trains, not that I had much of an issue with those, either.

So this goes out to Maurice Sendak.  To this day, there is a place on my bookshelf for my first copy of Where the Wild Things Are.  There always has been and always will be because, sometimes, there are things you should just never leave behind. Read more!

Stephen King, On Stories and Stormy Nights

"There's nothing like stories on a windy night when folks have found a warm place in a cold world." - Stephen King, The Wind Through the Keyhole


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It's that time of year, again...

It's the hiring season for teachers, here in America, when schools around the country find out their vacancies for next year and begin looking to fill them.  As such, I've been sending resumes out and filling in online applications for over a month now.  Unfortunately, a lot of the process these days, with jobs in so short a supply, involves knowing someone who can get your foot through the door.  So I thought I'd make a plea here.

I'm a creative, hard-working teacher with exceptional content knowledge in both the language arts and social studies (history, civics, the social sciences, etc.).  I love teaching.  It's what I believe I was meant to do and I have a couple of hundred former students, and a few teachers and administrators, who would be willing to support that.  I've been doing short and long-term subbing for three years now, but it just isn't enough.

So if you know of any open teaching positions, if you know a principle or a teacher or anyone who could help me find a classroom to call my own, please, write me at zjh9901@yahoo.com.  And if you found me through stumble, even if you don't, please like this post.  The more I get this message out, the greater my chances.  Thank you, all, and if you're interested in seeing how I approach teaching, check out the stuff after the cut.

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A Thought: On Happiness

I've heard it said that true happiness is reached only when we finally reach a point where we are content with what we have, rather than being discontent with what we don't.  That is a laudable goal.  However, I believe that we must take it a step further and find happiness not only in what we have, but happiness for others when they have what we do not, even if it is what we want for ourselves. Read more!