Let me sum up: Basically, The Wylie Agency has decided to develop a digital-only branch of their publishing house. They’ve signed an exclusive, two-year deal with Amazon to pimp their stuff.

Think about that a minute. Let this sink in: Authors will write novels and those novels can only be read by purchasing a Kindle from Amazon (currently priced at $189 for the basic model and $379 with all the bells and whistles) and then downloading the book from Amazon’s store (current novel price ranges from $9.99 to $12.99). Seriously? I mean, I know if there’s a way around that by cheating somehow, someone will find it and exploit it. BUT you shouldn’t have to break the law in order to avoid paying OVER TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS MINIMUM to read a book! OH MY GOD! What kind of a dystopian, backwoods bullshit is this??

I get the appeal. I do. Print is a dying industry and it’s expensive and can be bulky and a pain in the ass to store and transport and if a digital reader can give you an entire library in the palm of your hand –why wouldn’t you jump for joy!? When we order letterhead for our office it ends up costing us an arm and a leg and that’s to say nothing of all the trees we use up in the process. Then we have to store it properly and take care that it’s not too hot or too cold or too moist or too dry — lest we end up with wrinkled, crinkled, useless letterhead. It’s an expensive hassle. And that’s just in my teeny little 10 person office.

BUT WE DO IT ANYWAY. Cause you have to. And look, we’re talking about books here. BOOKS! Books — you don’t have to. You shouldn’t! I love the idea of the Kindle and I’ll probably end up with one eventually, but I hate to think of us going down that particular rabbit hole. It scares me.

I love a good book. I love the feel of the spine against my fingers. I love turning the pages in anticipation, love the feel of the thin sheets between my thumb and forefinger. I love to bury my face in an old book, to breathe in its heady aroma. I love libraries with stacks and stacks and row upon row of booky goodness. I like to walk down the aisles at Powell’s and caress the books as I go.

Can I walk into a Kindle? Can I run my hands across the backs? Can I smell an old favorite in a Kindle??? How the hell am I supposed to do that with a Kindle? You tell me that much right here and now. Yes, I will probably get one. NO, I don’t want that to mean you take away my current option. Why can’t I have both? A kindle, light and sexy for the plane. A big, fat, epic book for my bed and bunny slippers, hair up in curlers?

We’ll see. There’s a lot of missing details in that article and I’ve got some questions begging for answers. I’m going to be watching this to see where we go. I know a lot of publishers and authors are pissed right off, so maybe there’s hope yet. Maybe. I’ll keep you posted!

I hate it when there’s a blog I really like to read and I go there on a regular basis and then one day I go there and they’ve been noticed. Maybe it’s media attention. Maybe it’s Reddit or Digg or whatever. The point is, they get popular and then they get bought and then they suck.

Every time I go there now there’s ads all over the place, they’ve changed the look to make it more sterile and boring, they completely stop swearing and most of their blog posts are blatant sales pitches.

Gah. That sucks so hard! Stop doing that, internet!

Jacob found out about it first, but he didn’t really know the boy that well. The news was delivered to Caleb rather callously, but not on purpose. He just didn’t realize the boy and Caleb were good friends.

I saw a cloud pass over Caleb’s face as soon as he heard. I was sitting next to him and he slumped a little in his seat. I could see him wrestling with it. He said nothing. He just stared out the window. But his breath caught a little in his throat and I got a chill. He turned only once to look me in the eyes, almost imploringly. I studied his face.

“Did you know him, Caleb?”
“He was my friend.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He was really nice.”

This exchange was drowned out by the ruckus of 6 boys all vying for the floor. Then he turned his head away again.

He cried a little. Only a little. His face was turned away because it wouldn’t do to be 15 and crying in front of your older brother and your 4 cousins — all boys, through and through.

It stung me that I was driving when it happened. It angered me that I couldn’t help without making it worse. I said nothing. I drove on and tried to radiate waves of comfort his way.

When we got home later that night he got on the phone to a mutual friend to get the full story of what happened. He got the story and then came into the kitchen.

“It was meningitis. He had a seizure and just died.”
“I’m really sorry buddy, do you need a hug?”

He scoffed at that and said, “NO!” as if it were the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. The very idea!

So I said, “Then….can I have one?”

He looked at me for half a second, a mixture of hope and suspicion stamped across his face. Then he stepped toward me and wrapped his arms around my waist and hugged. He hugged hard. He hugged me as if he were the only thing tethering me to the earth. I responded in kind and whispered that I loved him. I have to tilt my head up to do this now. My boy is growing up so fast.

She said with a heavy heart.

Still, at least he is growing up. I simply cannot imagine what that boy’s family is going through right now. My heart goes out to them and I hope against all hope they have some peace soon. For some moments in life there are no words.

Also: What is the deal with this?

I can’t even make that stuff up.

Oh, and also download the full video podcast from NPR’s website that shows the making of the song. (Or watch it online.) It’s a really interesting look at the construction of a song from conception to completion. Moby did it astoundingly fast with awesome results, and time to spare so he recorded another couple versions. He was given nothing more to work with than a collaborator, a photo and a choice of two or three “concept” words. From that he extracted this. Lyrics and various music tracks, everything. AND he had to do it all in one sitting. So. Yeah. I feel real good about the filing I managed to accomplish today.

“Somewhere there’s a Sunday in the Fall,
Where everything you love is safe and warm.
Where everything was right.
But I’m never going home.

The sun is down, the lights have gone to sleep.
I never knew the dark could be so deep.
Somewhere you are warm.
But I’m never going home.”

Here’s the thing.

I’ve forgotten what the thing is. Maybe I should go back to bed. There was something I was going to say and then I forgot what that was. What. The. Hell.

Eh, forget it. It’ll come to me.

I wish he could see what I see when I look at him. His vision is much different from mine and sadly, not at all accurate.  This is how he used to look:

He looks up at the camera as he’s speaking and then he realizes he’s being filmed. His face lights up and he smiles big. He says, “Now I just need to do the eyes.”

The smile. Oh, God, help me. The smile.

Then he looks down at his palette and says, “But I have no idea what color to paint them.” He says this and his brow furrows and he seems so serious and eager. Like he has a real pickle on his hands. Then, he takes a step back and says, “Mommy, should I do the eyes orange?” and points at the eyes. He’s bouncing back and forth on his feet. He’s got a slight baby quality to his voice still. Orange comes out “or-yinge.”

Plus, he called me “mommy” — did you catch that?

I did.

I can give you the play by play because I’ve memorized it. Its image is seared into my brain. Forever and ever, Amen.

The video came from an old hard drive I had given up on. Matt managed to pull the files off through some sort of magic trickery and deals with the devil. It’s not that I’m not grateful. Eternally so. But seeing all those pictures and videos has finally done my head in. I’ve watched that particular video so many times I see it in my sleep.

All that gorgeous hair is gone now, by the way. He’s been growing it for almost four years now. I loved it. I thought it was beautiful and it just fit him. I got so used to seeing it. It seems like it was always there. Unless I watch that video.

But it had to go.

He started growing it on a lark. He just decided one day he was going to grow it out. Then, after it got to a pretty decent length he heard about the children’s charity called “Locks of Love.” He chose to keep growing and then donate his hair. I thought it was a nice thing for a kid to do. He never fails to surprise or impress me.

So, today he paid the piper. He had been saying all along he was going to cut it on his 15th birthday. At first I thought he wouldn’t make it that long. I thought it would drive him crazy and he would get tired of being teased by the ignorant redneck hicks in this small farming community. I thought it would get old, being confused for a girl by waitstaff and kindly old people. I thought he would get tired of washing it and combing it out and taking care of it. But he kept with it. He smiled politely and waved it off. He held in there a lot longer than I would have been able to.

Then, he liked it. It was unique. It brought attention, sometimes negative, sometimes positive. Then he bristled whenever I mentioned cutting it.

At first I didn’t like it either. It was troublesome and annoying. He wouldn’t take care of it sometimes and it would just be a tangled rat’s nest that I would have to spend hours combing out. I was forever pushing it out of his eyes. It was hot. It was a pain in the summer. I almost hated it.

And then over time it grew on me, so to speak. I was afraid he wouldn’t want to cut it when the time came, but I think I was more afraid that he would. I cried all week. I started dropping little hints and then I started dropping big hints and finally, out of desperation, I came right out and begged him not to cut it.

Lord, I have no shame. I’m so sorry.

But he stood his ground. He intended to do it and do it he would. On his fifteenth birthday, just like he said he would.

I’m glad he did. He looks handsome as ever and about 20 years older. Ugh. That’s what got to me. His age really started showing when all that hair he was hiding under disappeared. It makes it hard to pretend he’s still my baby. You know what I mean?

Anyway, we both survived it, though I had to leave the room more than once. The girls in the salon ooh’d and ahhh’d and he had them eating out of the palm of his hands. To me, they kept “awwwing” and “poor mom” and I wanted to beat them all to death with an oversized can of hairspray.

I’m still afraid for him. I’m afraid he’s going to have trouble at school. Not because he doesn’t look good, but because he doesn’t think he looks good and those creeps feed on that shit. Sad, but true. I’m afraid people won’t look at him and think about this incredible thing he did for another human being who he will never even likely meet. He’ll never get a personal thank you from the person whose life he selflessly touched. I’m afraid they’ll cheapen it and take away, a little at a time, all the sweet things about my son that make him my son. I’m afraid he’ll have regrets. I don’t want him to have regret because he did this thing. This thing he did is not something to regret.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’ll be left alone. Maybe they will either say nothing or only good things. It could happen. And even if he does get some grief, I think he’ll be okay. He’s been teased and tormented for the past four years and he’s taken it all in stride. Many times he could have lessened the degree of the torment, were he to toot his own horn. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t go around telling people what he was doing and was forever embarrassed when people found out. He didn’t want any recognition. He just wanted to be left alone to do this thing he wanted to do for somebody. One of the many times he was called a “faggot”  by some knuckle dragging byproduct he could have defended his actions and turned the ridicule their way. But he didn’t. He just let it be and bided his time. So, no, I don’t think it will kill him if he isn’t met with open arms upon his return to school tomorrow.

And that’s why that video makes me want to scream and go right on screaming until I have to shove my fist in my throat to keep from coming apart at the hinges. It is because that video and today are stark reminders of where we’ve been and where we are going.  It is because time is slipping away and moments like the one in that video and the one today…they’re never coming again. They’re gone and I want them back. It is because I see it in the maturity he displays when dealing with adversity. I see it in the jawline and the eyes. It is because I hear it in his voice. It is because Time is marching on and it has swept my boys up with it as it goes. I fear I am being left behind. He can and will make his own decisions and all I can do is sit back, watch, and hope for the best. It is because he will never call me “mommy” again. He will never ask me what color the eyes should be.

It is because my boys are growing up and I have to deal with it.

God help me, I’m tryin’.

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

-  Mary Oliver

I am afraid of you. Seriously, you scare me. I am afraid of what’s going on out there. This guy walked into a preschool in China and stabbed 28 kids and 3 adults. Seriously. What the fuck? This business has to stop. Sanity has to prevail eventually. Right? I mean. Right? People are so miserable. We’re all out there killing and cheating each other like there ain’t no tomorrow. Let me tell you something. There is a tomorrow. And tomorrow you will have to pay for what you do today. The bill must always be paid. Ask Randy Quaid, he knows. Now.

We are well and truly fucked. Or we’re doing  better than ever.  It depends on who you listen to. And isn’t that what it’s all about? Isn’t all this about who can scream the loudest? I don’t know about you, but I am constantly being screamed at. Buy this! Wear that! Drink this! Not that! Eat those, not these! BOOB JOB! VIAGRA! CELEBRITY! SEX ADDICTION! SAVE THE WHALES! NOW THE BABIES! NOW THE BABY WHALES! JUMP UP AND DOWN! SING A SONG! YOU’RE OFF THE ISLAND!

Damn, what I wouldn’t give for some peace and quiet for a little while. Just, maybe just a bit of it, huh? No more stupid scandals that aren’t news but just silly, childish sensationalism. No more bombs. Stop with the wars. I understand we’re all stuck in a whole bunch of them right at the moment and we might not ever see an end to some of them, but maybe could we just not start anymore? Just give us a breather. Seriously, World, I’m worn out over here.

Politician is synonymous with corruption and distrust. Nobody trusts anybody anymore. And who can blame them? I wouldn’t trust anybody either. Have you seen what anybody does when you give them just a little bit? It ain’t pretty.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously? Knock it off.

Stop fighting. Stop listening to Sarah Palin. Stop bickering. Stop spending money you don’t have. Stop blaming everyone else for your problems. Toughen up. Stop getting your poor little feelings hurt. Stop worrying so much about what other people are doing. Stop feeling so damn entitled. Stop watching reality TV. Stop watching TV in general. Enough is enough. Stop it now.

400 dead in China. Thousands dead in Haiti. Chile.  California.  Guess what? Earthquakes happen. Every spring our little planet shakes off the bitter cold of winter and knocks stuff around in the process. Can you not build some damn walls that won’t kill everyone within a hundred city blocks when they do? You can put a man on the moon. You can keep some 80 year old geezer erect. You can buy Lady Gaga’s brand of bullshit. You seriously telling me you can’t fix this? It’s 2010, people. Get busy.

Speaking of getting busy, how about a little less time devoted to keeping those 80 year olds erect and more time devoted to curing cancer? Diabetes. Aids. Sickle Cell Frickin’ Anemia. Pick one. I don’t care. It’s been ages though, literally ages, and I’m getting tired of waiting on you yahoos to do something real with all that money you’ve been raising. We’re all “aware” of the problem. Take your “awareness” marches and your “awareness” bumper stickers. Hats. T-shirts. Golf balls. Take them and shove them where the sun don’t shine and now that we’re all “aware” could you maybe, I don’t know, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?

“I have a sex addiction” is the new “My wife just doesn’t understand me.” Keep your damn junk in your pants. Stop thinking with your dicks. Quit cheating on your wives and girlfriends. And if you do cheat, and you get caught — and you will get caught, you feeble idiot — don’t blame it on an addiction. Your only addiction is stupidity and baby, it is just coursing through your veins. At least man up about it. Admit that you are powerless to keep it on a leash and try to be a decent person. Just try.

Women? Ditto. Don’t sit over there acting like you’re so innocent. It takes two to tango, baby. You’ve done your fair share to screw this up. Women cheat. And worse. The fairer sex isn’t often that fair. Just stop it, now.

Polar bears are dying. Honeybees are disappearing. Oceans are drying up. A dollar isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.

Is there something in the water making us crazy? Is it airborne?  What have you done!? When did we pick this up and how do we get rid of it? Why is there no inoculation against all this violence and misery? How come there’s no cure for stupid? Why do we keep going for the lowest common denominator? Is this really the way you want it to go? You’re only hurting yourself you know?

Hey listen, while I got you, let me just share some news with you. As you may already know, my son turned 16 earlier this month. He’s super excited to get his driver’s license. I am, too. Totally. It’ll be great to have someone to run to the store every five minutes because I forgot basically everything I need to make dinner. I even bought him an old truck for his birthday. I’m a cool mom. I’m down with it.

But still. It sucks. I get that it’s not rational. Kids grow up. They get their licenses and one day they drive off and that’s the end of that. In a way. But that isn’t it. I’m afraid for him. I am so afraid for him.

I mean, look, I know 16 is a bit old to worry about stranger danger. I understand that he’s not likely to be snatched up and whisked away in a non-descript, white cargo van. Statistically speaking, the chances of that are between slim and none. I get that, logically. But it’s a fool who looks for logic in the chambers of the human heart. I still worry. Every time he’s even five minutes late my mind starts racing with all the bad things I know have happened to him. Because things happen, don’t they? Specifically, bad things. Kids go missing. People get in car accidents. Lives are changed forever. Bad things happen to innocent people — usually when they are least expecting it.

And yet you would have me let him go. You would have me push him out into you and then sit back to watch where he goes.

I understand. And I will try. I promise. All I ask is that you meet me in the middle. Stop being such a scary place to be these days. It feels like no place is safe and nothing is right. Stop doing that. Stop scaring me and help me let go. I’m good for it, I promise. I’ll do my part. Only — could you maybe pitch in a little bit? Please?
Thanks so much, World, for hearing me out. I know I can count on you to do the right thing.

Right?

Sincerely,

Kimberley