[stylist] stylist Digest, Vol 135, Issue 20

[K Mason]

Hello, this is Kishia and I just wanted to let you know that I did not
receive a copy of the last issue of Slate and Style.  I was wondering if you
could send that to me pleas.  Thank you.


-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of
stylist-request at nfbnet.org
Sent: Saturday, July 25, 2015 6:00 AM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: stylist Digest, Vol 135, Issue 20

Send stylist mailing list submissions to
	stylist at nfbnet.org

To subscribe or unsubscribe via the World Wide Web, visit
	http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
or, via email, send a message with subject or body 'help' to
	stylist-request at nfbnet.org

You can reach the person managing the list at
	stylist-owner at nfbnet.org

When replying, please edit your Subject line so it is more specific
than "Re: Contents of stylist digest..."


Today's Topics:

   1. Re: Making it count (Joanne Alongi)
   2. Re: Portland (Atty)
   3. Re: Portland (Jacobson, Shawn D)
   4. Making it Count - (Robert Leslie Newman)
   5. Re: Time to Submit (Lynda Lambert)
   6. SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC) (Jacobson, Shawn D)
   7. Re: SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC) (Jackie Williams)
   8. Re: SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC) (Jacobson, Shawn D)
   9. Re: Making it count (Jacobson, Shawn D)
  10. Short Fiction - "The Golgotha Tarpt" - Severaleth Draft
      (William L Houts)
  11. reminder to all (EvaMarie Sanchez)
  12. Re: reminder to all (Semirhage)
  13. Re: reminder to all (EvaMarie Sanchez)
  14. Slate and Style (EvaMarie Sanchez)


----------------------------------------------------------------------

Message: 1
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 07:24:28 -0500
From: Joanne Alongi <queenofbells at yahoo.com>
To: Writers' Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Making it count
Message-ID: <4629FAE7-A7D2-41CF-90FB-098B0C261709 at yahoo.com>
Content-Type: text/plain;	charset=us-ascii

Nice, informative article. Thank you for sharing. I especially like the part
about shooting the puck from the ice. It's always nice to try something new
it always gives a sense of accomplishment.

shelley Queen of Bells out Sent from my iPhone

> On Jul 23, 2015, at 2:23 PM, Jacobson, Shawn D via stylist
<stylist at nfbnet.org> wrote:
> 
> Writer's group
> 
> Below is an article I wrote that will be published in Future Reflections.
It is about my experiences in college as statistician for our hockey club.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys it.
> 
> Shawn
> 
> MAKING IT COUNT
> by Shawn Jacobson
> 
> When I tell people I'm a statistician, they either get a glassy-eyed look
on their faces or think that my job is something like rocket science. People
tend to believe we statisticians spend our lives looking at columns of
numbers and doing calculations in our heads. I suppose that is what my
vocational rehabilitation counselor thought when she told me that a blind
person couldn't do such a job. Most people don't think getting out on the
ice during shooting contests, dodging hockey pucks, or arguing with players
about who scored a goal are jobs for a blind person, either. Yet I had all
of those experiences when I got my first taste of practical statistics as
statistician of my university's hockey club.
> 
> It was halftime at an Iowa State University football game when I spoke
with Coach Murdoch about becoming a statistician. He had met me through
student government when he had sought student funding for the hockey club,
and he remembered that I aspired to be a statistician. We started talking
about hockey and statistics, and he asked me if I would like to be the
statistician for the team. I learned that one of his former statisticians
had gotten a job with the Chicago Cubs. Finding employment is something we
blind folks worry about a lot, and a job in major league baseball sounded
supremely cool. I decided to give the hockey club a try.
> 
> At the time, what I knew about hockey could most charitably be described
as basic. I knew it was played on ice with a puck. I knew that players tried
to get said puck through the opponent's goal, and I had heard that hockey
players got into a lot of fights. Beyond that, I was pretty clueless. I
tried looking up information on hockey statistics in the university library,
but what I found assumed a level of knowledge I didn't have. Oh well, I
decided, I would do what I could.
> 
> My first step was to find the Cyclone Area Community Center, where the
games were played. The center was commonly called The Barn, because it had
been a dairy barn in its former life. But where was The Barn? It was time
for me to do some exploring.
> 
> I spent a beautiful autumn afternoon asking questions and generally
wandering around. Finally I found a suitably barn-like structure on the
south side of campus. When I opened the doors and looked inside, I saw a
skating rink and bleachers. This must be the place, I thought. At least the
walk, about a mile from my dorm room, wasn't beyond reason.
> 
> Next I needed to figure out which of the statistics I was going to keep.
In class we were always handed nice, neat tables of numbers (spreadsheets,
though we didn't use that term in those days) upon which to employ the tools
of the trade. At hockey games, however, I would be in charge of actually
collecting the numbers. I placed ads in the student newspaper offering free
admission to anyone who would volunteer to assist me. These ads drew little
interest; Ames, Iowa, was not a hockey hotbed. I would need to write down
the numbers myself.
> 
> First I tried to keep track of line changes, noting who was on the ice at
any given time. To do so I got behind the bench and looked at the numbers of
the players as they got out onto the rink. As I was moving behind the bench,
trying to keep my count, I heard a buzzing sound that reminded me of the
time I was stung by a hornet.
> 
> "Watch out!" one of the players shouted. A puck flying at the speed of a
car on the interstate had just missed my head by about three inches. I
realized that the shields around hockey rinks are there for a reason. It was
time for me to find something else to track.
> 
> Next I tried recording who won face-offs. I wore glasses that gave me
pretty good vision in a really narrow range. I needed to watch something
that would keep still until I found it, and the puck was pretty still before
a face-off. I figured that whoever won the face-off would eventually start
moving down the ice toward the other guy's goal. Even if the rest of our
statistical efforts were incomplete, we always had information about
face-offs. The idea was that even if I was wrong about who won the draw, I
could at least provide the coach with useful information about the game.
> 
> This job began a relationship with data collection issues that has been a
large part of my working life ever since. Knowing what information I would
keep track of, I settled into a routine. I would go to the games and get a
cup of hot cider (you wanted something warm in a building that featured an
ice rink!) Then I would head to my spot atop the bleachers at center ice.
>From this vantage point, I was able to watch some good hockey, though the
team's performance was uneven. Coach Murdoch had moved the team out of a
conference with a bunch of Illinois schools to seek stiffer competition. So
the team played a variety of opponents, including other colleges, Canadian
junior hockey teams, and local hockey clubs. There were many games where we
won by ten goals, and a few that we lost by that much. In short, the team
had to play opponents at several skill levels to get through the season.
> 
> At the end of periods, I would take my sheet with face-off numbers down to
the locker room and hand it to the coach. I don't remember a lot about the
locker room except that it was hot, damp, and musty. Hockey players jammed
together on benches listening to the coach as he told them what they had
done wrong and what they needed to work on. Once I handed over my sheet, I
would leave the room and head back to my seat as the Zamboni smoothed out
the ice for the next period.
> 
> One night I actually got out on the ice. My name was drawn for a contest
where I could win a prize if I could shoot a puck from the blue line into
the goal. I went down to the rink and stepped onto the ice. Haltingly, I
moved to the blue line over a surface I had spent many an Iowa winter doing
my best to avoid. At the blue line I grasped the unfamiliar stick, took a
menacing swipe at the puck, and missed. At this point, and on my next miss,
I knew the crowd was doing something, but I was too preoccupied with keeping
my balance to pay much attention to the noise coming from the stands. Then,
on my final attempt, I managed to dribble the puck toward the goal, but it
did not get anywhere close. I left the ice embarrassed, but knowing I had
given it a try.
> 
> The other part of my job was to keep a running total of goals scored,
assists, and penalty minutes for the team and players. I would get the
official score sheet from the coach and update the totals from before the
game. For this work, I was able to use my CCTV system to read the reports on
the game.
> 
> The task of keeping scoring totals seemed straightforward, but even this
got me into an argument. On the way home from a game, the player who had
given me a ride (by now the weather was too cold for a joyful walking
experience) told me that the scorer had given the goal to the wrong person.
He let me know that he, and not his teammate, had scored the goal. I brought
this up with the coach the next day. He told me that the scorer's decision
had to stand.
> 
> The two years I spent keeping hockey statistics taught me a valuable
lesson that I have carried into my work life--which is very satisfying, even
though it isn't as cool as being a baseball statistician. I learned that
numbers are about something. Just as every goal is scored by a hockey
player, every number I track in my job is about a person. Just as every
statistics sheet I looked at told the story of a hockey game, so every
analysis I do in my job tells a narrative about the human condition. As in
hockey, my work with the government has been about making it count.
> 
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site
> http://writers.nfb.org/
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
>
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/queenofbells%40yahoo.co
m



------------------------------

Message: 2
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 07:34:41 -0500
From: "Atty" <attyrose at cox.net>
To: "'Writers' Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Portland
Message-ID: <028201d0c60d$1e2c5240$5a84f6c0$@cox.net>
Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="us-ascii"

I look forward to it and want to go to the LoveCraft bar also being a horror
writer!
Yowza!

Write On,
Atty


-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Semirhage via
stylist
Sent: Thursday, July 23, 2015 7:37 PM
To: Writers' Division Mailing List
Cc: Semirhage
Subject: Re: [stylist] Portland

WEll everyone I've known that got guide dogs made lots of friends where ever
they went, at least one, sometimes found romance, always came away with
close connections and glad they did it, so I think you'll love it. And
Portland seems to have tons of stuff to do from what we've seen online. 
International restaurants, good entertainment/events on weekends, various
literary themed bars including the HP Lovecraft one we're totally going to,
and loads of interesting shops so if you take your dog out for practice
working there should be plenty to do. And you'll likely make at least one
close friend. I'm not really a dog person, preferring birds, so I"ve got a
cane. We found a place that customizes them so ours has ravens on which is
awesome. LOL. Anyway, but we've loads of friends who use dogs and everyone
always enjoys their experience. Will definitely share about Portland when
we're  back.
Sem
I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed.
I get along with the voices inside of my head. 


_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/attyrose%40cox.net




------------------------------

Message: 3
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 08:42:52 -0400
From: "Jacobson, Shawn D" <Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov>
To: Writers' Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Portland
Message-ID:
	
<8838F3FB8A7BB044AA6DE247E617C6F208DBC2151C at ELANNEPV117.exh.prod.hud.gov>
	
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"

Congratulations and good luck.

Shawn

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Atty via
stylist
Sent: Friday, July 24, 2015 8:35 AM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List'
Cc: Atty
Subject: Re: [stylist] Portland

I look forward to it and want to go to the LoveCraft bar also being a horror
writer!
Yowza!

Write On,
Atty


-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Semirhage via
stylist
Sent: Thursday, July 23, 2015 7:37 PM
To: Writers' Division Mailing List
Cc: Semirhage
Subject: Re: [stylist] Portland

WEll everyone I've known that got guide dogs made lots of friends where ever
they went, at least one, sometimes found romance, always came away with
close connections and glad they did it, so I think you'll love it. And
Portland seems to have tons of stuff to do from what we've seen online. 
International restaurants, good entertainment/events on weekends, various
literary themed bars including the HP Lovecraft one we're totally going to,
and loads of interesting shops so if you take your dog out for practice
working there should be plenty to do. And you'll likely make at least one
close friend. I'm not really a dog person, preferring birds, so I"ve got a
cane. We found a place that customizes them so ours has ravens on which is
awesome. LOL. Anyway, but we've loads of friends who use dogs and everyone
always enjoys their experience. Will definitely share about Portland when
we're  back.
Sem
I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed.
I get along with the voices inside of my head. 


_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/attyrose%40cox.net


_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/shawn.d.jacobson%40hud.
gov



------------------------------

Message: 4
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 09:19:38 -0500
From: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net>
To: "'Writers' Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Making it Count -
Message-ID: <00e301d0c61b$c6abaa20$5402fe60$@cox.net>
Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="us-ascii"

Shawn

 

Good article! If members wished to learn more about your job, they can read
it on "Where the Blind Work." (This resource where Shawn's job description
can be read, along with another 100 or so jobs that blind folks are doing,
is on the nfb.org  site; this; employment resource is a joint effort of the
Writers' division and Employment Committee. Go to the home page of nfb.org,
use the search box, input - where the blind work - and you will get a link
to "Where the Blind Work." 

 

 



------------------------------

Message: 5
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 11:31:43 -0400
From: "Lynda Lambert" <llambert at zoominternet.net>
To: <maryjo.lord711 at gmail.com>,	"'Writers' Division Mailing List'"
	<stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Time to Submit
Message-ID: <4D3F91C6B18549C48E75EA86EE665E0D at LyndaPC>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
	reply-type=original

Hi Everyone,
I  just posted Mary-Jo's announcement on our Facebook Page. We have 109 
members on the page at this time. If you have not yet found the Writer's 
Division Face Book Page you can go to this link:
 
https://www.facebook.com/pages/NFB-Writers-Division/360960880660939?fref=nf

We started the page in 2013 to keep everyone informed of opportunities for 
writers.
Click on "LIKE" and you will get all the updates.  It would also be a great 
place to post a piece of your work from time-to-time, or a celebration of a 
new publication of interest to writers.
Our  FB page is also a great recruitment avenue for brining in new members 
so be sure to "SHARE" it with your FB Friends, too.

Lynda


-----Original Message----- 
From: Mary-Jo Lord via stylist
Sent: Thursday, July 23, 2015 10:06 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List'
Cc: Mary-Jo Lord
Subject: [stylist] Time to Submit

Hi,

I'm not sure if this was posted earlier this month, so I'm sending this
submission announcement to be sure everyone on the list has a chance to
submit.

Once again, it is time to start thinking about submitting your work for the
Fall/Winter edition of Magnets and Ladders. The deadline for submissions is
August 15. Below are our submission guidelines taken from the Magnets and
Ladders website at:
Http://www.magnetsandladders.org
Please read the guidelines carefully, as some things have changed. Pay close
attention to the section on being sure that you are submitting your final
draft.
Submission Guidelines
Writers with disabilities may submit up to three selections per issue.
Deadlines are February 15 for the Spring/Summer issue, and August 15 for the
Fall/winter issue. Writers must disclose their disability in their biography
or in their work. Biographies may be up to 100 words in length, and should
be written in third-person.
Do not submit until your piece is ready to be considered for publication.
Rewrites, additions, deletions, or corrections are part of the editorial
process, and will be suggested or initiated by the editor.
Poetry maximum length is 50 lines. Memoir, fiction, and nonfiction maximum
length is 2500 words. In all instances, our preference is for shorter
lengths than the maximum allowed. Please single-space all submissions, and
use a blank line to separate paragraphs and stanzas. It is important to
spell check and proofread all entries. Previously published material and
simultaneous submissions are permitted provided you own the copyright to the
work. Please cite previous publisher and/or notify if work is accepted
elsewhere.
We do not feature advocacy, activist, "how-to," or "what's new" articles
regarding disabilities. Innovative techniques for better writing as well as
publication success stories are welcome. Content will include many genres,
with limited attention to the disability theme. Announcements of writing
contests with deadlines beyond April 1 and October 1 respectively are
welcome.
Have You Published a book? If you would like to have an excerpt of your book
published in an issue of Magnets and Ladders, please submit a chapter or
section of your book to submissions at magnetsandladders.org. The word count
for book excerpt submissions should not exceed twenty-five hundred words.
Please include information about where your book is available in an
accessible format. We will publish up to one book excerpt per issue.
Do you have a skill, service, or product valued by writers? For a minimum
contribution of $25.00 we will announce it in the next two issues of Magnets
and Ladders. All verifications of products or services provided are the
responsibility of our readers. Book cover design? Copyediting? Critiques?
Formatting for publication? Internet access or web design? Marketing
assistance? Special equipment? Make your donation through PayPal (see
magnetsandladders.org) or by check by March/September 1. 100-word
promotional information is due by February/August 15. Not sure about
something? Email submissions at magnetsandladders.org. All donations support
Magnets and Ladders.
Please email all submissions to submissions at magnetsandladders.org. Paste
your submission and bio into the body of your email or attach in Microsoft
Word format. If submitting Word documents, please put your name and the name
of your piece at or near the top of the document. Submissions will be
acknowledged within two weeks. You will be notified if your piece is
selected for publication.
Final author approval and review is necessary if changes are needed beyond
punctuation, grammar, and sentence or paragraph structure. We will not
change titles, beginnings, endings, dialog, poetic lines, the writer's
voice, or the general tone without writer collaboration. If your work is
selected for inclusion in a future "Behind Our Eyes" project, you will be
notified; your approval and final review will be required. To insure we can
contact you regarding future projects, please keep us updated if your Email
address changes.

I hope that you are having a great summer, and I look forward to reading
your submissions.

Mary-Jo Lord



_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for 
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/llambert%40zoominternet
.net 




------------------------------

Message: 6
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 12:26:04 -0400
From: "Jacobson, Shawn D" <Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List (stylist at nfbnet.org)"
	<stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC)
Message-ID:
	
<8838F3FB8A7BB044AA6DE247E617C6F208DBC216D2 at ELANNEPV117.exh.prod.hud.gov>
	
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"

I've not tried this form before (so it may be uneven).

Cary NC is where the SAS institute is locacted; SAS is a statistical
processing package that has grown and grown and is now kind of all things to
all people.

So I hope you like my nerdy little sonnet.

Shawn

SAS City
We carved you from the Carolina woods
as city whose bright streets are paved with code
A Mecca in the southland wrought by nerds
a hold place, a wonder to behold.
Though not set on a hill you shine afar
where ever statistical work is done.
We think about the wonder that you are
whenever true regression lines are run.
And so SAS city due respect we'll pay
our statements will be semicolon crowned.
We'll order statements in the proper way.
Our jobs with Proc Step features will abound.
Our analysis reports stem from you
and we will know our procedures were true.



------------------------------

Message: 7
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 10:44:00 -0700
From: "Jackie Williams" <jackieleepoet at cox.net>
To: "'Writers' Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC)
Message-ID: <001001d0c638$53416fd0$f9c44f70$@cox.net>
Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="us-ascii"

Shawn,
This was a difficult effort to put so much technical information into such a
strict form. My inclination is for you not  to call it a sonnet , and just
try to smooth it out a bit. For instance, the line, " And so SAS city due
respect we'll pay," is an inversion used so that you can hold the rhyme
scheme. One or two more lines have only 9 syllables, and the iambic  meter
is not consistently produced in each line. This does not make it a bad poem,
only that the content might be shown off better in a more freeform of poetry
I learned something. I thought SAS was just a brand of shoe produced in
Texas, and known nationwide for it's comfort, or alternatively, an SASE is
an envelope you include when you want to get an answer to something! I
enjoyed learning the new terminology, and it gave a bit of insight into your
profession
My guess is that your effort at doing this poem as a sonnet will give you a
giant leap forward in the craft of poetry. Only by trying new forms do we
increase our knowledge and skill at the demands of the myriad forms of
poetry. So congratulations.. 

Jackie Lee

Time is the school in which we learn.
Time is the fire in which we burn.
Delmore Schwartz	 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jacobson,
Shawn D via stylist
Sent: Friday, July 24, 2015 9:26 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List (stylist at nfbnet.org)
Cc: Jacobson, Shawn D
Subject: [stylist] SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC)

I've not tried this form before (so it may be uneven).

Cary NC is where the SAS institute is located; SAS is a statistical
processing package that has grown and grown and is now kind of all things to
all people.

So I hope you like my nerdy little sonnet.

Shawn

SAS City
We carved you from the Carolina woods
as city whose bright streets are paved with code
A Mecca in the southland wrought by nerds
a hold place, a wonder to behold.
Though not set on a hill you shine afar
where ever statistical work is done.
We think about the wonder that you are
whenever true regression lines are run.
And so SAS city due respect we'll pay
our statements will be semicolon crowned.
We'll order statements in the proper way.
Our jobs with Proc Step features will abound.
Our analysis reports stem from you
and we will know our procedures were true.

_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/jackieleepoet%40cox.net




------------------------------

Message: 8
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 14:00:56 -0400
From: "Jacobson, Shawn D" <Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov>
To: Writers' Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC)
Message-ID:
	
<8838F3FB8A7BB044AA6DE247E617C6F208DBC217A5 at ELANNEPV117.exh.prod.hud.gov>
	
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"

Jackie

Thanks for looking at the poem (and for your comments).  I did it as a
sonnet because it seemed a cool idea at the time and I wanted to try
something new for me.  Better than being blocked any old day of the week
(smile),

Shawn

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jackie
Williams via stylist
Sent: Friday, July 24, 2015 1:44 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List'
Cc: Jackie Williams
Subject: Re: [stylist] SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC)

Shawn,
This was a difficult effort to put so much technical information into such a
strict form. My inclination is for you not  to call it a sonnet , and just
try to smooth it out a bit. For instance, the line, " And so SAS city due
respect we'll pay," is an inversion used so that you can hold the rhyme
scheme. One or two more lines have only 9 syllables, and the iambic  meter
is not consistently produced in each line. This does not make it a bad poem,
only that the content might be shown off better in a more freeform of poetry
I learned something. I thought SAS was just a brand of shoe produced in
Texas, and known nationwide for it's comfort, or alternatively, an SASE is
an envelope you include when you want to get an answer to something! I
enjoyed learning the new terminology, and it gave a bit of insight into your
profession My guess is that your effort at doing this poem as a sonnet will
give you a giant leap forward in the craft of poetry. Only by trying new
forms do we increase our knowledge and skill at the demands of the myriad
forms of poetry. So congratulations.. 

Jackie Lee

Time is the school in which we learn.
Time is the fire in which we burn.
Delmore Schwartz	 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jacobson,
Shawn D via stylist
Sent: Friday, July 24, 2015 9:26 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List (stylist at nfbnet.org)
Cc: Jacobson, Shawn D
Subject: [stylist] SAS City (a sonnet for Cary NC)

I've not tried this form before (so it may be uneven).

Cary NC is where the SAS institute is located; SAS is a statistical
processing package that has grown and grown and is now kind of all things to
all people.

So I hope you like my nerdy little sonnet.

Shawn

SAS City
We carved you from the Carolina woods
as city whose bright streets are paved with code A Mecca in the southland
wrought by nerds a hold place, a wonder to behold.
Though not set on a hill you shine afar
where ever statistical work is done.
We think about the wonder that you are
whenever true regression lines are run.
And so SAS city due respect we'll pay
our statements will be semicolon crowned.
We'll order statements in the proper way.
Our jobs with Proc Step features will abound.
Our analysis reports stem from you
and we will know our procedures were true.

_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/jackieleepoet%40cox.net


_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/shawn.d.jacobson%40hud.
gov



------------------------------

Message: 9
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 14:07:18 -0400
From: "Jacobson, Shawn D" <Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov>
To: Writers' Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Making it count
Message-ID:
	
<8838F3FB8A7BB044AA6DE247E617C6F208DBC217AB at ELANNEPV117.exh.prod.hud.gov>
	
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"

Jackie

I think the barn was converted to an ice rink sometime in the '70's (so
after you left.

If you remember the towers, then the ice rink was past them going South from
campus.  Otherwise, it was pretty much a straight shot South on Welch to get
there.

The whole two cultures thing (there are scientists and there are artists and
the two camps are distinct) is a relatively new idea (I think it got started
in the mid-19th century.  One thing about the whole science fiction area of
literature is that it is bringing technical/scientific folk back into the
arts.

Thanks for looking at, and commenting on, my work.  Know that it is
appreciated.

Shawn

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jackie
Williams via stylist
Sent: Thursday, July 23, 2015 8:45 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List'
Cc: Jackie Williams
Subject: Re: [stylist] Making it count

Shawn,
I really liked this story of your start toward being a statistician. I have
always thought of that as a very intimidating profession, even for one with
no vision problems. You put a very human face on it. From now on, I will
think of any number as a person or as persons that are individuals.
As I read, I was trying to remember any barn at Iowa State, but probably the
hockey team was not operational when I was there.
Ice hockey is such a rough game and so often fights erupt over
disagreements. I am glad you did not get hurt, or give up on it.
Unusual, in my mind, that a statistician is also a poet and writer. So
different in their essence.
By the way, I am behind on critiquing both your writings in S and S, and
your last poem. There is no way your efforts should sink into a "Black
Hole." Just be patient. My mother always said, "The hurrier I go, the
Behinder I get."

Jackie Lee

Time is the school in which we learn.
Time is the fire in which we burn.
Delmore Schwartz	 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jacobson,
Shawn D via stylist
Sent: Thursday, July 23, 2015 12:23 PM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List (stylist at nfbnet.org)
Cc: Jacobson, Shawn D
Subject: [stylist] Making it count

Writer's group

Below is an article I wrote that will be published in Future Reflections.
It is about my experiences in college as statistician for our hockey club.

I hope everyone enjoys it.

Shawn

MAKING IT COUNT
by Shawn Jacobson

When I tell people I'm a statistician, they either get a glassy-eyed look on
their faces or think that my job is something like rocket science. People
tend to believe we statisticians spend our lives looking at columns of
numbers and doing calculations in our heads. I suppose that is what my
vocational rehabilitation counselor thought when she told me that a blind
person couldn't do such a job. Most people don't think getting out on the
ice during shooting contests, dodging hockey pucks, or arguing with players
about who scored a goal are jobs for a blind person, either. Yet I had all
of those experiences when I got my first taste of practical statistics as
statistician of my university's hockey club.

It was halftime at an Iowa State University football game when I spoke with
Coach Murdoch about becoming a statistician. He had met me through student
government when he had sought student funding for the hockey club, and he
remembered that I aspired to be a statistician. We started talking about
hockey and statistics, and he asked me if I would like to be the
statistician for the team. I learned that one of his former statisticians
had gotten a job with the Chicago Cubs. Finding employment is something we
blind folks worry about a lot, and a job in major league baseball sounded
supremely cool. I decided to give the hockey club a try.

At the time, what I knew about hockey could most charitably be described as
basic. I knew it was played on ice with a puck. I knew that players tried to
get said puck through the opponent's goal, and I had heard that hockey
players got into a lot of fights. Beyond that, I was pretty clueless. I
tried looking up information on hockey statistics in the university library,
but what I found assumed a level of knowledge I didn't have. Oh well, I
decided, I would do what I could.

My first step was to find the Cyclone Area Community Center, where the games
were played. The center was commonly called The Barn, because it had been a
dairy barn in its former life. But where was The Barn? It was time for me to
do some exploring.

I spent a beautiful autumn afternoon asking questions and generally
wandering around. Finally I found a suitably barn-like structure on the
south side of campus. When I opened the doors and looked inside, I saw a
skating rink and bleachers. This must be the place, I thought. At least the
walk, about a mile from my dorm room, wasn't beyond reason.

Next I needed to figure out which of the statistics I was going to keep. In
class we were always handed nice, neat tables of numbers (spreadsheets,
though we didn't use that term in those days) upon which to employ the tools
of the trade. At hockey games, however, I would be in charge of actually
collecting the numbers. I placed ads in the student newspaper offering free
admission to anyone who would volunteer to assist me. These ads drew little
interest; Ames, Iowa, was not a hockey hotbed. I would need to write down
the numbers myself.

First I tried to keep track of line changes, noting who was on the ice at
any given time. To do so I got behind the bench and looked at the numbers of
the players as they got out onto the rink. As I was moving behind the bench,
trying to keep my count, I heard a buzzing sound that reminded me of the
time I was stung by a hornet.

"Watch out!" one of the players shouted. A puck flying at the speed of a car
on the interstate had just missed my head by about three inches. I realized
that the shields around hockey rinks are there for a reason. It was time for
me to find something else to track.

Next I tried recording who won face-offs. I wore glasses that gave me pretty
good vision in a really narrow range. I needed to watch something that would
keep still until I found it, and the puck was pretty still before a
face-off. I figured that whoever won the face-off would eventually start
moving down the ice toward the other guy's goal. Even if the rest of our
statistical efforts were incomplete, we always had information about
face-offs. The idea was that even if I was wrong about who won the draw, I
could at least provide the coach with useful information about the game.

This job began a relationship with data collection issues that has been a
large part of my working life ever since. Knowing what information I would
keep track of, I settled into a routine. I would go to the games and get a
cup of hot cider (you wanted something warm in a building that featured an
ice rink!) Then I would head to my spot atop the bleachers at center ice.
>From this vantage point, I was able to watch some good hockey, though the
team's performance was uneven. Coach Murdoch had moved the team out of a
conference with a bunch of Illinois schools to seek stiffer competition. So
the team played a variety of opponents, including other colleges, Canadian
junior hockey teams, and local hockey clubs. There were many games where we
won by ten goals, and a few that we lost by that much. In short, the team
had to play opponents at several skill levels to get through the season.

At the end of periods, I would take my sheet with face-off numbers down to
the locker room and hand it to the coach. I don't remember a lot about the
locker room except that it was hot, damp, and musty. Hockey players jammed
together on benches listening to the coach as he told them what they had
done wrong and what they needed to work on. Once I handed over my sheet, I
would leave the room and head back to my seat as the Zamboni smoothed out
the ice for the next period.

One night I actually got out on the ice. My name was drawn for a contest
where I could win a prize if I could shoot a puck from the blue line into
the goal. I went down to the rink and stepped onto the ice. Haltingly, I
moved to the blue line over a surface I had spent many an Iowa winter doing
my best to avoid. At the blue line I grasped the unfamiliar stick, took a
menacing swipe at the puck, and missed. At this point, and on my next miss,
I knew the crowd was doing something, but I was too preoccupied with keeping
my balance to pay much attention to the noise coming from the stands. Then,
on my final attempt, I managed to dribble the puck toward the goal, but it
did not get anywhere close. I left the ice embarrassed, but knowing I had
given it a try.

The other part of my job was to keep a running total of goals scored,
assists, and penalty minutes for the team and players. I would get the
official score sheet from the coach and update the totals from before the
game. For this work, I was able to use my CCTV system to read the reports on
the game.

The task of keeping scoring totals seemed straightforward, but even this got
me into an argument. On the way home from a game, the player who had given
me a ride (by now the weather was too cold for a joyful walking experience)
told me that the scorer had given the goal to the wrong person. He let me
know that he, and not his teammate, had scored the goal. I brought this up
with the coach the next day. He told me that the scorer's decision had to
stand.

The two years I spent keeping hockey statistics taught me a valuable lesson
that I have carried into my work life--which is very satisfying, even though
it isn't as cool as being a baseball statistician. I learned that numbers
are about something. Just as every goal is scored by a hockey player, every
number I track in my job is about a person. Just as every statistics sheet I
looked at told the story of a hockey game, so every analysis I do in my job
tells a narrative about the human condition. As in hockey, my work with the
government has been about making it count.

_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/jackieleepoet%40cox.net


_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/shawn.d.jacobson%40hud.
gov



------------------------------

Message: 10
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 17:45:03 -0700
From: William L Houts <lukaeon at gmail.com>
To: Writer's Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Short Fiction - "The Golgotha Tarpt" - Severaleth
	Draft
Message-ID: <55B2DC0F.8090102 at gmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=utf-8; format=flowed



Happy Weekend, Friends:

Here's a short story I wrote several years ago.  I thought it was pretty 
good when I wrote it back then, whenever "when" was, but upon reading it 
recently, I found that improvements could be made.  I just don't have 
the sails to camp out here and do the editing, to mix metaphors. But I 
thought I'd post it, as I've never posted prose here, and despite the 
evils of this thing, I think that it has its charm, if it's not simply 
damnable of me to say so. Comments welcome, as always.

--Bill


---


    The Golgotha Tarot

By

William L. Houts


  Noel Klinghoffer, who used to be my master, said that the problem with
  most contemporary black magicians is that they aren?t contemporary at
  all, let alone magical. Most of them are shabby , furious little men
  who like to dress up in robes, chant Latin badly and wave swords
  around. They?re antiquarian hacks with a grudge.There?s always an
  ex-wife they want to terrorize, a demanding boss to torment or a drunk
  who bullied them at their favorite bar in front of friends.

But the Mirror --as my master called Hell--doesn?t care about Latin 
unless it?s pronounced with a certain panache. In the 21stcentury, he 
says, English is the language of power anyway. And as for robes, all but 
the most sentimental of demon lords prefer to treat with a magusdressed 
in a three piece Saville Row suit, an Italian shirt, a fine tie, and at 
least one good gold ring or bracelet.In sum, he says, the magus should 
spend no less than five thousand dollars on ceremonial attire.

?Can?t you work with more minor demons and spend less money on clothes?? 
I asked.

Master Klinghoffer had snorted.

?You may do so,? he replied, ?If you wish to waste your time.?

?You really can?t do any work with the minor ones?? I pressed.

Master heaved a great sigh and scratched the stubble on his massive 
ruddy face.

?If youwant to scare children at Halloween,? he said, ?or cause Aunt 
Betsy?s Ouija board to make rude remarks they are exactly right for the 
job.?

He went on to explain that the minor ones --?shite fiends? he called 
them-- made lots of stink and noise, but to get anything done worth 
doing, you had to deal with the princes.

?Even for scaring mean bosses and ex-wives?? I asked.

?Like everything, Turd,? he said, ?it depends.If we want Mr. Cogswell to 
have nightmares, we send a dog to smash his lamps and overturn his 
bookcase. If we want Sheila to lose her hair, we might pray to the 
Sister of Worms. But if we want Sheila and Mr. Cogswell to suffer 
horribly and die, we go to the great lords of the mirror.?

Master Klinghoffer placed his fleshy hands on his immense girth and 
burbled laughter.

I watched his face, fascinated.

Master Klinghoffer is not what you?d expect of a black magician.In all 
the old stories, the magus is a gaunt fellow, grim and spare, all excess 
flesh burnt up by passion for his art as if ina kind of terrible fever. 
There?s a sense of physical cost, of the body being spent for gifts of 
knowledge and power.

But Master Klinghoffer is the fattest person I have ever known or heard 
of. His fingers are like sausages, his neck like a great pink ham and 
his belly the side of some immense beef.He looks, in fact, as if he had 
been painted by Archimbaldo, if that mad artist had used hams and steaks 
to depict his subjects rather than fruits and vegetables.

Ironically for a black magician, he also resembles G.K. Chesterton. And 
he had something of the same fierce good humor. His thick red lips now 
trembled with mirth at the thought of the hypothetical Cogswell and the 
very real Sheila Klinghoffer receiving their infernal just desserts.

But although my master shared divorce woes with his magical confreres, 
he was obviously not little and he was distinctly unshabby.Master 
Klinghoffer covered his immense bulk with the finest silks in subtle 
hues cunningly matched. He smoked Cuban cigars, wore gold rings on four 
fingers of his left hand and a scarab earring with ruby eyes in his left 
ear. On nights when he was not inviting infernal Princes into his 
Chambre des Arts, as he called it, he drank a rare single malt whiskey, 
then slept in an antique canopied English fourposter. The thread count 
of his sheets bordered on the improbable.

But Master Klinghoffer?s greatest prize was ?the Box?. The plainness of 
the term was one of his peculiar jokes.The box was a locked silver chest 
the size of a large family bible.The lid was decorated with an etched 
phallus surmounted by a sun.An etchedserpent coiledabout the chest, 
swallowing its tail just below the gold plated keyhole.

In the second year of my apprenticeship to Master Klinghoffer, 
immediately after having gone through, mostly unsuccessfully, the Fifth 
ordeal of Abjection, I was entrusted with his second greatest 
secret.Emerging from his bedroom, into which I was meant never to go, my 
master sat me down in the living room to peruse the Box?s strange 
evocative contents.

?This,? he said as I snuffled, carefully placing the box on the black 
dining room table,?is the wicked trove.?

He sat across from me,watchingme closely as I stared at the Box.Five 
minutes passed, then ten, then twenty.

?Are you going to open it?? I finally ventured.

I sweated.Maybe the ordeal wasn?t really over and this was the final 
test. I was exhausted and bleeding, tears still fresh on my faceand I 
didn?t want to fail again this evening.

?Do you think yourself so worthy?? he asked harshly.

I have mentioned the roundness and good humor of Master Klinghoffer.But 
it would be incorrectto think him some conventional jolly fat man. His 
eyes, like chips of green ice, now glared at me from across the table. 
My bowels froze. I had long since learn that in Master Klinghoffer?s 
house,the ordeal was never over.

?No, Magister,? I replied instantly.?I am a worm.?

Though he was sarcastic about bad Latinists, I?d found it best to use 
the Latin word for master when he was in one of his furies.

?You are not!? Master Klinghoffer snapped.?You are a turd!?

?Yes, magister!? I agreed.

?And you have no business profaning the holy contents of this box with 
your sewer eyes.?

?No Magister,? I said.

?You are filthy and stupid,? he said airily.

?Yes Magister,? I agreed.

He pursed his red little lips.

?Mere automatic assent won?t cut it, Turd,? he said severely. ?You must 
suffer the truth when you speak it.?

?Yes, Magister,? I croaked, beginning to weep again.

I sagged against the back of my chair,then cried out and sat straiht up 
again, the stripes on my back thrumming with pain.

?And you must also suffer when you lie,? he said, pointedly ignoring my 
outburst.The cold fury of his eyes relentedby a pinprick.

I nodded miserably and stared at my hands, which were folded on the table.

?Besides,? he said, ?Sheila would swallow her tongue if she learned that 
you got to see the contents of the Box and she didn?t.?

I looked up from my hands and saw that a diabolical smile was playing on 
Master?s droll little mouth.

?You mean??? I began, grateful, unbelieving.

?You took your scourging with a certain flair,? he said. ?And anyway, 
what?s the point of having a secret treasure if no one knows about it??

I laughed then, dripping tears of gratitude onto the gleaming black 
table.Andtaking a ring of many keys from hispants pocket, he sorted out 
one, a silver baroque looking thing, and thrust it into the Box?s golden 
keyhole.When he turned it, there was a faint pleasing tunkle, and Master 
lifted the lid to reveal his wicked trove.

The silver Box contained five items arranged on a cloth of purple satin. 
There was a case of some lacquered black wood,inscribed with a pentacle 
in white enamel, a small leather pouch, a large gold coin franked with 
the words BASILEIOS ALEXANDROS, a crystal wand about seven inches long 
and a second, more slender golden wand about nine inches long. Thiswas 
topped with a round lens of blue glass set into a golden frame, about 
the size of a half dollar.

I smiled.I had passed through terrorand could now enjoy wonder.Such were 
the pillars which upheld the house of Master Klinghoffer.

The nature of the coin was obvious enough.But all else in the Box was 
mysterious to me.

?What?s this?? I asked, pointing to the black lacquered case.

?That?s the Golgotha Tarot,? he said, ? also known as the Judas Deck.It 
was purchased at the estate sale of an esteemed antiquarian and 
occultist. It is the linchpin of my success.?

Master Klinghoffer didn?t often use the word ?power?, thinking it a 
vulgarism employed by his sword-waving inferiors.

?And this?? I asked, pointing to the pouch.

That is a molar extracted from Napoleon on the island of St. Helena.?

Master Klinghoffer sucked his own tooth as if cleansing it of grit. He 
didn?t like to say the word ?saint?.

I passed over the crystal wand and pointed to the golden one.

?What in the world is this thing?? I asked.

?After the Golgotha,? he said, ?that is the greatest treasureof the 
wicked trove.It is called the oculis or Eye of Chartres in the grimoires.?

Suddenly deranged with curiosity, I reached out to touch the oculisand 
was harshly rebuffed.

?Don?t touch it!? snapped Master Klinghoffer, and his eyes again glinted 
dangerously. .

My hand instantly recoiled as if bitten by a snake, while my eyes 
returned to the lacquered case.

?How is the, I mean if it is not impertinent to ask, how is the Tarot 
deck the linchpin--?

His sharp voice bit again.

?It is not ?a Tarot deck?,? he snorted.?It is the Golgotha Tarot! Do you 
think I?d keep some rummy old Waite deck in the Box??

This time, there was a drop of humor in the acid.

?No magister,? I said, relaxing a little then straightening abruptly so 
as not to aggravate my wounds again.

I watched as Master Klinghoffer heaved himself afoot androlled himself 
to the liquor cabinet.He poured a glass of his whiskey and returned to 
his seat. He wet his bow mouth then set his glass down and began to 
talk.There were reasons a magus took an apprentice on. Holding candles 
and reading the responses in black liturgies was only one part of them. 
Reflecting back to the magus his arcane glory was another part. I think 
that there is also a third part, but I won?t say what it is.

I set my face on grateful awe and gaped at the Master.

?Sheila and I were living in Tacoma, Washington,? he said, savoring the 
whiskey.?It was a little house on Alaska, the sort of neighborhood you 
see lots of in that city.Dogs in the yard, trikes in the driveway and 
roofing shingles in the yard.?

He pressed his lips together briefly, looked to one side and went on.

?Little Noel was four then.I worked as an intake clerk in the bankruptcy 
court while Sheila looked after the boy. We lived on Top Ramen and 
Velveeta.?

He took another drink, savored and thought.I watched him steadily, like 
a doll.

?Sheila married me for magic!? he chuckled. ?She wanted to know if magic 
could buy us a better address, and I told her that it could. All of her 
goody goody friends at the Unity Church were into pyramid powerand 
positive thinking.And I told her that I knew a deeper magic.Older. 
Deeper. Darker.?

He drained his glass, rose to refill it, then sat down again, staring 
into his glass.

?She loved the sound of that: darker magic.Whatever she says now, she 
was glad to have bagged a real black magician. Her friends? husbands 
were plumbers and carpet cleaners. Our Ford didn?t run half the time, 
but we still had a bit of glamour, while they only had game shows.?

He burbled again, a low throaty sound, and drank.

?And it began to make us some money, Turd,? he said. ?Even then.

Master Klinghoffer?s face was ruddy, his forehead beaded with sweat.

?And it didn?t hurt that I?m a Jew,? he said. ?Sheila?s friends and 
their beaus were all poor WASPS, while I was just a little bit exotic. 
Sheila told her friends the tale that my father was a mystical rabbi who 
taught me certain forbidden Jewish mysteries.Soon they were paying her 
for ancient Kabbalistic curses from her sorcerous Jew husband.?

Laughing his throaty laugh, Master Klinghoffer drank again.

?But I wasn?t content with fifty dollars a week for putting the mojo on 
unfaithful husbands and careless hairdressers.I wasn?t a magus yet, 
Turd, but I was a true student of the Backward Art. And I meant to 
plunder the treasuries of an unsuspecting world.?

?But the curses,? I asked seriously, ?weren?t they real??

?It depends on what you mean by real,? he said serenely.?I used names 
from the /Key of Solomon/, but the curses were scribbled on a spiral 
notebook over beer and macaroni.?

This was all wrong.I had long ached to know some of Master Klinghoffer?s 
secrets, but I didn?t want to hear about macaroni and spiral notebooks. 
I wanted the dark rabbinical father.I wanted rare grimoires found in 
dusty bookshops.

?So you just, what, rooked them then?? I said.?These plumber?s wives??

I said it with a vehemence born of my recent flogging, a vehemence I 
didn?t even know I held. And without whiskey in him, Master Klinghoffer 
might well have whipped me bloody again, or worse. In the past , I had 
been forced to eat spiders for mild impertinence, beaten for appearing 
to think unflattering thoughts. Surely, I would now be disciplined for 
more than suggesting that Master Klinghoffer was a mountebank.

?Oh Turd!? he said, and the fondness in his voice was somehow more 
galling than a backhanded slap. ?You?re not still addicted to little 
myths about authority, are you??

?What do you mean?? I said, trying not to sound peevish. Even tipsy, 
Master Klinghoffer could only be pushed so far.

?You know well enough!? he snapped.?You think authority only comes from 
old books and white beards. But true power can surge through a spell 
scribbled on notebook paper to feed a wife and child.?

I knew he was powerful.I knew he was knowledgeable.But I didn?t always 
credit Master Klinghoffer with being subtle.

?Yes, Magister,? I said humbly.

?Besides,? he said gravely, ?you?ve been in the Chambre des Arts.You?ve 
heard their voices.You?ve seen them, or parts of them, in the smoke. You 
think sorcery and charlatanry are opposites.But when you are poor, you 
learn that cunningis a magical discipline.And the art I?m teaching you, 
Turd,is true.?

?Yes Magister,? I said.It was worse than a flogging. I felt ashamed and 
very small.

But my master was not in a punishing mood now.He continued his tale 
cheerfully.

?So, I made some extra scratch selling hexes. But I had faith that I was 
meant for more interesting things.And one day, while reading a certain 
occult periodical, I--?

?There are magazines for magicians?? I interrupted. This was more along 
the lines of what I wanted to hear.

Master Klinghoffer glared at me for interrupting, then made his peculiar 
throaty chuckle.

?Yes, Turd,? he said.?There are one or two secret magazines for 
magicians. They have low circulations, unpaid staffs and reputations 
built by word of mouth.The one I subscribed to was called 
/Trismegistus/.It came out three times a year, of course.Very clever.?

I didn?t get the joke, but I nodded and pretended otherwise.

?Anyway,? he continued, ?In one issuethere was an ad in the back for an 
estate sale and a list of the items to be sold. There were alchemical 
tinctures, an Elizabethan shewstone, a /Little Albert/, a /Black Pullet/ 
and other quaint and curious volumes. But among them all was anoccult 
nonesuch, something only ever read and rumored about.It was an original 
Golgotha//Tarot in good condition.?

Silently, I marvelled that Master Klinghoffer could clench around the 
word ?saint?, but pronounce ?Golgotha? without blinking.

?What?s so special about the Golgotha Tarot?? I ventured. ?Does it 
really go back as far as the Cru--??

Master Klinghoffer cut me off.

?No!? he rasped.?It is because The Golgotha?s /Hanged Man/ is said by 
metaphysical idiots to depict the Carpenter.But anyone can tell that it 
is actually Wotan on the World Tree!?

He was now quite angry and red as a beet.I was exacting a wee price for 
my stripes. A perilous game, maybe, but I found it a necessary one.With 
my tiny victory in hand, I went to safer ground.

?But Magister,? I said.?I still don?t understand why the Golgotha is so 
special. There are lots of old decks around, aren?t there??

?Nothing compares with the Golgotha,? he answered gravely, appeased.?The 
way the cards are read today, one only hears vague currents and 
possibilities.It?s prophecy for ninnies and cowards. But the Golgotha is 
used to give, in the hands of a magus, events, times and dates as well 
as subtler etheric conditions. It?s meant to tell kings which roads will 
take them beyond the assassin?s reach. And assassins where in the Royal 
Gardens to hide.?

He burbled then, like dark water under a rock.

?It?s poppycock,? he snorted, ?but there are old occult whisperingsthat 
a Golgotha /Tower/ was found in Boothe?s boarding room after he shot 
Lincoln.?

?Hey!? I blurted. ?I read that Os--?

?Of course,? he said with cloying condescension.?They use a different 
name and date nowadays, but the American version of the rumor started 
with the Lincoln assassination.?

He drained his glass, rose, refilledit andsat down again.

?Whether true or not,? he said, smacking his lips, ?the story indicates 
the specific power of the deck.The Golgotha is a Tarot of endings.And if 
you want to begin a new life, a life of gold rings and fine whiskey, you 
must end the life of beer and macaroni.?

Master Klinghoffer drank and turned his great boulderlike head aside for 
a long while. His lips were pursed, his ruddy features unreadable. The 
ruby eyes of his scarab earring seemed to glare at me. .

My stomach was turning.When he did this, there was often some severity, 
some harsh perversity to follow, besides which the eating of spiders 
would be a delightful escapade.

But after ten or fifteenminutes, he turned back to face me, his little 
bow mouth approximating a grin.

?Upon our marriage,? he said,?Sheila?s father had given me a dowry of 
five thousand dollars, to be used for the down payment on a house.I 
decided to secure the Golgotha with it.Lots of things happened then 
which might interest you, but I can?t be bothered to relate them. It?s 
all standard occult boilerplate, really.Dreams and eerie coincidences, 
encounters with grim figures and fell prophecies by same.

?What I will tell you is that Sheila was vehement in her skepticism at 
first. But afterrancorous argument and the persuasion of certain 
backward charms, she came to crave the Golgotha even more than I did.She 
went on and on about how the father of her son would be a mighty wizard, 
like Merlin. She began to wear black dresses in the house and 
styleherself the Witch Queen of Alaska Street.My arts had deranged her 
and I couldn?t board the flight to London fast enough to suit me.

?I remember now that Noel Jr. was inconsolable. He screamed and threw 
his wooden blocks at me as I hauled my luggage out to the Ford. Before I 
drove away, I gave him a good swatting.One mustn?t throw one?s wooden 
blocks at one?s betters, Turd, ever!?

The magus, great and mildly sodden, waggled a reproving finger at me and 
I stared at the table, nodding, annoyed.Of course I would always refrain 
from throwing toys at Master Klinghoffer.

?The fourteen hour flight,? he continued, again looking to the side, 
?was full of wailing children. They screamed and screamed. And no toy or 
stewardess or pleading mother could silence them.The din was still 
rattling my skull as we touched down at heathrow. And I dreamed of 
screaming children when I bedded down at the London Hyatt.I also 
dreamed, as I recall, of spiders.

The next morning, I took a cab to the site of the estate sale. It was a 
Tudor mansion in Surrey, grand and corrupt, like an athletic young man 
gone depraved in old age. At the door, I was greeted cheerfully enough, 
but with a sort of wry contempt, and I learned thatI was not to have 
called unannounced, but to have made arrangements through an agent.

?What of the notice in /Trismegistus/?? I asked Ms.Pryce, my greeter and 
the attorney for the deceased magus.

?That was an error!? she said with some asperity. ?But you are the 
seventh, and that is very much better than six.?

She peered at me closely with unsettling black eyes, like a crow?s.

?Do come in and mind the dogs,?she said at last. I never did meet these 
threatened canines.

Ms. Pryce led me into a dim parlor which had the quality of being plush 
withoutalso being comfortable.She gave me a ?catalog?--a single sheet of 
thick creamy paper with listings and suggested starting bids, and 
briefly left the room.

Six other men sat radiating spectra of hostility at each other, which I, 
an affable American, didn?t understand for some time.Young as I was, I 
wasthrilled to meet them, my confreres, these dark uncanny men. But they 
were not nearly so pleased to meet me.

Mr. Prospero wore Italian shoes, a golden watchfob and an antiquePrisian 
suit, whileMr. Anubis wore a thick dark turtleneck sweater and dark wool 
pants tuckedinto boots so black they might have been cut from the 
leather of patricide. And Mr. Flamel wore a great high-collared frock 
coat like something from a Victorian novel. The other three were 
antiquarian types rather than occultists, and were dressed in various 
English tweeds.But all of them looked at me in my jacket and khakis from 
Penny?s and greeted me in soft courteous voices.Only a little later did 
I understand that these were the tones of civilized derision.

One by one, we were each lead from the room to inspect the catalog items 
and make an offer, while the rest of us were fed the inevitable tea and 
biscuits. I still do not know how English estate sales are normally 
conducted, but this was perhaps more like a silent auction than what was 
announced in the magazine.

Finally, after watching the other six go to make their bids, I was lead 
up the red-carpeted stairs to the library, which was on the third 
floor.This was a much happier room than the dreadful little parlor where 
magicians and booksellers murdered each other psychically. There was a 
brick fireplace witha merrily crackling blaze.There were two great 
leather chairs, a liquor cabinet and shelves and shelves of undoubtedly 
rare volumes.And among them all was a long table, draped in white linen, 
on which rested the objects of interest.

Although it was there, wrapped in silk withina clear glass tube,I didn?t 
yet care about the /Eye of Chartres/. I only had eyes for the Golgotha 
Tarot.But among several other decks in cases, I didn?t recognize it.

?Where is the Golgotha?? I asked.

Without any sense of knowing its place in occult history, Ms. Pryce 
plucked the black lacquered case off the table and handed it to me.

?May I open it?? I asked timidly.

She glared at me for a full minute, and though I was then two times her 
size rather than four, I quailed.

?You would be a fool to bid onit without doing so!? she said severely.

?I slid the box from its cover and gently tipped the cards into my hand.?

Master Klinghoffer now stared thoughtfully at the lacquered case, though 
he did not, as I had been hoping all evening, open it and show me the deck.

There is,? he said at last, ?a sense of delirium about the Golgotha 
Tarot, particularly in the Major Trumps. Though they were designed by a 
15th century English sorceror, some of the cards look more as if they 
had been painted by Salvador Dali.

?In /The Sun/, for instance, the naked child is hideously equipped and 
the sun is red and bloated, with rays like squirming tentacles. In 
/Judgement/, the risen dead do not merely stand, but tumble out of their 
graves as if the angel?s trumpet blast had destroyed gravity. And in 
/The House of God/, the shattered /Tower/ is in the background while we 
gaze into the howling mouth and terrified eyes of the falling /Pope/.

?Beyond the strangeness of the images, the deck was in astonishingly 
good condition, if a bit brittle, faded and seeming to miss the /Nine of 
Grails/.Even lacking that one card, I wanted the Golgotha Tarot more 
than anything I had ever desired. It was not just a divinatory tool, I 
knew,but power itself. As if liquid occult force had been frozen into 
seventy-seven images.

My instincts--to withdraw the dowry, fly to London and even to read the 
/Trismegistus/ ad in the first place, had been correct, had been inspired.

?But if I wanted the Golgotha, surely people who called themselves 
?Anubis? and ?Prospero? would want it even more. With ragged breath, I 
bid the whole dowry of five thousand dollars on the uncanny deck.

?Then it is yours,? Ms. Pryce said simply.?None of the others would have 
it.Will you be paying with a bank check or credit card??

I blinked at her, uncomprehending.

?There are only five known to survive from the 15th century,? I 
protested,?all of them in private collections.This is a nonesuch, a 
priceless treasure!?

?I am not such an expert in these things as you gentlemen,? said Ms. 
Pryce, ?but the others seemedto have an concern with the /Nine of Grails/.?

?Their loss!? I snorted, and laid out five one thousand dollar bills.

?Quite so,? Ms. Pryce said, looking at me as if I had just placed live 
beetles on the table.?May I call your cab??

I did not immediately return to my London hotel room.Instead, I had the 
driver take me to a Surrey pub called ?Herne?s Lair? for dinner.Say what 
you like about English cooking, their meat pies are divine.

I was there for a half hour, eating my savory pie, drinkin stout and 
listening to the locals.I had just placed the Golgotha case on the table 
when in walked Professor Temple, one of the six. Like them, he had been 
distant during the event.But to my surprise, he now approached and asked 
if he might join me. Just an hour before, he had not been so chummy, and 
I was still feeling bruised by it. But no one likes to dine alone.And I 
saw that he was carrying the glass tube which containedthe /Eye of 
Chartres/.?

?I say!? he said cheerfully. ?You?ve won the Golgotha!And what are you 
drinking??

?Stout,? I said coldly.?Sit down if you want. And it wasn?t a matter of 
winning the Golgotha.Nobody else wanted it.?

I reflected that I could have laid out one thousand dollars rather than 
five and still carried off the prize.I ground my teeth.

?Twaddle!? he said frankly. ?There was much to interest the scholar of 
magic at poor Mr. Dashwood?s sale. Hard to choose.After all, we?re not 
the richest lot, are we??

I reflected on the golden watchfob of Mr.Prospero and grunted my dissent.

?Did you bid on the Golgotha?? I asked, tapping the lacquered case.

?Not my province, really,? he said, looking away.?I?m mainly concerned 
with French magical instruments of the late medieval period.I took the 
oculis, you know.Would you like to see it??

?Although they aren?t perpetually adolescent the way American men are, 
there is often something of the 12 year old boy in Englishmen.When 
Professor Temple asked if I would like to see the /Eye of Chartres/, it 
was more like an offer to show me his pet frog than it was like the 
sober query of a scholar.I was disarmed.

?Yes,? I said, ?I?d be fascinated.?

He gently laid the glass tube on the table and I saw that it was the 
work of a glassblower rather than a factory, with bubbles and unevenness 
in thickness. He pulled off the glass stopper and carefully fished out 
the linen-wrapped oculis. He unwrapped it and we both stared at the 
device which had been prepared in France more than six centuries before.

?I?m informed,? he said, ?that the gold is a bit sour now, but the lens 
is as rich as stained glass.In fact, It?s cut from the same stuffas the 
famous cathedral windows.?

?What was it made for?? I asked. It was such a strange and beautiful 
thing, as you can see.

?It?sany scholar?s dream, of course, to be questioned about their area 
of expertise. And scholars of late medieval French magical apparati 
havefewer chances to display their knowledge than most.

So a beaming Professor Temple clasped his hands and held forth on the 
magical properties ascribed by occult tradition tothe /Eye of Chartres/. 
There was a lot to digest, as the professor had studied alone for years 
and had many strange facts to disgorge.But the main thrust was that the 
user of the oculis is reputed to see through appearances to true essences.

?All the while he lectured, we each knocked down several glasses of 
English stout. And by the time he was finished, we were both royally drunk.

?So now you know my story,? he concluded.?Why don?t you tell my fortune 
with those bloody cards??

?A little while ago, Turd, I chastised you for treating the Golgotha as 
you would any old fortune telling deck. But I was younger then and full 
of grog, and eager to best this scholar of magic with my own kind of 
expertise. So I took the Golgotha from its case and carefully laid out 
eleven cards in the Baphomet spread. The significator, the card 
representing the Professor was the /King of Staves/, residing at 
Baphomet?s brow.But the rest were unhappy cards in their direst 
positions. And the last card, the one in the center, was /Death/.

?Ordinarily, /Death/ is not to be construed literally, as they have it 
in the movies.It is usually associated with major changes in the 
querent?s life, even quite benevolent ones.But in the Golgotha deck, 
with /Death/ on Baphomet?snose, the immenent demise of the querent is 
practically assured. Other than its antiquity , this is one of the 
reasons the Golgotha is so rare. Both furious querents and Church 
authorities burned most of the original decks.And modern companies want 
to make a buck.Better for them to print cards in which /Death/ is a 
metaphor and /The Devil/ is only a state of mind.But back to poor doomed 
Professor Temple.

?Oh dear,? I said, looking over the spread.?This is quite bad for you.?

?Rubbish!? he said angrily.?I?ve been in this field for years.It all 
means something else with the Tarot.It?s not death and misfortune, it?s 
all growth and transformation, that kind of thing.?

?Not so true with the Golgotha,? I said.

?What of /The Papess/ ?? he challenged.?There! She?s merciful, just look 
at her face!?

?She?s between Baphomet?s horns,? I said.?That?s not so bad.But she?s 
inverted, and that intensifiesyour plight.?

?But both /The Empress/ and /The Emperor/--!? he began.

?Are also inverted,? I said.They are the guarantors of life:bound 
andsilenced. And see this V made by the /Three/, /Seven/and /Ten/ /of 
Scythes/? That?s called ?Brutus? Dagger?. From now on, you must think of 
every day as the Ides of March.?

Furious and scared, he pointed a quaking finger at me.

?You sir,?he said vehemently, ?are a liar and a charlatan! And I possess 
the means to prove it!?

With a barely controlled fury, he pulled the stopper out of the glass 
tube and withdrew the oculis. He held the blue lens before his right eye 
and peered at me through it, like some occult Sherlock. He breathed in 
angry equine snorts and his face was red as a beet.Then all at once his 
mouth dropped open in shockand the high color drained from his face. He 
lowered the oculis, trembling.

?Why, you?re a, you?re a great--? he gasped.Then he slid the oculis back 
in its case, stoppered it, rose in a panic and stumbled out of Herne?s 
Lair.?

?You see, Turd,? Master Klinghoffer said.?He had gazed at me with the 
/Eye of Chartres/ and seen my true power. He had seen that I was only 
telling him the truth, speaking it from the heart of that power.And 
while earlier I had perceivedthe power of the Golgotha Tarot, I knew 
nowthat it would be the key to mine.?

?I was now hot and giddy with excitement, and I soon followed Professor 
Temple out of the pub. And so we encountered each other a third and last 
time.But one of us was not alive to the significance of the meeting.?

Master Klinghoffer burbled.

?Professor Temple, in fact, was not alive to anything.He lay dead in the 
parking lot, apparently of a heart attack.The oculis lay at his side, 
its glass case shattered.I ran in to tell the barman the sad news.But 
first, I retrieved the oculis from its bed of shards.It wouldn?t do, 
Turd,to leave such a priceless thing where any idiot might step on 
it.And the oculis, by a telling miracle, was still unbroken.It was as if 
I had been meant to take it.?

?I flew home with my first treasures,swollen with success. But it wasn?t 
pleasant, Turd.It was like having an erection with nowhere to put it. 
But I soon found the right lady! In fact, I found her on the plane.?

?It was the week before Easter of 1984, and the stewardesses on my 
flight were wearing little hats, little bunny ears. They were giving out 
chocolate eggs to the passengers.And as I unwrapped the foil on my egg 
and bit into it, I understood that I must consult the Golgotha on Easter 
Sunday.?

My master pronounced the word ?Easter? the same way a prissy 
proctologist might have pronounced the word ?anus?.

?Listen now, Turd,? he continued gravely, waving a fat index 
finger,?because I?m about to tell you something crucial about the 
Backward Magus. It isn?t pretty or noble or nice.It is a truth about the 
world and our place in it. And you must embrace this truth if you would 
succeed on this path. If you reject this truth, you are a sweet coward 
and I have no further use for you.But if you accept it, you may yet 
learn to walk backwards through a mirror.?

He had spoken of this mystery once before, when we had met at a party 
for the Winter Solstice of the previous year.It is the single resonant 
phrase which had drawnme into apprenticeship with him. I had wept, 
screamed, bled, eaten spiders and certain other thingsto penetrate its 
dense glamour. I would not forsake it now.

?Magister, yes!? I said fervently. ?What is thetruth??

He rose, poured whiskey from a new bottle and returned to his seat. 
After drinking half the glass, while I watched him with a mixture of 
anticipation and annoyance, he revealed the central mystery of the 
Backward Way.

?Turd,? he said,?we go to the restaurant.We order an eleven course meal, 
with wines and breads and puddings and pheasant under glass.Afterwards, 
we smoke the finest cigars and sip rare aperitifs. We talk long into the 
night.Then we rise, claim our coats and go home to sleep.?

There was a long pause.Perhaps, I thought,Master Klinghoffer would tell 
how we rose in the morning and returned to the same establishment for a 
sumptuous breakfast. Perhaps he was teaching me that we must enjoy 
ourselves at all costs, whatever the world might do or say.The Backward 
Way was arduous, after all, and we must take our comforts when we could. 
It was a preparation, a necessary reflection before going on to the 
great mystery. Now he would reveal that terrible truth.

But two minutes became three minutes became five and I finally realized 
that the great mystery had just been revealed, or at least indicated.

?Is it a parable?? I finally asked, a little desperately.

?Turd,? he said with the pursing of the lips which meant that I was 
being extraordinarily obtuse.?What have we not done? We have eaten and 
drunk our fill, smoked and talked late into the evening. The maitre d? 
has seen us out the door with a cheery wave and a plea for us to return 
the following night. But we have not paid the bill.?

?Oh,? I said.And:?Ohhh!?

Master Klinghoffer continued, not cross with me now, but enjoying the 
professorial mode.

?The black magician,? he said, ?never pays.He orders whatever he likes 
from the menu and delicacies are then served to him steaming on ivory 
plates. But only children believe in a free meal.There are cosmic laws, 
and the first one decrees that Someone must pay the bill. But it is 
notstipulated who must pay it.And the restaurant owner does not 
care.Because the truth is that he?s an amoraljunkie who only keeps the 
restaurant going to support his habit.That is the cosmic flaw that we 
exploit, Turd.Others are sentimental about the restaurant and its 
proprietor. They order the cheap dishes and pay with cash. But black 
magicians dine on pheasant and another diner pays.Because they know that 
there is really no restaurant andthe junkie overdosed long ago. There is 
really only a hole in the world, Turd.And we reach into that hole to 
draw out golden honey.?

Smarter than the average bear, I thought, and then said it.

?Yes,? he said, pondering.?Yogi Bear was a greatAdept of the Backward 
Art. And his apprentice, of course, was Boo Boo.

He burbled, like subterranean oil spurting from a hole in the blackest 
earth.

?It was the Golgotha Tarot which taught me all of this. And it lead me 
to my lucky diner.

?As I recall, there was some unpleasantness upon my return from 
London.The Easter Bunny was going to be at the Tacoma Mall from Good 
Friday through EasterSunday, for games and family portraits. Sheila was 
fanatical about the portrait.And little Noel screamed that Daddy should 
meet the Easter Bunny too.But I had to prepare for my Golgotha reading. 
This was all for them as well as myself, remember!?

Master Klinghoffer suddenly sounded very aggrieved.

?I patiently explained to Noel that the Easter Bunny was really an angry 
underpaid young man in a sweaty horrible suit. And that instead of 
pretending that a sweaty horrible man was really a miraculous rodent, 
Daddy had to do things which would make us all rich.

?Sheila was furious.How could I trample on the magic of childhood like 
that, she wanted to know, me of all people! And I told her that there 
was real magic and fake magic and that I would spend Easter holiday 
doing the first kind. Sheila screeched that I was very clever about my 
strange mysteries but a blockhead about the most obvious things.Then the 
Witch Queen of Alaska Street took her son to stay with her mother.I 
couldn?t have devised things better if I?d called on the Doctor of Hooks 
to drag them out of the house for me.?

That laughter again, like oil or black water bubbling under a rock. Then 
a flat look came over his face and he turned away.

?I hope he had fun that day,? he said in a hollow voice. Then he turned 
back to me.

?I won?t belabor you with the prep work for the great reading,? he 
said.?Certain excruciations are associated with the Golgotha, and one 
must come to it with terror and purified by suffering.?

?But how did you suffer in the English pub?? I asked.?I thought we never 
had to pay.?

?The Golgotha,? he said,?lays outside our path, outside all paths, and 
makes its own demands. As for payment, I shedtears with interest for 
thatSurrey reading, and more for the reading to come. By Easter morning 
I was a hollow vessel,prepared to be filled with Golgothic visions. And 
I was not disappointed.What the Golgotha spoke to me was a reading of 
terrifying symmetry and elegance.

?I asked my question:what must I do to end this life of a bankruptcy 
clerk, to trade my life of beer and pretzelsfor one of steak and 
whiskey?Trembling, I laid out eleven cards in the Baphomet spread./The 
Moon/ ruled the left horn, /The Sun/ ruled the right andmy significator, 
/The Emperor/, stood between them. /The Magician/, inverted, rode the 
left ear and the /Three of Crowns/ was on the right./The Chariot/ held 
Baphomet?s beard, flanked by the /Seven of Staves/ and the /Seven of 
Grails/.And the /Three/, /Seven/ and /Tenof Scythes/ appeared again, 
suggesting Brutus?s Dagger.

?If you knew the Tarot the way I do, Turd, you would instantly know that 
this spread was one of duality, a spread that spoke of twins. For I, the 
inverted /Magician/ as well as /The Emperor/, am ruled by /The Moon/. 
And the /Seven of Staves/, with its seven flying arrows, clearly 
referred to my flight to London.My twin was on the right side, ruled by 
/The Sun/. Represented by the /Three of Crowns/, He was a tradesman of 
some kind, and the /Seven of Grails/ indicated that he would travel by 
water.

?But the last card, the one towards which the whole spread pointed, was 
/The Hanged Man/.And he invariably represents a sacrifice.

?Once I had established the players and their issues, the rest was a 
parlor game, a matter of the simplest deduction.In order for the 
magician to end the life of beer and pretzels, the tradesman would need 
to be sacrificed to Brutus?s Dagger. /The Moon/ would conquer /The 
Sun/:an eclipse.

?What about /The Chariot/?? I asked.?You left that out.?

Something about this story, or the manner of its telling, made me want 
to pokeholes in it. But Master Klinghoffer was unfazed by my frail quibble.

?Travel again, Turd,? he said.?Also, mystical twinship, as represented 
by the white and black horses.It was all very succinct. A date was even 
given, or nearly.There were all of these sevens, threes and tens.Ten was 
very significant.?

?Why not thirteen?? I asked.?Or seventeen??

?Thirteen,? he rasped, catching on to my fencingmood now and not liking 
it at all, ?underlines /The Hanged Man/.It is the odd man out.It is the 
number of sacrifice.?

Master Klinghoffer hadn?t accountedfor seventeen, though, and I felt 
relieved. A certain suffocating perfection had been averted.

?But, he continued,?the spread said nothing of how the sacrifice would 
be accomplished. I considered another deal of the cards to determine 
this,But further thought made it unnecessary. If /The Hanged Man/ had 
been in any other position, it might have suggested a sacrifice yet 
unfulfilled. But as the last card, a major trump on Baphomet?s nose,it 
spoke of an unavoidable condition.Like the death of Professor Temple, it 
was already accomplished.

?But it is part of the magician?s art to know when something is being 
said even when it is not being spoken. Or perhaps it was the /Three of 
Crowns/, suggesting a labor to be performed.Or it might have been /The 
Chariot/, implying a final travail. In any case, I knew that the 
sacrifice would take place. But to secure my free meal, I would need to 
put my restaurant bill on my lucky diner?s table; I would need to make 
him my scapegoat. And that lead me to my greatest feat of speculomancy.

?Scapegoating, Turd, comes from the ancient Jewish custom of putting the 
sins of the tribe upon a single male goat and driving it into the 
wilderness. This was done on the holiday of Yom Kippur, the Day of 
Atonement. On the Hebrew calendar, Yom Kippur is observed on the tenth 
day of Tishrei, which that year fell in October.?

The tenth day of the tenth month, I thought:perfect and appalling.

?When Yom Kippur came,? he went on, ? I sequestered myself in the house 
and sent Sheila and the boy to stay with her mother.I told them I was 
observing a special Jewish custom this year and shouldn?t be disturbed. 
It was true, after all, or true enough, anyway.And they bought it.

?For the Yom Kippur working, I had purchased the cheapestsecond-hand 
suit I could find. I had also prepared a tall mirror, using sour wine 
and the blood of catsto consecrate my enterprise in the name of our 
lord,the Shattered Prince.

?After seeing Sheila and Noel out the door, I took lipstick and scrawled 
?/Three of Crowns/? at the mirror?sface level. I spat upon it, and 
scribbled other things besides, doodles and obsceneties ofthe most 
childish kind. I covered the mirror with them, singing ?Mad Dogs and 
Englishmen? at the top of my lungs. It was outrageous fun!

?Then, after meditating on my image in the defiled glass, I smashed it 
witha ball peen hammer, aiming for the face. This was also hugely 
entertaining, though I cut my hands in my enthusiasm. I used the blood 
to smear an inverted pentagram on seven of the shards.Singing ?Mad Dogs? 
all the while, I collected the broken glass and stuffed it into the 
suit. With a sense of ritual flourish, I further soiledmy magical 
doppleganger and stuffed the whole smelly shattered affair into the suit 
bag.

?If I had not been married, I would have hung it up in my closet. But 
confident in the efficacy of my working, I opted for marital concord and 
buried the thing in the backyard. I shoveled dirtwith a rendition of 
?Mad Dogs? so mournful it would have made my namesake weep.

?I was in my twenties then and still thought magical meant the same 
thing as instant.I knew I had been successful the same way an actor may 
know the strength of his performance long before the reviews come out. I 
expected to receive a mysterious check in the mail.Or perhaps a 
wealthyunknown relative would die and leave me his fortune.But magical 
time is not ordinary time.It is more like dreaming, in which you may 
experience the same moment stretched over a number of years, or you may 
live many years in a single night. So I lived many years in the 
following year and they all had the quality of a nightmare.

?I lost my job at the bankruptcy court and couldn?t find a job to match 
even that dismal position. I delivered phone books and pizzas while 
Sheila answered phones for an insurance salesman. We barely had enough 
money for macaroni, let alone the cheese to go on it.And then there were 
Noel?s doctor bills. He had become anemic and suffered from frequent 
infections. He missed many school days and we had to pay a babysitter.

In addition to everything else, I started returning scrounged pop 
bottles to make ends meet.So it went for that annus horribilis. And 
then, a year after my Yom Kippur ritual, my lucky diner finally paid the 
bill.

?It was shortly after midnight and I had had a humiliating day of 
bearing pizzas untothe ungrateful masses.I sat on the couch with a beer, 
watchingour battered Magnavox with a sense of wonder and triumph. 
Palestinian patriots had hijacked a cruise ship called the Achille 
Lauro.After quarreling with him, they had shot a disabled passenger and 
thrownhis body overboard. The passenger was a 69 year old appliance 
manufacturer named Leon Klinghoffer. The date was the seventh of October.?

Seventeen, I thought, and wanted to vomit. But Noel Klinghoffer was 
relentless.

?I closed my eyes,? he said,?and bowed my headto the Shattered Prince.I 
imagined Leon Klinghoffer swollen with my sins, bearing them down to the 
bottom of the Aegean Sea. I felt like a kite, an eagle, rising above the 
shabby fabric of empty bottles and bankruptcies which had made up my 
life until then.I would pisson my enemies and giggleat their sorrows. I 
would smoke cigars rolled from extinct tobaccos and keep a harem.I would 
wear rings of gold and orichalcum. I was the King of the World.

?Shortly afterward, Noel died of leukemia, and I wept many, many nights 
that there was neither magic nor medicine that could have cured him. I 
loved that boy, Turd.Perhaps I should have gone with him to see the 
Easter Bunny after all.?

Master Klinghoffer looked away then. Very dramatic. When he turned back 
to me, a single sluggish tear slid down his fat left cheek.

?But one of the things a magician learns,? he said, ?is when to 
distinguish magic from the relentless machineries of the world. There 
are some things, Turd,like disease and old age and divorce, which magic 
can do nothing about.?

He drew a great breath then, as if he had long been submerged in the 
truth and now gaspedfor the lie that sustained him.

?Some things, Turd,? he said, ?are just a coincidence.?

with those words, Master Klinghoffer folded his hands on his great 
belly, tucked his chin on his chest and fell asleep.

When he did this, it always fell on me to rouse the mystical behemoth 
and herd him to his bedroom door. But this opportunity would never occur 
again. I could look through the Golgotha myself now, see what/The 
Magician/ looked like, or /The Hanged Man/ or Professor Temple?s benign 
ineffectual /papess/. More intriguingly, I could take up the oculis and 
study Master Klinghoffer through it, see the sight that had exploded the 
poor Professor?s heart.

I reached for the golden wand and trembled. What would be revealed by 
the /Eye of Chartres/? Some monster, some devouring thing, some bloated 
hominoid spider with a thousand mouths?I grasped the oculis and raised 
it to my right eye.

But before I could focus properly through the blue lens, I dropped it 
again.Perhaps it was terror;maybe I just feared a heart attack. But 
unaided by any magic,I looked at the snoring magician and considered.I 
briefly thought of brightly painted Easter eggs. Then I walked away from 
the house of Noel Klinghoffer.

?Alexander,? I said to myself, ?it?s time to go dancing.?













-- 


"Oh, Sophie!  Whyfore have you eated all de cheeldren?"



------------------------------

Message: 11
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 18:01:50 -0700
From: EvaMarie Sanchez <3rdeyeonly at gmail.com>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] reminder to all
Message-ID:
	<CACdbYKV=s=D3J6U1+BdK9FOmtB7fBBTQTC0D_6w3hH7cKrmbYg at mail.gmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=UTF-8

This is a reminder for all writers, members or not.
Hello Writers, Convention is over and many of us who were lucky enough to
attend, are trying to recover. We have new members and new officers that we
need to meet, so I thought it a good idea to have our monthly phone meet up
be an actual meet up. Let's gather and get to know each other, for then the
work begins.

Information you need to get onto this month's call:

Date: Sunday evening, July 26th

Time: 8:30 ET; 7:30 CT; 6:30 MT; 5:30 PT

Phone#: 1-712-432-0460

Access Code: 568839Pound

Yes, the call will be recorded and placed upon our website.

Call in, introduce yourself and get to know everyone else, and hear what
the future will bring for the Writers' Division. Then make sure you are a
part of it.

Together we are going to do things that will be remembered.

Eve Sanchez
 President, National Federation of the Blind Northern Arizona
President, National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Committee Chair, Arizona Association of Guide Dog Users
Affiliate Member, National Federation of the Blind Legislative Committee
Affiliate Member, National Federation of the Blind Membership Committee
Member, Slate & Style Editing Team

"You do not need to have vision to see the stars."


------------------------------

Message: 12
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 18:34:35 -0700
From: "Semirhage" <severus13 at gmail.com>
To: "Writers' Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] reminder to all
Message-ID: <26ED4A11F1884B48AA5DE8A622F402D9 at owner>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
	reply-type=original

We were totally going to be there but the opportunity came to go to Portland

like Tuesday! We'll hate missing it. If by some strange event we're back on 
time we'll totally call in but I will be surprised if we are as we're not in

charge of travel time. Hope you all have a blast.
Sem
I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed.
I get along with the voices inside of my head. 




------------------------------

Message: 13
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 20:00:24 -0700
From: EvaMarie Sanchez <3rdeyeonly at gmail.com>
To: "Writers' Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] reminder to all
Message-ID:
	<CACdbYKW1SSncNsfvCqCSCHFR=BLn+FUGbLg-7kyty+nVbHNc5A at mail.gmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=UTF-8

Oh I want to give you a smart reply like, "They have phones in Portland."
but I know that you will be busy having fun. Sorry to miss you on the call,
but we will catch you up in future and get with you in August. Have a great
time.
Eve

 President, National Federation of the Blind Northern Arizona
President, National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Committee Chair, Arizona Association of Guide Dog Users
Affiliate Member, National Federation of the Blind Legislative Committee
Affiliate Member, National Federation of the Blind Membership Committee
Member, Slate & Style Editing Team

"You do not need to have vision to see the stars."

On Fri, Jul 24, 2015 at 6:34 PM, Semirhage via stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org>
wrote:

> We were totally going to be there but the opportunity came to go to
> Portland like Tuesday! We'll hate missing it. If by some strange event
> we're back on time we'll totally call in but I will be surprised if we are
> as we're not in charge of travel time. Hope you all have a blast.
> Sem
> I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed.
> I get along with the voices inside of my head.
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site
> http://writers.nfb.org/
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
>
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/3rdeyeonly%40gmail.com
>


------------------------------

Message: 14
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 22:10:55 -0700
From: EvaMarie Sanchez <3rdeyeonly at gmail.com>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Slate and Style
Message-ID:
	<CACdbYKWhcRZzkAimtx_DCz=MnWWi2pmmQ5FT6kMccCyvPe2mag at mail.gmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=UTF-8

Hello People, I just received word from a member who had not received a
copy of the last issue of Slate and Style. I am thinking that for some
reason the person who was sending them out had copied their address
incorrectly. This happens.
As it has come to light though, I thought it prudent to ask here if there
are any other members out there who did not receive a copy. We will only
know things need fixing if you tell us, so please do not be shy.
And by the way, The submission deadline for the Autumn issue is
approaching. Remember that you could submit any time throughout the year,
but if you specifically want to be in the coming issue, you need to be
aware of the dates.
For the next issue, the submission deadline is September 2nd. And please,
please, please take note and follow the submission guidelines. They can be
found on the Writers' Division webpage.
Be excellent to each other and Write On.
Eve Sanchez
 President, National Federation of the Blind Northern Arizona
President, National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Committee Chair, Arizona Association of Guide Dog Users
Affiliate Member, National Federation of the Blind Legislative Committee
Affiliate Member, National Federation of the Blind Membership Committee
Member, Slate & Style Editing Team

"You do not need to have vision to see the stars."


------------------------------

Subject: Digest Footer

_______________________________________________
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org


------------------------------

End of stylist Digest, Vol 135, Issue 20
****************************************