Question: 1) Is it really possible to find legal sources for kids and their parents to download music over the Internet ?
2) Why should illegal music download be of concern to music listeners ?
First of all, yes, there certainly are a great many ways to download free music legally, or for very low cost. A small sample of these quality music sites can be found through the links at the end of this article. Secondly, why should illegal downloading be of concern to music listeners ?
Suppose as a writer, your long and laborious efforts to create worthwhile literature, were suddenly made available for free on the Internet ? Personally, I write free articles on the Internet to promote my Search Engine Placement business. I do this by choice because this is simply the way the Internet works, and how business is done best on the Internet. I provide free quality information on topics such as Google, Technology and the Internet in order to gain a prospect’s trust and attract paying SEO customers. My primary income, therefore, does not come from writing articles. If I were writing articles for a living, I would certainly take offense at the free, unlicensed, and illegal distribution of my commercial material.
Out of respect for music itself, and the worldwide community of musicians, there has to be a compromise between the profit motives of the corporate music business and those who want all music to be free all the time.
Let’s take a long term point of view, from something other than the obviously selfish desire to get music for free. The long term effect of illegal music downloading will inevitably be fewer musicians, as well as less music diversity. I have friends that are musicians, and I know that there are many musicians who produce quality music, who for one reason or another have not been able to sign with one of the “big five” recording companies. Their ability to focus on their music full-time rather than as a part-time job, is heavily dependant on the smaller recording company to promote and sell their music.
This brings me to the first quality source for free and low-cost music downloads, which I highly and enthusiastically recommend:
Magnatune
http://www.magnatune.com
I respect and admire this company for several reasons.
1) Their music repertoire is diverse and the quality is first rate. Most of their artists have not signed with a major label, nevertheless, their music is of exceptional quality. All music is available for download in CD quality format, (as opposed to lower quality MP3 format).
2) Their motto is “We are not evil”. They split royalties 50/50 with their artists. This is unheard of in the music industry. It seems that for more than just a few musicians, Magnatune is making a significant impact on their artists professional livelihood.
3) Magnatune offers their customers very reasonable prices on a sliding scale, depending on what the customer wants to pay for an album, (at approximately 30 percent below industry averages). Some albums are priced as low as $ 5.00. They also allow the music to be shared with 3 of the customer’s friends legally. What better way is there for music to be known and for Magnatune to make their artists available to a broad audience ?
4) They also allow their music to be played on Podcasts and many other types of multi-media formats, films, commercials, etc., for very reasonable rates.
This article is not intended to be a commercial endorsement for Magnatune, although I do give them a very positive recommendation. It seems to me that they are the standard bearer of the new recording company business model. This means that with an open-minded approach to the music business, it can be a business that is attractive for the distributor, the musician, as well as the music consumer. I encourage everyone to visit their web site, and listen to free samples from their many genres of music. They offer everything from Classical to New Age, and everything in between. It is easy to spend hours listening to all of the free music available on their web site, and their catalog is growing all the time.
Note: perhaps I am partial to Magnatune for the additional reason that they are located in Berkeley, CA. I attended the University of California at Berkeley, (among other schools), quite a number of years ago, and I may be partial to good ideas coming from that area.
What about the commercial download sites ? Although I actually do like Rhapsody because of their page layout, organization, ease of use, and wide variety of music, I am not an avid enough music listener to subscribe to their service. You may want to check out their site if you have the inclination.
Note: Although popular subscription sites like ITunes, Rhapsody and Napster offer non copy-protected music, the problem of unfair compensation to musicians according to the big business model of the major record labels remains. Note: Apple allegedly gives a mere 10 cents of every 99 cents it charges per downloaded song to the artist.
One of the most insightful articles I have read in a long time was recently features in Wired Magazine by David Byrne (an eclectic artist, formerly of Talking Heads).
You can read it through a visit to wired.com and search for articles by David Byrne, or just copy and paste the following URL in your browser, (sorry, it was too long to use the automatic link window in this blog.)
http://www.wired.com/entertainment/music/magazine/16-01/ff_byrne?currentPage=all
Additional sources for free, or nearly free, and low-cost music can be found at the following links:
Note: these sites have been briefly reviewed, and it is believed that they are all legal sites only. If anyone find any of these links to be illegal sites, or finds that they are misrepresenting an any way, please notify me and the link will be promptly removed. Readers assume their own risk for any downloaded material.
Links to over 150 free and low-cost music download sites.
Rhapsody.com 25 free tracks per month – monthly subscription rates
Amie Street - sliding price structure – depends on # of downloads – store credits
Lala.com –Trading site – trade your unwanted CD’s for ones you want by mail – CD sales
Last.fm - radio subscription site - they offer 3 free listens of each song and recently signed on with major labels.
Deezer.com - A free radio site, with excellent selection.
Spiralfrog.com - large library – uses ad click through business model
Narcopop Independent Musicians Directory
http://www.dmoz.org/Arts/Music/Bands_and_Artists/
http://irate.sourceforge.net/
www.emusic.com
www.greenleafmusic.com
www.bleep.com
http://cashmusic.org/
http://creativecommons.org/ and http://creativecommons.org/wired
MP3.com (used to be an illegal site, now legit - owned by CNET)
http://www.nonesuch.com/
http://www.ithinkmusic.com/
To determine if you are downloading from a legitimate or illegitimate site, read the following article:
FAQ.
http://www.whatsthedownload.com/whats_the_controversy/faq/#4
Here is another informative article on downloading for parents and children.
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/7648/what_your_children_need_to_know_about.html
And here is another on the effect of illegal downloading on artists incomes.
http://www.theinternetpatrol.com/how-downloading-mp3s-really-does-take-money-out-of-the-artists-pockets
Additionally, a proposal for a viable business model that consumers, artists, and the music industry could implement to the benefit of all parties at:
http://www.strom.com/awards/316.html
Final Note: this author assumes no responsibility for the actions of readers of this article. The purpose of this article is to provide information on, and to encourage legal downloading only.
Illegal music download sites are deliberately not mentioned in this article.
If the reader chooses to use file sharing or swapping services, (P2P sites), it is his or her responsibility alone. This author assumes no responsibility for the reader’s legal or illegal downloads or consequences thereof, such as download of the following: inappropriate content, viruses, Trojans, worms, or other software malfunctions that can occur from downloads at illegal music sites.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The Real Hero
“The Real Hero”
by
Robert Beebe
Frodo was lying on his back with eyes open, staring at the cloudy sky. “Well, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, “I’ve been having a look around and thinking a bit. There’s nothing on the roads, and we’d best be getting away while there’s a chance. Can you manage it?
“I can manage it,” said Frodo. “I must.”
Zeth took a sip from his can of Coke and turned the page. Backpack in front of him, he sat at his usual spot on the bleachers overlooking the football field, but his mind was far away in the land of Mordor. Every day for the past few weeks, as soon as the final bell rang, he was out the back door of the high school, leaving his freshman courses behind, and entered the world of The Lord of the Rings where he became Frodo, the Ringbearer, the One chosen to carry the Ring and cast it into the fires of Mount Doom to save all of Middle-earth.
Unbeknownst to him, two of the school’s cheerleaders were watching him from down on the field. Zeth’s daily appearance on the bleachers had not gone unnoticed.
“Look at him,” said Brenda, a sporty blonde who was the school’s head cheerleader and girlfriend of the football team’s star running back. “He carries that book around with him everywhere.”
“Yeah, but you know,” replied Jeanette, Brenda’s best friend, “I think he’s kind of cute.”
“You gotta be kidding. The guy’s a weirdo. Lives in his own little world.”
What Brenda said—name calling aside—was true. Zeth had trouble relating to people. Maybe it was his dysfunctional family. His mom and dad were always fighting and he had this younger brother, Alan, who was a super-achiever—a real nerd who always got straight A’s on his report card. Zeth wasn’t the brightest person in the world, but he had a good heart. He just didn’t know how to express it.
“Go on,” Brenda goaded Jeanette, “I bet if you went up there right now you couldn’t get his nose out of that book of his.”
Jeanette took up the challenge and headed up the bleachers to the top row where Zeth was sitting. He took no notice of her as she approached. He was now deeply into the climax of the story where he, as Frodo, with his friend Sam were making their way up the side of Mount Doom. He could almost smell the fire spewing out of the volcano.
“Hi, Zeth,” said Jeanette, now standing right beside him. “What are you reading?”
Zeth glanced up at Jeanette and simply showed her the book cover, then went back to reading.
“Oh,” she said, “you know, I saw one of those movies. I think it was the first one. It was okay, I guess. Too much fighting, though.”
Jeanette waited for Zeth to say something, but he just continued reading. He was about to enter into the mountain through a cave door on it side. There was nothing but fire and smoke all about.
“Well, see you around,” said Jeanette with a sigh and walked back down the bleachers to the field.
“Told you so,” said Brenda with a smirk. “The guy’s a loser.”
A couple of hours later Zeth was walking home along the main road that passed through town, oblivious to everything around him. He had just succeeded in fighting off Gollum who had fallen into the fire of Mount Doom along with the Ring. He had to admit, though, he probably wouldn’t have been able to make it without the steadfast support of his faithful friend Sam. It had been Sam who had urged him on and even carried him the last few hundred yards when his own strength had given out. It made him wonder: who was the real hero—Frodo or Sam?
Suddenly a scream jarred Zeth out of his reverie. He looked to the right and left to see where it came from. Down a side road off to his right—a dark alley really—stood a car with its headlights shining out into the gathering darkness. Inside he could see two forms struggling. Dropping his backpack, Zeth ran towards the car at full speed. As he approached, he could see that the two were a boy and a girl.
“Get lost, creep!” shouted the boy.
“Zeth, help me!”
He recognized the voice at once. It was Jeanette’s. Zeth approached the driver’s side where the boy was. He was practically on top of Jeanette. Zeth recognized him. It was Brenda’s boyfriend, Jim Davis, the star running back.
“Leave her alone!” Zeth shouted with such intensity that he surprised himself. “I said take your hands off her.”
“Hey, you’re the guy who’s always reading that book. Who’s going to make me, Frodo?” the boy said mockingly. “Mind your own business.”
“And you mind yours,” Zeth shot back, surprising himself again. “Step out of the car.”
“With pleasure, punk.”
Jim let go of Jeanette and opened the car door. Stepping out, he towered at least six inches above Zeth.
“You do look a bit like a hobbit down there, don’t you?” said Jim with scorn. “Well, Frodo, now what?”
Zeth hadn’t thought about what he would actually do once Jim got out of the car. He stood groping for words.
“Well, let me help you decide,” Jim said, grabbing Zeth by the front of his shirt. “You either scram or I drop you right here.”
“Leave him alone, Jim!” Jeanette cried, now outside of the car.
“You stay out of this. This is between me and the punk.” Jim glared at Zeth with gritted teeth.
Although initially at a loss for words, Zeth now had regained his composure and felt a strange sense of peace inside. Looking at Jim square in the eyes, he said calmly, “You can punch me if you want. Go ahead. But it’ll just make things worse for you. Whenever people see me at school—all banged up—it will remind them of you cheating on Brenda.”
Hearing this, Jim froze. Slowly, he released Zeth’s shirt. He seemed suddenly disoriented.
“You promise not to squeal?” he said, his voice quavering slightly.
“Get back in your car, drive off, and we’ll forget the whole thing,” Zeth answered with sudden confidence.
“Okay, I’m trusting you…” He was about to say ‘punk’ but bit his lip. Then he jumped into his car and sped away.
“Thanks, Zeth,” said Jeanette as the sound of Jim’s car faded in the distance. “That was real brave.”
“How did you ever get yourself into a situation like that?” Zeth look at Jeanette with a mixture of shyness and new-found self-respect.
“After cheerleading practice, Brenda had to go somewhere with her mom and I started walking home. After about five minutes, Jim pulled up beside me and offered to drive me home. Having no reason to distrust him, I got into the car. Then he turned down this side street. Boy, was I wrong about him.”
“Just like Frodo trusted Gollum,” Zeth said half to himself, “but then he turned on him.”
“Huh?” Jeanette said, uncomprehendingly.
“It’s like in the book. Frodo trusted Gollum, but then he betrayed him. Then Sam came and saved the day.”
“Oh,” said Jeanette, as if she now understood.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
Zeth seemed like a different person to Jeanette, but still cute. She smiled. They walked back to the main street together.
Picking up his backpack, Zeth said, “Yep, I think Sam was the real hero.”
by
Robert Beebe
Frodo was lying on his back with eyes open, staring at the cloudy sky. “Well, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, “I’ve been having a look around and thinking a bit. There’s nothing on the roads, and we’d best be getting away while there’s a chance. Can you manage it?
“I can manage it,” said Frodo. “I must.”
Zeth took a sip from his can of Coke and turned the page. Backpack in front of him, he sat at his usual spot on the bleachers overlooking the football field, but his mind was far away in the land of Mordor. Every day for the past few weeks, as soon as the final bell rang, he was out the back door of the high school, leaving his freshman courses behind, and entered the world of The Lord of the Rings where he became Frodo, the Ringbearer, the One chosen to carry the Ring and cast it into the fires of Mount Doom to save all of Middle-earth.
Unbeknownst to him, two of the school’s cheerleaders were watching him from down on the field. Zeth’s daily appearance on the bleachers had not gone unnoticed.
“Look at him,” said Brenda, a sporty blonde who was the school’s head cheerleader and girlfriend of the football team’s star running back. “He carries that book around with him everywhere.”
“Yeah, but you know,” replied Jeanette, Brenda’s best friend, “I think he’s kind of cute.”
“You gotta be kidding. The guy’s a weirdo. Lives in his own little world.”
What Brenda said—name calling aside—was true. Zeth had trouble relating to people. Maybe it was his dysfunctional family. His mom and dad were always fighting and he had this younger brother, Alan, who was a super-achiever—a real nerd who always got straight A’s on his report card. Zeth wasn’t the brightest person in the world, but he had a good heart. He just didn’t know how to express it.
“Go on,” Brenda goaded Jeanette, “I bet if you went up there right now you couldn’t get his nose out of that book of his.”
Jeanette took up the challenge and headed up the bleachers to the top row where Zeth was sitting. He took no notice of her as she approached. He was now deeply into the climax of the story where he, as Frodo, with his friend Sam were making their way up the side of Mount Doom. He could almost smell the fire spewing out of the volcano.
“Hi, Zeth,” said Jeanette, now standing right beside him. “What are you reading?”
Zeth glanced up at Jeanette and simply showed her the book cover, then went back to reading.
“Oh,” she said, “you know, I saw one of those movies. I think it was the first one. It was okay, I guess. Too much fighting, though.”
Jeanette waited for Zeth to say something, but he just continued reading. He was about to enter into the mountain through a cave door on it side. There was nothing but fire and smoke all about.
“Well, see you around,” said Jeanette with a sigh and walked back down the bleachers to the field.
“Told you so,” said Brenda with a smirk. “The guy’s a loser.”
A couple of hours later Zeth was walking home along the main road that passed through town, oblivious to everything around him. He had just succeeded in fighting off Gollum who had fallen into the fire of Mount Doom along with the Ring. He had to admit, though, he probably wouldn’t have been able to make it without the steadfast support of his faithful friend Sam. It had been Sam who had urged him on and even carried him the last few hundred yards when his own strength had given out. It made him wonder: who was the real hero—Frodo or Sam?
Suddenly a scream jarred Zeth out of his reverie. He looked to the right and left to see where it came from. Down a side road off to his right—a dark alley really—stood a car with its headlights shining out into the gathering darkness. Inside he could see two forms struggling. Dropping his backpack, Zeth ran towards the car at full speed. As he approached, he could see that the two were a boy and a girl.
“Get lost, creep!” shouted the boy.
“Zeth, help me!”
He recognized the voice at once. It was Jeanette’s. Zeth approached the driver’s side where the boy was. He was practically on top of Jeanette. Zeth recognized him. It was Brenda’s boyfriend, Jim Davis, the star running back.
“Leave her alone!” Zeth shouted with such intensity that he surprised himself. “I said take your hands off her.”
“Hey, you’re the guy who’s always reading that book. Who’s going to make me, Frodo?” the boy said mockingly. “Mind your own business.”
“And you mind yours,” Zeth shot back, surprising himself again. “Step out of the car.”
“With pleasure, punk.”
Jim let go of Jeanette and opened the car door. Stepping out, he towered at least six inches above Zeth.
“You do look a bit like a hobbit down there, don’t you?” said Jim with scorn. “Well, Frodo, now what?”
Zeth hadn’t thought about what he would actually do once Jim got out of the car. He stood groping for words.
“Well, let me help you decide,” Jim said, grabbing Zeth by the front of his shirt. “You either scram or I drop you right here.”
“Leave him alone, Jim!” Jeanette cried, now outside of the car.
“You stay out of this. This is between me and the punk.” Jim glared at Zeth with gritted teeth.
Although initially at a loss for words, Zeth now had regained his composure and felt a strange sense of peace inside. Looking at Jim square in the eyes, he said calmly, “You can punch me if you want. Go ahead. But it’ll just make things worse for you. Whenever people see me at school—all banged up—it will remind them of you cheating on Brenda.”
Hearing this, Jim froze. Slowly, he released Zeth’s shirt. He seemed suddenly disoriented.
“You promise not to squeal?” he said, his voice quavering slightly.
“Get back in your car, drive off, and we’ll forget the whole thing,” Zeth answered with sudden confidence.
“Okay, I’m trusting you…” He was about to say ‘punk’ but bit his lip. Then he jumped into his car and sped away.
“Thanks, Zeth,” said Jeanette as the sound of Jim’s car faded in the distance. “That was real brave.”
“How did you ever get yourself into a situation like that?” Zeth look at Jeanette with a mixture of shyness and new-found self-respect.
“After cheerleading practice, Brenda had to go somewhere with her mom and I started walking home. After about five minutes, Jim pulled up beside me and offered to drive me home. Having no reason to distrust him, I got into the car. Then he turned down this side street. Boy, was I wrong about him.”
“Just like Frodo trusted Gollum,” Zeth said half to himself, “but then he turned on him.”
“Huh?” Jeanette said, uncomprehendingly.
“It’s like in the book. Frodo trusted Gollum, but then he betrayed him. Then Sam came and saved the day.”
“Oh,” said Jeanette, as if she now understood.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
Zeth seemed like a different person to Jeanette, but still cute. She smiled. They walked back to the main street together.
Picking up his backpack, Zeth said, “Yep, I think Sam was the real hero.”
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Search Engine Placement - On-line Libraries
There are several major efforts underway to digitize the world’s books that are not currently under copyright. Google and Microsoft are leading the way to bring the world’s books to the online world. (They do charge organizations for this service). In addition, there are not-for-profit efforts by groups such as the Open Content Alliance, which can be found at The Internet Archive. You can visit their preliminary web site by clicking on the previous link.
Vast repositories of the entire text of books eventually will available to the major search engines. It is already possible to do a limited book search on Google. Books can be searched, just like many other categories on Google such as; Web, Images, Video, News, Maps, Gmail, etc.
This search can be done from the “more” tab at the top of Google’s homepage. Clicking on it will reveal numerous goodies, books included. Does this mean that Shakespeare will soon be appearing in Search Engine Placement results ? Not likely, but it does offer some exciting possibilities for research, and the potential for tremendous time savings by students and scholars whose material can be indexed on-line.
Why should this be of interest to Internet users, as well as Christian and principled writers ? Well, this will open up writings, initially Western literature, to several billion readers. There are only approximately one billion people in the world that have access to libraries in their native countries, mostly in the developed nations. Not only historical literature, but Old Testament, New Testament as well as Completed Testament versions of God’s Word will soon be accessible to a much larger world audience.
Major libraries such as: New York Public Library and libraries at the University of Michigan, Harvard, Stanford, and Oxford have signed on with Google. Others wanted more open, unrestricted access to their archives, free from any possibility of commercial interest, such as the Boston Library Consortium, (with 19 members), including the University of Massachusetts, the University of Connecticut. The Smithsonian and the University of California, are other institutions that decided to opt out of offers from Microsoft and Google.
In order to put the scope of this effort in perspective, there are an estimated 32 million books in the world that could be scanned for this effort. This number is somewhat in dispute, since many books are out of print, yet not technically out of copyright. Google is not making this distinction, and has decided to digitize anything that is either out of print or out of copyright. This has produced praise from some quarters and wrath from others, mainly publishers, and some writers. Google is in the midst of numerous lawsuits, but their efforts continue unabated, and it will probably take years for the courts to work out the details. Ironically, even a settlement, may work in Google's favor. (see below sources).
Technically, the numbers of books in the world is much smaller if you only count books out of copyright. (See the following table).
Book Edition Count
From OCLC
2000 B.C. - 1 B.C. 779
1 A.D. - 1449 2.291
1450 - 1499 11,234
1500 - 1599 100,731
1600 - 1699 240,171
1700 - 1799 537,139
1800 - 1899 2,573,101
1900 - 1919 1,651,313
1920 - 1960 5,335,059
At the University of Michagan, using special proprietary equipment and software, Google is able to digitize one million books per year. It will take Google about six years to copy the Library's entire collection of 7 million volumes.
The amount of storage space required to store a single digitized book is approximately 1 MB. Google currently has over 10,000 servers on-line to index the entire Web, which consists of well over 2 billion web pages. 32 million MB of data storage required to store the world's collection of books, is information of a much greater magnitude than the entire Web today.
It has been revealed that it costs $ 30.00 for the Open Content Alliance to digitize a single book, (although Google's costs may be significantly lower). It may take more than 10 years and between 500 million to 1 billion dollars to digitize the world's books. (This may be a gross overestimate since I don't have figures on cost from Google, and the most aggressive effort is being made by Google in this area).
With these kinds of costs involved, it is understandable why it is important that Google is a part of this effort. Without taking sides one way or the other on the legal ramifications of what they are doing, clearly the idea of digitizing books is an idea whose time has come. When Stanford University made only their card catalog available electronically, within a fairly short period of time, students were visiting the library twice as often and checking out twice as many books. From these kinds of observations, it is clear that the availability of on-line books will not soon obsolete the existence of libraries, but only offer a new way to access the information contained in books of every description.
There is a very interesting article in a recent issue of New Yorker Magazine that puts libraries and great collections of writings in an historical perspective.
Read this New Yorker article !
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/11/05/071105fa_fact_grafton
Additional information from recent sources below.
Open Source (not-for-profit) efforts to digitize books.
An open-source-rival-to-Googles-book-project/2100-1025_3-5915690.html
http://www.news.com/An-open-source-rival-to-Googles-book-project/
2100-1025_3-5915690.html
New York Review of Books article
at: http://www.nybooks.com/articles/19436
New Yorker article on book digitization and copyright issues
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/02/05/070205fa_fact_toobin
I have included the full URL for you to cut and paste into your browser address bar, even if the link does not work.
All for now. More to follow later.
John Lombaerde
Search Engine Placement by the CAD CAM Guy
Vast repositories of the entire text of books eventually will available to the major search engines. It is already possible to do a limited book search on Google. Books can be searched, just like many other categories on Google such as; Web, Images, Video, News, Maps, Gmail, etc.
This search can be done from the “more” tab at the top of Google’s homepage. Clicking on it will reveal numerous goodies, books included. Does this mean that Shakespeare will soon be appearing in Search Engine Placement results ? Not likely, but it does offer some exciting possibilities for research, and the potential for tremendous time savings by students and scholars whose material can be indexed on-line.
Why should this be of interest to Internet users, as well as Christian and principled writers ? Well, this will open up writings, initially Western literature, to several billion readers. There are only approximately one billion people in the world that have access to libraries in their native countries, mostly in the developed nations. Not only historical literature, but Old Testament, New Testament as well as Completed Testament versions of God’s Word will soon be accessible to a much larger world audience.
Major libraries such as: New York Public Library and libraries at the University of Michigan, Harvard, Stanford, and Oxford have signed on with Google. Others wanted more open, unrestricted access to their archives, free from any possibility of commercial interest, such as the Boston Library Consortium, (with 19 members), including the University of Massachusetts, the University of Connecticut. The Smithsonian and the University of California, are other institutions that decided to opt out of offers from Microsoft and Google.
In order to put the scope of this effort in perspective, there are an estimated 32 million books in the world that could be scanned for this effort. This number is somewhat in dispute, since many books are out of print, yet not technically out of copyright. Google is not making this distinction, and has decided to digitize anything that is either out of print or out of copyright. This has produced praise from some quarters and wrath from others, mainly publishers, and some writers. Google is in the midst of numerous lawsuits, but their efforts continue unabated, and it will probably take years for the courts to work out the details. Ironically, even a settlement, may work in Google's favor. (see below sources).
Technically, the numbers of books in the world is much smaller if you only count books out of copyright. (See the following table).
Book Edition Count
From OCLC
2000 B.C. - 1 B.C. 779
1 A.D. - 1449 2.291
1450 - 1499 11,234
1500 - 1599 100,731
1600 - 1699 240,171
1700 - 1799 537,139
1800 - 1899 2,573,101
1900 - 1919 1,651,313
1920 - 1960 5,335,059
At the University of Michagan, using special proprietary equipment and software, Google is able to digitize one million books per year. It will take Google about six years to copy the Library's entire collection of 7 million volumes.
The amount of storage space required to store a single digitized book is approximately 1 MB. Google currently has over 10,000 servers on-line to index the entire Web, which consists of well over 2 billion web pages. 32 million MB of data storage required to store the world's collection of books, is information of a much greater magnitude than the entire Web today.
It has been revealed that it costs $ 30.00 for the Open Content Alliance to digitize a single book, (although Google's costs may be significantly lower). It may take more than 10 years and between 500 million to 1 billion dollars to digitize the world's books. (This may be a gross overestimate since I don't have figures on cost from Google, and the most aggressive effort is being made by Google in this area).
With these kinds of costs involved, it is understandable why it is important that Google is a part of this effort. Without taking sides one way or the other on the legal ramifications of what they are doing, clearly the idea of digitizing books is an idea whose time has come. When Stanford University made only their card catalog available electronically, within a fairly short period of time, students were visiting the library twice as often and checking out twice as many books. From these kinds of observations, it is clear that the availability of on-line books will not soon obsolete the existence of libraries, but only offer a new way to access the information contained in books of every description.
There is a very interesting article in a recent issue of New Yorker Magazine that puts libraries and great collections of writings in an historical perspective.
Read this New Yorker article !
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/11/05/071105fa_fact_grafton
Additional information from recent sources below.
Open Source (not-for-profit) efforts to digitize books.
An open-source-rival-to-Googles-book-project/2100-1025_3-5915690.html
http://www.news.com/An-open-source-rival-to-Googles-book-project/
2100-1025_3-5915690.html
New York Review of Books article
at: http://www.nybooks.com/articles/19436
New Yorker article on book digitization and copyright issues
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/02/05/070205fa_fact_toobin
I have included the full URL for you to cut and paste into your browser address bar, even if the link does not work.
All for now. More to follow later.
John Lombaerde
Search Engine Placement by the CAD CAM Guy
Saturday, November 3, 2007
To Glimpse the Sublime
“To Glimpse the Sublime”
by
Robert Beebe
rbeebe52@yahoo.com
Norwich, Connecticut, ca. 1960.
I stood atop my seat in the sturdy mahogany pew amidst the multitudinous congregation of the United Congregational Church as it sang The Lord, Our Father in thunderous unison. At my left was my mother, dressed in a long velvet skirt with matching vest over a fluffy yellow blouse and capped by a yellow dress hat. Her eyes fixed intently on the hymn book in her hands, she joined in the singing with her low shy voice. On my right my older sister’s clear confident soprano nearly drowned her out. Standing on my toes, I strained to look over numerous rows of people to the pulpit. There stood an old man in a long black robe, hand waving in air, leading the congregation in the singing. Flanking him were various other men similarly dressed. Beyond them, along ascending steps, stood the throng of men and women who formed the choir. And behind them all, its smooth chords flowing in and around the voice of the congregation, rose the gleaming copper pipes of the huge organ.
Suddenly the singing stopped, and people all around the spacious chamber settled back into their seats. I felt my mother’s large firm hands grasp me on either side, picking me up and setting me gently down on my seat. I looked up at her softly smiling face as she brushed my rumpled little suit. A hush had fallen over the congregation, broken only by an incessant string of muffled coughs. I became aware again of that permeating odor of mahogany so peculiar to that church. Then, with the first words from the pulpit, the people of the congregation lowered their heads as one. And so they remained as he alone spoke from his elevated position at the front of the church. The tone of his voice flowed from a low drone to a high pitched tone and back again with incredible ease, charged with far more passion and energy than I had ever heard from anyone else. My eyes wandered about the chamber, from the mysterious dark recesses far in the front to the tall narrow arch-shaped stained glass windows to the intricately carved white wooden balcony overlooking the congregation and straight up to the rafters of the vaulted ceiling. I could feel the eternally cold pew against my craning neck as I gazed skyward in wonder.
With my eyes fixed on the ceiling, the minister fell silent. The eyes of the congregation rose as mine fell. As I was turning my head towards my mother, a chorus of angelic voices descended from above. Following my mother’s uplifted gaze, I raised my eyes to the balcony where a heretofore unnoticed cluster of children, their heads and white-draped shoulders just visible above the railing, were singing Carry Me to Heaven, O Jesus!
* * *
Norwich, Spring 1966
“Hey, you guys! Let’s go up there! You’ve got ten minutes to get down here for breakfast,” my mother hollered from below.
“Oh boy,” grumbled my brother, rolling over in the adjacent bed.
In utter warmth and comfort, I lay still in my bed, knees near my chest, blankets drawn up under my chin. Another Sunday! And with it came the obligation to drag myself out of bed and dress for Sunday school. On some Sundays my brother and sister and I were excused from this painful exercise. The presence of visitors, work that needed to be done around the house or in the yard, or some other contingency could provide the relief. But this week it had been made clear to us that we’d have to go. Only bad weather could have saved us. I looked out the window above my brother’s bed. The sky was a perfect baby blue.
“You boys are being awfully quiet up there. Don’t let me have to come up there after you.” My father’s husky voice this time.
Not one to take my father’s threats lightly, I threw off the covers and set my feet on the cold floor. Before stepping out into the cold hallway, I turned to look at my still recumbent brother. Cocooned in his blankets with his back to me, all I could see of him were brown tufts of his hair upon the pillow.
“You’d better get up!” I warned.
A dull groan emanated from the bed. “In a couple of minutes,” was the muffled reply.
I shrugged and turned left into the bathroom. With toothpaste in one hand and toothbrush in the other, my thoughts dwelled on the next two hours—being with people whom I saw only at church and knew hardly at all, feeling guilty about my irregular attendance, and the numbing ritual of lesson and prayer. Paste on brush, I scrubbed my teeth roughly until they bled. Oooh, how I hated Sunday school! It was during these minutes of preparation that my desire not to go reached intense levels. What I would have given at those moments to avoid being thrust into that alien world and remain in the familiar surroundings of home. How I would have rather lounged around reading the newspapers or spent time with my friends!
I spit the toothpaste out into the sink and washed out my mouth with water. After wiping my hands, I returned to my room. The lump in my brother’s bed hadn’t budged.
“Hey Gary, you better get ready for Sunday school,” I admonished him, “or you’ll be in trouble.”
No response.
Feeling playfully aggressive, I walked softly over to my brother’s bed, leaned over him and jostled his body.
“Hey c’mon, whaddya think ya doin’?” he whined as his arms and legs flayed in vain attempts to push me away, in the process rumpling the blankets into total disarray.
“Well, get up then,” I smirked, easing up and walking away, satisfied at having disrupted his little heaven.
“I’ll get up. Don’t worry,” he retorted curtly as I shuffled into the closet. I rummaged about in search of my blue tie with the gold anchor imprinted on the front.
I soon heard my mother’s irritated voice from the doorway.
“Gary! Will you get up and get dressed? It’s almost ten-thirty!”
My brother moaned. Peering out from the closet, I watched him turn over slowly to look at my mother. In a pitiful nasal voice, he responded, “I don’t feel very well, Ma. Can I stay home today?”
What! Not feeling well! Why, that little faker!
A look of skepticism crossed my mother’s face.
“Not feeling well, huh?” She strode over to his bed. Sitting down on it, she placed the back of her hand upon his forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever.”
“But I feel really awful, Ma. I can har’ly breathe an’ my throat’s pretty sore.” His face took on a sickly expression with his eyes half-closed and his mouth half-opened. He wheezed slightly through his nose. My mother scrutinized him as my brother played his act to the hilt. Finally, she pulled herself up off the bed.
“All right, but you’re staying in bed all day. I’ll bring you up some orange juice after I get Danny squared away downstairs. Let’s go, Dan. It’s getting late.”
My dressing had been brought to a standstill by the little scene. I stood in the closet’s entrance in my underwear.
“Your father and I have to go to New London this morning, so Mrs. Johnson will be taking you and Deborah to church. She’ll be here at ten to, so let’s go,” said my mother as she hurried out of the room.
Picking my pants up off the bed, I glared at my brother as his face broke into a grin.
* * *
Princeton University, Spring 1972
The lamp light reflected off the wet road in ever changing patterns as Karen and I walked along. A cold, moist early spring breeze battered our reddened faces. We walked in silence. My hands dug deep into my coat pockets, while my chin pressed against my collar in a protracted attempt to fend off the chill. Karen walked more freely, Bible in hand, her straight brown hair hanging uncovered over her loosely fitting white raincoat, seemingly unaffected by the weather. We’d just finished a long conversation/lecture/sales pitch on the message of Jesus Christ, and its wake found me lost in thought.
Karen lived in my dorm one floor below my roommates and me. Frail, timid, but surprisingly strong-willed about her beliefs, she “witnessed” frequently for her Lord like any good Christian. Although turning off most people in the dorm, including my roommates, a few like myself were receptive to her. Ironically, although repulsed by religion since childhood, I found myself intrigued by what she had to say. Perhaps, having gotten away from the dry routine of attending church during my childhood, I now felt confident enough to approach the subject in my own way. My thoughts dwelled often on spiritual matters and, when Karen came in my direction, I jumped at the chance to talk to her.
I was amazed. Through countless conversations, her enthusiasm never waned. Answering an endless series of questions, she guided me through the passages of the Bible. My mind easily grasped the contents, or so I thought. Yet, her unbounded delight and unquestioning faith in God suggested something more, something I was missing. I had received Christ’s message. Why was I not rejoicing and giving myself up to Him as Karen had years before? Why did I not feel the irrepressible urge to go out and spread the good news to the world, or at least to my roommates?
Karen’s explanation: I had to start associating myself with other Christians. See how they lived their faith. Then I would understand. After an unrelenting stream of invitations from Karen, I finally consented to give it a try and go to a Bible study meeting.
We approached the building where upstairs the weekly meeting was to be held, its dark Gothic shape set against the moonlit sky. My already smoldering apprehension began to flare. Karen, sensing my anxiety, smiled gently at me.
“Don’t worry, Dan. Everybody’s real friendly,” she reassured me in her soft, shy voice.
I nodded knowingly. Observed from afar, those in the “God Squad”, a name colloquially applied to the group, seemed to radiate an unceasing confident happiness, almost to the point of snobbery. It was this apparently unfettered happiness and my inability to comprehend it which lay at the root of my feelings of apprehension.
We reached the outside entrance at the end of an arched passage, and stepped inside. The large downstairs room, replete with stuffed chairs and sofas and a plush purple carpet, was quiet. As we ascended the wide stairway, I could hear voices filtering down from above. Turning on the intermediate landing, I could see several people standing in an open hallway, evidently just outside the room where the Bible study was to be held. Three guys and two girls—all quite well dressed. The guys wore slacks or corduroys, the girls knee-length dresses. Colorful, but simple. As we reached the top of the steps, they broke their conversation to greet us.
Ah, Karen,” hailed the tallest boy. He had black bushy hair and a rather gaunt face. “I see you brought a friend.”
He smiled at me warmly.
I shifted my feet uneasily as Karen looked at me brightly, then back at the group.
Yes, this is Dan. He’d like to participate in our study tonight,” she said proudly. I looked into their smiling faces, shaking hands all around.
“We’re happy to have you, Dan,” said the tall one, Bill was his name, dropping a hint of a drawl this time.
“Where are you from, Dan,” inquired one of the girls sweetly.
I looked into her inquiring eyes, staring out at me from behind the brown horned-rimmed glasses set on her plain pale face.
“Uh, Connecticut,” I responded hesitantly.
“Oh, we have someone else from Connecticut. Wayne Gordon,” she informed me, casting a searching glance into the meeting room.
I followed her glance and met a host of faces staring out at me through the doorway. I had very quickly become the center of attention, it seemed. Promptly, I swung my head back to face my next questioner. My discomfort heightened. In the subsequent minutes I caught small snatches of conversation floating in from the other room. Their contents suggested that Karen had mentioned me to them previously. Irritated at this realization, I glanced sidelong at Karen, who was engrossed in a discussion about a Biblical passage with the pale-faced girl. Finally, upon a call from within, we entered the long rectangular room. Uneasily, I took my place with the group.
* * *
Princeton, Spring 1973
Out through the large wooden doors floated the undulating choral sounds of a hymn. The open doors invited me in. Two young men stood watching the service through the left entrance into the nave from the dark and dank vestibule. They took no notice of me as I paused for a few moments to unbundled myself from my winter garments. Through the right entrance, scores of pews marched in impeccable formation to the chancel at the opposite end of the church.
It was not my first visit to the Princeton University Chapel. Its neo-Gothic structure and immense inner chamber were familiar to me. However, none of my previous visits were made with the design for which this one was intended.
My association with the Christian group over the past year had not filled me with the love of Jesus Christ. Indeed, my relationship with most members had become strained as the evidence of this fact grew with my invidious questioning of their beliefs. My refusals to eat my dinners with them instead of with my secular friends, to attend Sunday afternoon Bible studies and Sunday evening services only sustained my status as a spiritual outsider. The group had come to be what Sunday school had been to me as a child. Whether the group’s fault or mine, I felt stifled rather than liberated with its members. Its spiritual message was being choked by the mean pressure I felt to conform to its rituals. I had concluded that my search had to be made alone, so I would not be distracted by the beliefs and experiences of others. Recalling the awe and wonder I had felt as a young boy sitting in church services with my mother, I had come to the chapel seeking to recapture those feelings.
I walked quietly into the nave. The scattered congregation, perhaps filling half of the church’s capacity, was standing and singing Glory to the Highest. I slipped into an empty pew near the back among other sparsely-populated pews. Peering down the center aisle, the density of people increased as my gaze approached the front. The hall was long, narrow and steeply-vaulted, its framework constructed entirely in a gray concrete. It was dimly lit by two rows of chandeliers running the length of the church and by several small floodlights shining earthward from the apex of the ceiling. Thick columns reaching to the sloping ceiling lined the outer edges of the pews on both sides. Behind them, untouched by direct light, stood more rows of pews where a few isolated individuals sat.
There were two podiums. The higher one, apparently the pulpit, faced the congregation from the left. The other looked across the chancel from the right. The choir stood in the recess between them. Behind the choir stood a modest altar, over which loomed a huge stained glass window. A cold draft pervaded the expansive structure.
The hymn having been sung, the congregation seated itself noisily and awaited the commencement of the sermon. The chaplain, a tiny figure with white hair and in a scarlet robe, had ascended to the pulpit and was turning some pages, presumably of the Bible. Presently, he cleared his throat and spoke, his voice amplified by a microphone, welcoming the congregation and visitors to “God’s house of worship.” There I sat, listening not so much to his words but to the tone of his voice. I tried to feel the ambience of the church, searching for those elements which had so impressed me fifteen years before, trying to infuse them again with that mysticism they had once possessed.
But the aura and wonder did not return. Although physically larger, the interior of the chapel would not become the literal embodiment of “God’s house” as the nave of the United Congregational Church of Norwich had been to me. The vaulted ceiling obviously reached only a hundred-odd feet above the floor, not to the heavens. The darker recesses of the building contained only people, if anyone at all, not saints or devils. And the voice bellowing forth from the pulpit was not God’s, but merely the chaplain’s, assisted by a sound system. Everything which formerly had radiated a lustrous spirituality, now revealed nothing but man’s vulgarity.
* * *
Browns Mills, New Jersey, Spring 1975
“Do-be-do-be-doobee-doobee, do-be-do-be-doobee-do,” I chanted melodiously as I bounced my brother Gene’s two-year-old daughter on my knee. She laughed in her high-pitched voice, displaying her recently acquired set of off-white teeth. Her big round eyes gleamed.
“A-gain!” she insisted, rocking back and forth. She push me playfully on the chest.
“Oh, no,” I begged off. “Uncle Dan’s tired.” I put on an easily mustered expression of fatigue.
Not to be denied, she bounced herself emphatically on my knee. “A-gain! A-gain, Unca Dan!”
“All right, Kelly. One last time.”
With that, I “do-be-doobeed” several more times, finishing with a flourishing toss high into the air and setting her down gently on the hardwood floor. She gurgled happily as I pushed myself out of the chair to go into the kitchen.
The clock over the sink read four o’clock. My brother and his wife ought to be back fairly soon, I thought. We were to have dinner before I was to accompany my brother to evening church service. After a period of several months during which he suffered from long spells of depression and turned to drinking, he had “found Christ.” His conversion both interested and disturbed me. Although glad to see him in good spirits, I recognized his vulnerability and feared his being attracted to more fanatical religious elements. As for myself, the circumstances had brought me back to those old familiar arguments which address themselves to one’s fears, rather than one’s hopes. Feeling once again the social pressure to join—to conform—I was convinced more than ever that their road should not be mine.
Kelly’s giggles tore me from my thoughts. I stepped to the doorway and smiled. Sitting in the middle of the floor, she was clapping her hands joyfully and staring at the far wall. There, a newly hung silver cross, gleaming in the sunlight that was flooding in through the picture window, had entranced the little girl. I remained leaning against the doorway, marveling at her unaffected enjoyment and appreciation of beauty. My mind contrasted this to the sometimes neurotic confoundedness of adults, and their habitual ignorance of nature’s—God’s—simple gifts. That delighted child, like myself at her age, sat closer to the Divine Spirit than others older than she. Unencumbered by an awareness of the meanness of the world into which she had been born, she was capable of seeing clearly the beauty in the things that touched her senses. Witnessing such rapture, I regained the hope of one day transcending this world and glimpsing the sublime.
* * *
Boston, December 1977
It was a snowy afternoon in downtown Boston as I walked up and down Washington Street looking for the newspaper office where I had been granted an interview for a job as a reporter. I knew my chances were slim of landing the job. I’d already been rejected at several other places. Main reason: no education, no training, no experience in journalism. After all, my major at Princeton had been economics. A couple of months ago I had thought that my Princeton diploma would get me in the door no matter what the major. No more. I was coming up against the real world. Two months of job hunting and my wallet was getting lighter and lighter. If I didn’t land a job soon… Well, the thought of having to move back in with my parents at the age of 25 was not at all appealing.
You’re probably asking what was I doing looking for a job as a journalist after spending $16,000 on an economics degree. To make a long story short, after graduating and facing the prospect of working at a real job for the first time in my life, I found that employment prospects for economic philosophers/historians were hard to come by. I settled on a job at a firm that conducted economic research for the government (read statistical analysis and computer programming). It wasn’t my cup of tea. Meanwhile, I found myself starting to read classical literature for the first time in my life (outside of a high school/college course, that is) and getting ideas into my head that I could be a writer, too. So I saved up a couple thousand dollars, quit my job, and moved into a hovel of an apartment in Boston.
While looking for a paying job, I began writing the Great American Novel. I had written perhaps seventy pages when this fateful day had arrived.
I was lost. I knew the place was somewhere on Washington Street, but I just couldn’t seem to locate the building. The address didn’t seem to exist. It was snowing all around.
“Excuse me.” A little Japanese girl with two gold teeth was standing in front of me.
“What?” I said. I was a bit disoriented.
“Do you believe in God?” she said, smiling at me, her gold teeth gleaming.
“God?” I repeated, trying to collect my thoughts. “Well, I guess I do sometimes. Not right now, though.”
“Are you concerned about the world situation—poverty, drugs, the possibility of nuclear war?”
“Well, yeah, I guess. Isn’t everybody?” What was this leading to? I wondered.
“Please come to our center. We have a lecture that talks about these problems.”
“Well, I’m kind of busy right now. What kind of center? Are you some kind of Christian group?” Memories of my time spent with the Princeton Evangelical Fellowship popped into my head.
“Something like that. Why don’t you come?” she repeated insistently.
by
Robert Beebe
rbeebe52@yahoo.com
Norwich, Connecticut, ca. 1960.
I stood atop my seat in the sturdy mahogany pew amidst the multitudinous congregation of the United Congregational Church as it sang The Lord, Our Father in thunderous unison. At my left was my mother, dressed in a long velvet skirt with matching vest over a fluffy yellow blouse and capped by a yellow dress hat. Her eyes fixed intently on the hymn book in her hands, she joined in the singing with her low shy voice. On my right my older sister’s clear confident soprano nearly drowned her out. Standing on my toes, I strained to look over numerous rows of people to the pulpit. There stood an old man in a long black robe, hand waving in air, leading the congregation in the singing. Flanking him were various other men similarly dressed. Beyond them, along ascending steps, stood the throng of men and women who formed the choir. And behind them all, its smooth chords flowing in and around the voice of the congregation, rose the gleaming copper pipes of the huge organ.
Suddenly the singing stopped, and people all around the spacious chamber settled back into their seats. I felt my mother’s large firm hands grasp me on either side, picking me up and setting me gently down on my seat. I looked up at her softly smiling face as she brushed my rumpled little suit. A hush had fallen over the congregation, broken only by an incessant string of muffled coughs. I became aware again of that permeating odor of mahogany so peculiar to that church. Then, with the first words from the pulpit, the people of the congregation lowered their heads as one. And so they remained as he alone spoke from his elevated position at the front of the church. The tone of his voice flowed from a low drone to a high pitched tone and back again with incredible ease, charged with far more passion and energy than I had ever heard from anyone else. My eyes wandered about the chamber, from the mysterious dark recesses far in the front to the tall narrow arch-shaped stained glass windows to the intricately carved white wooden balcony overlooking the congregation and straight up to the rafters of the vaulted ceiling. I could feel the eternally cold pew against my craning neck as I gazed skyward in wonder.
With my eyes fixed on the ceiling, the minister fell silent. The eyes of the congregation rose as mine fell. As I was turning my head towards my mother, a chorus of angelic voices descended from above. Following my mother’s uplifted gaze, I raised my eyes to the balcony where a heretofore unnoticed cluster of children, their heads and white-draped shoulders just visible above the railing, were singing Carry Me to Heaven, O Jesus!
* * *
Norwich, Spring 1966
“Hey, you guys! Let’s go up there! You’ve got ten minutes to get down here for breakfast,” my mother hollered from below.
“Oh boy,” grumbled my brother, rolling over in the adjacent bed.
In utter warmth and comfort, I lay still in my bed, knees near my chest, blankets drawn up under my chin. Another Sunday! And with it came the obligation to drag myself out of bed and dress for Sunday school. On some Sundays my brother and sister and I were excused from this painful exercise. The presence of visitors, work that needed to be done around the house or in the yard, or some other contingency could provide the relief. But this week it had been made clear to us that we’d have to go. Only bad weather could have saved us. I looked out the window above my brother’s bed. The sky was a perfect baby blue.
“You boys are being awfully quiet up there. Don’t let me have to come up there after you.” My father’s husky voice this time.
Not one to take my father’s threats lightly, I threw off the covers and set my feet on the cold floor. Before stepping out into the cold hallway, I turned to look at my still recumbent brother. Cocooned in his blankets with his back to me, all I could see of him were brown tufts of his hair upon the pillow.
“You’d better get up!” I warned.
A dull groan emanated from the bed. “In a couple of minutes,” was the muffled reply.
I shrugged and turned left into the bathroom. With toothpaste in one hand and toothbrush in the other, my thoughts dwelled on the next two hours—being with people whom I saw only at church and knew hardly at all, feeling guilty about my irregular attendance, and the numbing ritual of lesson and prayer. Paste on brush, I scrubbed my teeth roughly until they bled. Oooh, how I hated Sunday school! It was during these minutes of preparation that my desire not to go reached intense levels. What I would have given at those moments to avoid being thrust into that alien world and remain in the familiar surroundings of home. How I would have rather lounged around reading the newspapers or spent time with my friends!
I spit the toothpaste out into the sink and washed out my mouth with water. After wiping my hands, I returned to my room. The lump in my brother’s bed hadn’t budged.
“Hey Gary, you better get ready for Sunday school,” I admonished him, “or you’ll be in trouble.”
No response.
Feeling playfully aggressive, I walked softly over to my brother’s bed, leaned over him and jostled his body.
“Hey c’mon, whaddya think ya doin’?” he whined as his arms and legs flayed in vain attempts to push me away, in the process rumpling the blankets into total disarray.
“Well, get up then,” I smirked, easing up and walking away, satisfied at having disrupted his little heaven.
“I’ll get up. Don’t worry,” he retorted curtly as I shuffled into the closet. I rummaged about in search of my blue tie with the gold anchor imprinted on the front.
I soon heard my mother’s irritated voice from the doorway.
“Gary! Will you get up and get dressed? It’s almost ten-thirty!”
My brother moaned. Peering out from the closet, I watched him turn over slowly to look at my mother. In a pitiful nasal voice, he responded, “I don’t feel very well, Ma. Can I stay home today?”
What! Not feeling well! Why, that little faker!
A look of skepticism crossed my mother’s face.
“Not feeling well, huh?” She strode over to his bed. Sitting down on it, she placed the back of her hand upon his forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever.”
“But I feel really awful, Ma. I can har’ly breathe an’ my throat’s pretty sore.” His face took on a sickly expression with his eyes half-closed and his mouth half-opened. He wheezed slightly through his nose. My mother scrutinized him as my brother played his act to the hilt. Finally, she pulled herself up off the bed.
“All right, but you’re staying in bed all day. I’ll bring you up some orange juice after I get Danny squared away downstairs. Let’s go, Dan. It’s getting late.”
My dressing had been brought to a standstill by the little scene. I stood in the closet’s entrance in my underwear.
“Your father and I have to go to New London this morning, so Mrs. Johnson will be taking you and Deborah to church. She’ll be here at ten to, so let’s go,” said my mother as she hurried out of the room.
Picking my pants up off the bed, I glared at my brother as his face broke into a grin.
* * *
Princeton University, Spring 1972
The lamp light reflected off the wet road in ever changing patterns as Karen and I walked along. A cold, moist early spring breeze battered our reddened faces. We walked in silence. My hands dug deep into my coat pockets, while my chin pressed against my collar in a protracted attempt to fend off the chill. Karen walked more freely, Bible in hand, her straight brown hair hanging uncovered over her loosely fitting white raincoat, seemingly unaffected by the weather. We’d just finished a long conversation/lecture/sales pitch on the message of Jesus Christ, and its wake found me lost in thought.
Karen lived in my dorm one floor below my roommates and me. Frail, timid, but surprisingly strong-willed about her beliefs, she “witnessed” frequently for her Lord like any good Christian. Although turning off most people in the dorm, including my roommates, a few like myself were receptive to her. Ironically, although repulsed by religion since childhood, I found myself intrigued by what she had to say. Perhaps, having gotten away from the dry routine of attending church during my childhood, I now felt confident enough to approach the subject in my own way. My thoughts dwelled often on spiritual matters and, when Karen came in my direction, I jumped at the chance to talk to her.
I was amazed. Through countless conversations, her enthusiasm never waned. Answering an endless series of questions, she guided me through the passages of the Bible. My mind easily grasped the contents, or so I thought. Yet, her unbounded delight and unquestioning faith in God suggested something more, something I was missing. I had received Christ’s message. Why was I not rejoicing and giving myself up to Him as Karen had years before? Why did I not feel the irrepressible urge to go out and spread the good news to the world, or at least to my roommates?
Karen’s explanation: I had to start associating myself with other Christians. See how they lived their faith. Then I would understand. After an unrelenting stream of invitations from Karen, I finally consented to give it a try and go to a Bible study meeting.
We approached the building where upstairs the weekly meeting was to be held, its dark Gothic shape set against the moonlit sky. My already smoldering apprehension began to flare. Karen, sensing my anxiety, smiled gently at me.
“Don’t worry, Dan. Everybody’s real friendly,” she reassured me in her soft, shy voice.
I nodded knowingly. Observed from afar, those in the “God Squad”, a name colloquially applied to the group, seemed to radiate an unceasing confident happiness, almost to the point of snobbery. It was this apparently unfettered happiness and my inability to comprehend it which lay at the root of my feelings of apprehension.
We reached the outside entrance at the end of an arched passage, and stepped inside. The large downstairs room, replete with stuffed chairs and sofas and a plush purple carpet, was quiet. As we ascended the wide stairway, I could hear voices filtering down from above. Turning on the intermediate landing, I could see several people standing in an open hallway, evidently just outside the room where the Bible study was to be held. Three guys and two girls—all quite well dressed. The guys wore slacks or corduroys, the girls knee-length dresses. Colorful, but simple. As we reached the top of the steps, they broke their conversation to greet us.
Ah, Karen,” hailed the tallest boy. He had black bushy hair and a rather gaunt face. “I see you brought a friend.”
He smiled at me warmly.
I shifted my feet uneasily as Karen looked at me brightly, then back at the group.
Yes, this is Dan. He’d like to participate in our study tonight,” she said proudly. I looked into their smiling faces, shaking hands all around.
“We’re happy to have you, Dan,” said the tall one, Bill was his name, dropping a hint of a drawl this time.
“Where are you from, Dan,” inquired one of the girls sweetly.
I looked into her inquiring eyes, staring out at me from behind the brown horned-rimmed glasses set on her plain pale face.
“Uh, Connecticut,” I responded hesitantly.
“Oh, we have someone else from Connecticut. Wayne Gordon,” she informed me, casting a searching glance into the meeting room.
I followed her glance and met a host of faces staring out at me through the doorway. I had very quickly become the center of attention, it seemed. Promptly, I swung my head back to face my next questioner. My discomfort heightened. In the subsequent minutes I caught small snatches of conversation floating in from the other room. Their contents suggested that Karen had mentioned me to them previously. Irritated at this realization, I glanced sidelong at Karen, who was engrossed in a discussion about a Biblical passage with the pale-faced girl. Finally, upon a call from within, we entered the long rectangular room. Uneasily, I took my place with the group.
* * *
Princeton, Spring 1973
Out through the large wooden doors floated the undulating choral sounds of a hymn. The open doors invited me in. Two young men stood watching the service through the left entrance into the nave from the dark and dank vestibule. They took no notice of me as I paused for a few moments to unbundled myself from my winter garments. Through the right entrance, scores of pews marched in impeccable formation to the chancel at the opposite end of the church.
It was not my first visit to the Princeton University Chapel. Its neo-Gothic structure and immense inner chamber were familiar to me. However, none of my previous visits were made with the design for which this one was intended.
My association with the Christian group over the past year had not filled me with the love of Jesus Christ. Indeed, my relationship with most members had become strained as the evidence of this fact grew with my invidious questioning of their beliefs. My refusals to eat my dinners with them instead of with my secular friends, to attend Sunday afternoon Bible studies and Sunday evening services only sustained my status as a spiritual outsider. The group had come to be what Sunday school had been to me as a child. Whether the group’s fault or mine, I felt stifled rather than liberated with its members. Its spiritual message was being choked by the mean pressure I felt to conform to its rituals. I had concluded that my search had to be made alone, so I would not be distracted by the beliefs and experiences of others. Recalling the awe and wonder I had felt as a young boy sitting in church services with my mother, I had come to the chapel seeking to recapture those feelings.
I walked quietly into the nave. The scattered congregation, perhaps filling half of the church’s capacity, was standing and singing Glory to the Highest. I slipped into an empty pew near the back among other sparsely-populated pews. Peering down the center aisle, the density of people increased as my gaze approached the front. The hall was long, narrow and steeply-vaulted, its framework constructed entirely in a gray concrete. It was dimly lit by two rows of chandeliers running the length of the church and by several small floodlights shining earthward from the apex of the ceiling. Thick columns reaching to the sloping ceiling lined the outer edges of the pews on both sides. Behind them, untouched by direct light, stood more rows of pews where a few isolated individuals sat.
There were two podiums. The higher one, apparently the pulpit, faced the congregation from the left. The other looked across the chancel from the right. The choir stood in the recess between them. Behind the choir stood a modest altar, over which loomed a huge stained glass window. A cold draft pervaded the expansive structure.
The hymn having been sung, the congregation seated itself noisily and awaited the commencement of the sermon. The chaplain, a tiny figure with white hair and in a scarlet robe, had ascended to the pulpit and was turning some pages, presumably of the Bible. Presently, he cleared his throat and spoke, his voice amplified by a microphone, welcoming the congregation and visitors to “God’s house of worship.” There I sat, listening not so much to his words but to the tone of his voice. I tried to feel the ambience of the church, searching for those elements which had so impressed me fifteen years before, trying to infuse them again with that mysticism they had once possessed.
But the aura and wonder did not return. Although physically larger, the interior of the chapel would not become the literal embodiment of “God’s house” as the nave of the United Congregational Church of Norwich had been to me. The vaulted ceiling obviously reached only a hundred-odd feet above the floor, not to the heavens. The darker recesses of the building contained only people, if anyone at all, not saints or devils. And the voice bellowing forth from the pulpit was not God’s, but merely the chaplain’s, assisted by a sound system. Everything which formerly had radiated a lustrous spirituality, now revealed nothing but man’s vulgarity.
* * *
Browns Mills, New Jersey, Spring 1975
“Do-be-do-be-doobee-doobee, do-be-do-be-doobee-do,” I chanted melodiously as I bounced my brother Gene’s two-year-old daughter on my knee. She laughed in her high-pitched voice, displaying her recently acquired set of off-white teeth. Her big round eyes gleamed.
“A-gain!” she insisted, rocking back and forth. She push me playfully on the chest.
“Oh, no,” I begged off. “Uncle Dan’s tired.” I put on an easily mustered expression of fatigue.
Not to be denied, she bounced herself emphatically on my knee. “A-gain! A-gain, Unca Dan!”
“All right, Kelly. One last time.”
With that, I “do-be-doobeed” several more times, finishing with a flourishing toss high into the air and setting her down gently on the hardwood floor. She gurgled happily as I pushed myself out of the chair to go into the kitchen.
The clock over the sink read four o’clock. My brother and his wife ought to be back fairly soon, I thought. We were to have dinner before I was to accompany my brother to evening church service. After a period of several months during which he suffered from long spells of depression and turned to drinking, he had “found Christ.” His conversion both interested and disturbed me. Although glad to see him in good spirits, I recognized his vulnerability and feared his being attracted to more fanatical religious elements. As for myself, the circumstances had brought me back to those old familiar arguments which address themselves to one’s fears, rather than one’s hopes. Feeling once again the social pressure to join—to conform—I was convinced more than ever that their road should not be mine.
Kelly’s giggles tore me from my thoughts. I stepped to the doorway and smiled. Sitting in the middle of the floor, she was clapping her hands joyfully and staring at the far wall. There, a newly hung silver cross, gleaming in the sunlight that was flooding in through the picture window, had entranced the little girl. I remained leaning against the doorway, marveling at her unaffected enjoyment and appreciation of beauty. My mind contrasted this to the sometimes neurotic confoundedness of adults, and their habitual ignorance of nature’s—God’s—simple gifts. That delighted child, like myself at her age, sat closer to the Divine Spirit than others older than she. Unencumbered by an awareness of the meanness of the world into which she had been born, she was capable of seeing clearly the beauty in the things that touched her senses. Witnessing such rapture, I regained the hope of one day transcending this world and glimpsing the sublime.
* * *
Boston, December 1977
It was a snowy afternoon in downtown Boston as I walked up and down Washington Street looking for the newspaper office where I had been granted an interview for a job as a reporter. I knew my chances were slim of landing the job. I’d already been rejected at several other places. Main reason: no education, no training, no experience in journalism. After all, my major at Princeton had been economics. A couple of months ago I had thought that my Princeton diploma would get me in the door no matter what the major. No more. I was coming up against the real world. Two months of job hunting and my wallet was getting lighter and lighter. If I didn’t land a job soon… Well, the thought of having to move back in with my parents at the age of 25 was not at all appealing.
You’re probably asking what was I doing looking for a job as a journalist after spending $16,000 on an economics degree. To make a long story short, after graduating and facing the prospect of working at a real job for the first time in my life, I found that employment prospects for economic philosophers/historians were hard to come by. I settled on a job at a firm that conducted economic research for the government (read statistical analysis and computer programming). It wasn’t my cup of tea. Meanwhile, I found myself starting to read classical literature for the first time in my life (outside of a high school/college course, that is) and getting ideas into my head that I could be a writer, too. So I saved up a couple thousand dollars, quit my job, and moved into a hovel of an apartment in Boston.
While looking for a paying job, I began writing the Great American Novel. I had written perhaps seventy pages when this fateful day had arrived.
I was lost. I knew the place was somewhere on Washington Street, but I just couldn’t seem to locate the building. The address didn’t seem to exist. It was snowing all around.
“Excuse me.” A little Japanese girl with two gold teeth was standing in front of me.
“What?” I said. I was a bit disoriented.
“Do you believe in God?” she said, smiling at me, her gold teeth gleaming.
“God?” I repeated, trying to collect my thoughts. “Well, I guess I do sometimes. Not right now, though.”
“Are you concerned about the world situation—poverty, drugs, the possibility of nuclear war?”
“Well, yeah, I guess. Isn’t everybody?” What was this leading to? I wondered.
“Please come to our center. We have a lecture that talks about these problems.”
“Well, I’m kind of busy right now. What kind of center? Are you some kind of Christian group?” Memories of my time spent with the Princeton Evangelical Fellowship popped into my head.
“Something like that. Why don’t you come?” she repeated insistently.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
A Short Short Story
“Confrontation at Home”
By
Robert Beebe
rbeebe52@yahoo.com
Mike looked up from his plate and gazed into the kitchen at the black-and-white cock-shaped clock about the stove. Seven o’clock. The dinner of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and peas had just been consumed and Mike’s younger brother and sister were clearing the table. Mike picked at the last few scraps of food on his plate. Only his mother, wearing a stained flowery apron, had remained at the table with him. His father had just retired to the living room and flicked on the TV. A gentle snoring was already emanating from his favorite polyester-fibered easy chair.
It had been two tortuous days at home.
For two days Mike had been trying to get up the courage to tell his parents about his recent his decision. He recalled vividly his long conversation with Nancy back at the university, up in her dorm room into the early morning hours, and his resolve at the end of it to leave school. Nancy understood. At times she seemed to be the only person in the world who did.
“Why don’t you finish up the meat loaf, Mike? There’s only that little bit left.”
Mike took the black rectangular pan from his mother and scraped the remaining corner piece onto his plate. From her seat at the end of the table, she began issuing her usual directives to her son and daughter concerning after-dinner clean-up. Mike watched her, glancing down at his plate on occasion to avoid being conspicuous in his attention of her.
Here was another opportunity. The minutes passed. The familiar pressure built dully within him. As he glanced at her, the graying hair pulled back from her low forehead, the deep-set brown eyes, a still-taut face that betrayed the beauty of her youth, her active mind focused on the details of her household. A sudden shiver swept Mike. He nibbled again at the meat loaf, closely scrutinizing the morsel on his fork before bringing it to his mouth. He lifted his eyes just as his mother was getting up from the table.
“Let’s go, Mike, so we can get these dishes done.”
Mike muttered a meek “okay” and sighed. But the relief was only momentary. A rush of frustration filled him as he rose from his chair, nearly causing him to drop his plate. He made his way half-consciously toward the kitchen. His mother was just then emerging, the weekly TV listings in hand. Speaking in a near-monotone, Mike was surprised at his own words.
“There’s something I want to tell you and Dad. I’ll be in the living room in a minute.” He shuffled quickly past, barely looking at his mother.
He stacked his plate unsteadily atop the existing pile, then rushed into the bathroom off the kitchen. Lingering there several minutes, he practiced his pronouncement and tried to calm himself.
He walked deliberately through the kitchen and toward the living room. As Mike approached he could see the TV set flickering in the far corner. A game show was on. He entered the room gingerly and promptly sat in the center of the couch against the near wall. Aside from the TV, the only other light in the room glowed from the corner where his mother was sitting. She looked up from her TV listings.
“Frank, Mike’s here,” she said in her soft voice, leaning leftward across her chair and shaking her husband’s arm.
“Wha…?” he murmured irritably as he awoke from the contentment of his nap. Puzzled, he lifted his head up.
“Mike’s here,” she repeated. “He said he has something to tell us.” She sat back in her chair and turned to Mike earnestly. “Go ahead, Mike.”
Mike was fumbling with one of the small orange couch pillows. He sat up and looked into his mother’s tender eyes, which were waiting patiently for Mike to begin. He glanced towards his father, who had also sat up and was alternately looking at him and the TV. He was in his usual home clothes: a yellowing undershirt that barely covered his large belly, gray work pants and slippers.
Mike had never felt so distant from his parents as he did at that moment. To them, he was still the boy who always did well in school, rarely went out with girls and helped with the dishes after dinner. How could they understand?
He slumped back on the couch. This was it. In a low, almost apathetic, tone, he droned, “I’ve been thinking about this for quite a while and I’ve finally decided to quit school.”
He looked up at his mother. She was leaning forward, her eyes fixed penetratingly on Mike. With the noise of the TV, she wasn’t quite sure that she had caught what he had said.
“What did you say/” You’re quitting school?” she inquired, her eyebrows knitting and her voice a decibel above its previous level. Her husband shifted in his chair, but said nothing.
Mike held his mother’s gaze. He must not falter. He was determined not to.
“Yes,” he affirmed.
“But…but why?” his mother asked, stunned.
Mike lowered his head. He hadn’t been prepared for that kind of reaction. He had been sure that first off he’d have to contend with his father’s anger, which had always intimidated him. But his father remained silent, his eyes fixed on the TV screen.
“Well…uh,” Mike began uneasily, “I’ve actually been thinking about it since last year. I don’t know. I just don’t think I’m getting much out of college.” He sat up, ready to do battle. “I can’t seem to get interested in my courses, and if I stay in school, I’m gonna have to decide in a few months on my major. I’m not ready for that.”
His mother looked over to her husband. His eyes remained fastened to the TV. She looked back at Mike.
“But Mike, you’ve always done so well in school. You’re the only one in our family who’s gone to college. Don’t throw away this opportunity.” Her hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly.
“That’s just it, Ma. I feel like I’m throwing away an opportunity just by being in college. I want to be out living and learning in the real world!”
His mother screwed up her eyes. His father sat back again in his chair, still watching the TV.
“Listen,” his mother returned, “this world is rough, and you’ve got to take every advantage if you’re ever going to get anywhere. Do you realize how important a college degree is? Once you’ve got that, a lot of places start taking an interest in you.”
Mike shook his head. She didn’t understand.
“But what if I’m not interested in them? I really don’t relish the thought of being a cog in some corporate machine.”
“Now don’t go talking like that,” his mother’s voice quavered. “I can see that some of your school friends have been putting ideas into your head. Kids who’ve probably never worked a stitch in their lives. They’ll find out some day. They’ll end up with nothing.” She wrenched her right hand from its grip to point a finger at her son. “Don’t make the same mistake, Mike. You’re more sensible than that.”
“I can’t…,” Mike murmured. The constant drone of the TV was interrupting his train of thought. “Can’t we shut that off?” he pleaded, waving his arm in the direction of the electronic box.
“No! I’m watching it!” darted back his little sister, who had slipped into the room unnoticed some moments before and plopped herself on the floor directly in front of the set.
Mike felt a rising sense of frustration and fatigue enveloping him. He stared at the floor.
“What would you do if you quit?” his mother asked, now quite agitated.
Mike looked up at his mother. Her face was reddened, eyes blinking. She was noticeably on the verge of tears. He responded with hesitation.
“Well, I was thinking of going out to Montana. Do you remember Steve? Well, he’s working on a ranch out there now and says he can get me a job.”
Mike knew that was not the sort of thing she wanted to hear, and it elicited the expected reaction. His mother leaped from her chair and, holding back tears, walked briskly out of the room. A few seconds later, sobs could be heard emanating from her bedroom.
His sister whirled her head around and stared at Mike wide-eyed. Mike returned the stare, then looked over at his father. Head cocked to one side against the back of the chair, he was snoring peacefully.
By
Robert Beebe
rbeebe52@yahoo.com
Mike looked up from his plate and gazed into the kitchen at the black-and-white cock-shaped clock about the stove. Seven o’clock. The dinner of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and peas had just been consumed and Mike’s younger brother and sister were clearing the table. Mike picked at the last few scraps of food on his plate. Only his mother, wearing a stained flowery apron, had remained at the table with him. His father had just retired to the living room and flicked on the TV. A gentle snoring was already emanating from his favorite polyester-fibered easy chair.
It had been two tortuous days at home.
For two days Mike had been trying to get up the courage to tell his parents about his recent his decision. He recalled vividly his long conversation with Nancy back at the university, up in her dorm room into the early morning hours, and his resolve at the end of it to leave school. Nancy understood. At times she seemed to be the only person in the world who did.
“Why don’t you finish up the meat loaf, Mike? There’s only that little bit left.”
Mike took the black rectangular pan from his mother and scraped the remaining corner piece onto his plate. From her seat at the end of the table, she began issuing her usual directives to her son and daughter concerning after-dinner clean-up. Mike watched her, glancing down at his plate on occasion to avoid being conspicuous in his attention of her.
Here was another opportunity. The minutes passed. The familiar pressure built dully within him. As he glanced at her, the graying hair pulled back from her low forehead, the deep-set brown eyes, a still-taut face that betrayed the beauty of her youth, her active mind focused on the details of her household. A sudden shiver swept Mike. He nibbled again at the meat loaf, closely scrutinizing the morsel on his fork before bringing it to his mouth. He lifted his eyes just as his mother was getting up from the table.
“Let’s go, Mike, so we can get these dishes done.”
Mike muttered a meek “okay” and sighed. But the relief was only momentary. A rush of frustration filled him as he rose from his chair, nearly causing him to drop his plate. He made his way half-consciously toward the kitchen. His mother was just then emerging, the weekly TV listings in hand. Speaking in a near-monotone, Mike was surprised at his own words.
“There’s something I want to tell you and Dad. I’ll be in the living room in a minute.” He shuffled quickly past, barely looking at his mother.
He stacked his plate unsteadily atop the existing pile, then rushed into the bathroom off the kitchen. Lingering there several minutes, he practiced his pronouncement and tried to calm himself.
He walked deliberately through the kitchen and toward the living room. As Mike approached he could see the TV set flickering in the far corner. A game show was on. He entered the room gingerly and promptly sat in the center of the couch against the near wall. Aside from the TV, the only other light in the room glowed from the corner where his mother was sitting. She looked up from her TV listings.
“Frank, Mike’s here,” she said in her soft voice, leaning leftward across her chair and shaking her husband’s arm.
“Wha…?” he murmured irritably as he awoke from the contentment of his nap. Puzzled, he lifted his head up.
“Mike’s here,” she repeated. “He said he has something to tell us.” She sat back in her chair and turned to Mike earnestly. “Go ahead, Mike.”
Mike was fumbling with one of the small orange couch pillows. He sat up and looked into his mother’s tender eyes, which were waiting patiently for Mike to begin. He glanced towards his father, who had also sat up and was alternately looking at him and the TV. He was in his usual home clothes: a yellowing undershirt that barely covered his large belly, gray work pants and slippers.
Mike had never felt so distant from his parents as he did at that moment. To them, he was still the boy who always did well in school, rarely went out with girls and helped with the dishes after dinner. How could they understand?
He slumped back on the couch. This was it. In a low, almost apathetic, tone, he droned, “I’ve been thinking about this for quite a while and I’ve finally decided to quit school.”
He looked up at his mother. She was leaning forward, her eyes fixed penetratingly on Mike. With the noise of the TV, she wasn’t quite sure that she had caught what he had said.
“What did you say/” You’re quitting school?” she inquired, her eyebrows knitting and her voice a decibel above its previous level. Her husband shifted in his chair, but said nothing.
Mike held his mother’s gaze. He must not falter. He was determined not to.
“Yes,” he affirmed.
“But…but why?” his mother asked, stunned.
Mike lowered his head. He hadn’t been prepared for that kind of reaction. He had been sure that first off he’d have to contend with his father’s anger, which had always intimidated him. But his father remained silent, his eyes fixed on the TV screen.
“Well…uh,” Mike began uneasily, “I’ve actually been thinking about it since last year. I don’t know. I just don’t think I’m getting much out of college.” He sat up, ready to do battle. “I can’t seem to get interested in my courses, and if I stay in school, I’m gonna have to decide in a few months on my major. I’m not ready for that.”
His mother looked over to her husband. His eyes remained fastened to the TV. She looked back at Mike.
“But Mike, you’ve always done so well in school. You’re the only one in our family who’s gone to college. Don’t throw away this opportunity.” Her hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly.
“That’s just it, Ma. I feel like I’m throwing away an opportunity just by being in college. I want to be out living and learning in the real world!”
His mother screwed up her eyes. His father sat back again in his chair, still watching the TV.
“Listen,” his mother returned, “this world is rough, and you’ve got to take every advantage if you’re ever going to get anywhere. Do you realize how important a college degree is? Once you’ve got that, a lot of places start taking an interest in you.”
Mike shook his head. She didn’t understand.
“But what if I’m not interested in them? I really don’t relish the thought of being a cog in some corporate machine.”
“Now don’t go talking like that,” his mother’s voice quavered. “I can see that some of your school friends have been putting ideas into your head. Kids who’ve probably never worked a stitch in their lives. They’ll find out some day. They’ll end up with nothing.” She wrenched her right hand from its grip to point a finger at her son. “Don’t make the same mistake, Mike. You’re more sensible than that.”
“I can’t…,” Mike murmured. The constant drone of the TV was interrupting his train of thought. “Can’t we shut that off?” he pleaded, waving his arm in the direction of the electronic box.
“No! I’m watching it!” darted back his little sister, who had slipped into the room unnoticed some moments before and plopped herself on the floor directly in front of the set.
Mike felt a rising sense of frustration and fatigue enveloping him. He stared at the floor.
“What would you do if you quit?” his mother asked, now quite agitated.
Mike looked up at his mother. Her face was reddened, eyes blinking. She was noticeably on the verge of tears. He responded with hesitation.
“Well, I was thinking of going out to Montana. Do you remember Steve? Well, he’s working on a ranch out there now and says he can get me a job.”
Mike knew that was not the sort of thing she wanted to hear, and it elicited the expected reaction. His mother leaped from her chair and, holding back tears, walked briskly out of the room. A few seconds later, sobs could be heard emanating from her bedroom.
His sister whirled her head around and stared at Mike wide-eyed. Mike returned the stare, then looked over at his father. Head cocked to one side against the back of the chair, he was snoring peacefully.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Internet Writers sources for Search Engine Placement etc.
Well hello all !
I thought there might be some interest in this blog by now, but if you haven't posted yet, don't get blogged down, (no pun intended, of course), maybe we just need to have a meeting to explain how easy it is. I can show you how it is easier than word processing !
No matter, I'll put information here periodically. If you have some interest, just give me a call, or send me e-mail, and I'll walk you through the 2 easy steps to get blogging.
September 11 passed without major incident, PTL, I think we all know why. hmmmm.
I thought I would list a couple of places to get articles published on the Internet.
These are merely free sites, but that doesn't mean they are not read. They can help you develop notoriety, and I use them for Search Engine Placemant. Authoritative articles tend to do well, and have good staying power on Google and the other Search Engines.
http://www.ezinearticles.com
http://www.idemarketers.com
For a link to a series of articles I have published at E-zine Articles see:
http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=John_Lombaerde
I couldn't get the above links to work using HTML, ...... sorry about that. Just cut and paste the line into the top of your browset.
Here is a little bit of blantant self promotion as well.
Do you know anyone who is interested in promoting their business on the Internet at very low cost ? If you do, drop me a little electronic mail, and let me know. I will even teach someone how to promote themselves or their business. A great deal of expense can be saved if you have time and inclination, or staff to help you.
OK enough promo.
Good luck in all your endeavors, and in your Search Engine Placement attempts.
PS - don't mind my use of keywords, that is just how I write and blog. It's practically second nature for me now.
I thought there might be some interest in this blog by now, but if you haven't posted yet, don't get blogged down, (no pun intended, of course), maybe we just need to have a meeting to explain how easy it is. I can show you how it is easier than word processing !
No matter, I'll put information here periodically. If you have some interest, just give me a call, or send me e-mail, and I'll walk you through the 2 easy steps to get blogging.
September 11 passed without major incident, PTL, I think we all know why. hmmmm.
I thought I would list a couple of places to get articles published on the Internet.
These are merely free sites, but that doesn't mean they are not read. They can help you develop notoriety, and I use them for Search Engine Placemant. Authoritative articles tend to do well, and have good staying power on Google and the other Search Engines.
http://www.ezinearticles.com
http://www.idemarketers.com
For a link to a series of articles I have published at E-zine Articles see:
http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=John_Lombaerde
I couldn't get the above links to work using HTML, ...... sorry about that. Just cut and paste the line into the top of your browset.
Here is a little bit of blantant self promotion as well.
Do you know anyone who is interested in promoting their business on the Internet at very low cost ? If you do, drop me a little electronic mail, and let me know. I will even teach someone how to promote themselves or their business. A great deal of expense can be saved if you have time and inclination, or staff to help you.
OK enough promo.
Good luck in all your endeavors, and in your Search Engine Placement attempts.
PS - don't mind my use of keywords, that is just how I write and blog. It's practically second nature for me now.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
NJ Writer's Group Blog
Well, this is the first post on the newly created NJ Writer's Group Blog. Welcome to this forum one and all ! For those of you who have never blogged before, it can really be a fun and productive type of writing. Most blogs on the Internet have a certain off-the-cuff style of writing, and are usually outspoken and not without a bit of humor and wit. I hope we can follow in that tradition from God's point of view. After all, who has a better sense of humor than God in this Universe ? When God laughs, good sprit world, creation, and saints on earth laugh with him as well.
Just to review, these are the guidelines that Mr. Bob Beebe sent to us recently.
As we are now living in the Age After the Coming of Heaven and as we are called to become Owners of Cheon Il Guk, God’s Heavenly Nation, we have come together as writers to form a group for the purpose of creating literature appropriate to God’s Kingdom. Such literature may comprise fiction and nonfiction, short stories and novels, prose and poetry. It may take the form of picture books, chapter books, magazine articles, or self-published materials. In whatever form, our writing shall be for the purpose of inspiring children and adults to celebrate God’s love and truth, ourselves as His sons and daughters, our families as schools of love, nature as God’s gift to us, and the world as one family under God, our Heavenly Parent.
As a group we shall encourage each other in whatever writing projects we are working on, giving and seeking constructive criticism for the purpose of improving and elevating our work to the highest possible standard.
Our goal for this year is to produce one book to which each group member will submit at least one piece of finished writing. Book title and theme ?
This blog is available to writers who agree with the preceding statement of purpose and is by invitation only.
Thanks for your support. I hope we can use this forum to more easily communicate with each other. Thanks to you all and God Bless everyone ! Happy Blogging !
Please send me e-mail if you have any questions about his blog. If you would like to become an author, just set-up your own gmail e-mail address, (type gmail into a Google search and follow the simple steps). Send me an e-mail at jonlomb@gmail.com, and I will add you to the author's list.
Thank you and Happy Blogging !
John Lombaerde
Just to review, these are the guidelines that Mr. Bob Beebe sent to us recently.
As we are now living in the Age After the Coming of Heaven and as we are called to become Owners of Cheon Il Guk, God’s Heavenly Nation, we have come together as writers to form a group for the purpose of creating literature appropriate to God’s Kingdom. Such literature may comprise fiction and nonfiction, short stories and novels, prose and poetry. It may take the form of picture books, chapter books, magazine articles, or self-published materials. In whatever form, our writing shall be for the purpose of inspiring children and adults to celebrate God’s love and truth, ourselves as His sons and daughters, our families as schools of love, nature as God’s gift to us, and the world as one family under God, our Heavenly Parent.
As a group we shall encourage each other in whatever writing projects we are working on, giving and seeking constructive criticism for the purpose of improving and elevating our work to the highest possible standard.
Our goal for this year is to produce one book to which each group member will submit at least one piece of finished writing. Book title and theme ?
This blog is available to writers who agree with the preceding statement of purpose and is by invitation only.
Thanks for your support. I hope we can use this forum to more easily communicate with each other. Thanks to you all and God Bless everyone ! Happy Blogging !
Please send me e-mail if you have any questions about his blog. If you would like to become an author, just set-up your own gmail e-mail address, (type gmail into a Google search and follow the simple steps). Send me an e-mail at jonlomb@gmail.com, and I will add you to the author's list.
Thank you and Happy Blogging !
John Lombaerde
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