Brethren

Every reading of an epistle in the Greek Orthodox liturgy starts with the word "Adelphi," which means "brethren." At my church, which is tucked into a little corner of the Bay Area, the chantor, a venerable old guy named Demitri, says the epistle with just the right mixture of wisdom, the patience of ages, and fatigue. He has a Greek accent, which ensures that everyone listens. But it's that word, "adelphi," that always draws me in. Not sure why--probably because it sounds so collegial.

I have two brethren, one younger and one older. The older one, Frank, is very slightly autistic. He's highly functioning, meaning he drives, he has a steady job, he helps our mom around the house. The younger one, John, is not slightly autistic; he's solidly black-sheepish. I never hear from him and see him only on holidays. My older brother, however, is coming to visit this weekend. Being slightly autistic, Frank has a collector's mind and a mania for detail. His focus: vinyl. Specifically, the kind that can be spun on a turntable (he recently laxened his purist views and began adding CDs to his stacks). Frank makes no bones about the fact that when he comes to see me, visiting his sister is the second best part about the trip. It's used-record-store shopping that gets center stage. Nevertheless, I've insisted that one day of this weekend be taken up with campy tourist things to do. So I booked us tickets to Alcatraz for Sunday. He says I'm going to lock him up there and leave him for life. Depending on how many record stores we go to on Saturday (the average number is four, but we've visited as many as six in one day during past visits), he may be right.

Wired, Wireless, and the Three-Eyed Baby

I feel a pesky urge to write fiction coming on, which means it's time for my first post. A bit of good news: I've established a wireless network in my shack-up chateau (wireless for me, wired for my hunky keeper, the scientist). This after much back-burner musing, front-burner tinkering, and a good measure of cursing. Finally I got frustrated and decided to stay wired for a while. But this morning I woke up with a solution in mind and it worked! Voila, a secure wireless network named after the scientist's peskiest parrot. (We have three, plus a cat. Yes, it's a zoo.) I feel victorious. On to writing about writing!

Yesterday I told my great friend A.P. that I was about to rewrite one short story and begin on another. "Oh? What about," he inquired. "A woman who finds a baby in a trash bin," I said levelly. He bit. "Really? How about we find something a little less cliched than finding a baby in a dumpster."

"Don't worry about cliche," I replied. "The baby's going to have three eyes."

A.P. said he thought he'd been smacked down. And that he enjoyed it. I love amusing A.P. The bonus is that I'd avoided a bad writing trap: talking about story topic. If I tell someone what I'm going to write about before I write it, I always abandon that story. It's screwy writer-mind stuff, but I haven't been able to help it.

Of course, the moment I told him I was going to write about a three-eyed baby, the devil-on-the-left-shoulder part of my twisted psyche started talking to me about what symbolism I could find there, and how I should at least create an exercise out of the idea. The angel-on-the-right-shoulder started arguing with the devil about not wasting my time, again, with bad ideas, and I had to go to the gym to drown the din out. Sometimes I can't stand myself.