Saturday, November 30, 2013


I've been fascinated with the JFK assassination for most if not all of my adult life.  I probably should have posted something here on my blog in remembrance of this man and his legacy on November 22nd exactly, but I was much too busy being sick with a fever curled up in the chair watching television special after special focusing on the assassination, the conspiracy, the events of the day, and how it all looked and felt that day in Dallas, Texas.  I was kind of annoyed that most of what is shown and published now seems to agree with Lee Harvey Oswald being a lone gunman.  Only one show that I saw, out of several, seemed to advocate for a massive cover-up.  Could it be that fifty years of frustration with not having a real answer or any true belief that our government then or now has fully cooperated with the investigation - maybe the collective we has simply given up ever finding a different answer so we accept the one shoved down the throats of all who would line up and accept that it was a lone gunman who shot a magic bullet?

Even Lee Oswald said he was a the mere 48 hours he had to say anything at all, before he could really tell us what he knew.  

It was also a conspiracy that I didn't finish my 50 thousand words for National Novel Writing Month.  This flu/fever/cold illness has nearly spanned two weeks and sapped the life out of me.  I found myself writing some really dark stuff that made me want to run and hide from it, and I had to take a two day break to go pick up my mother's cremains from the City of Jacksonville Florida - and give them a check for every penny of the money that her lousy insurance company mailed to me.  Of course she lied on the policy questionnaire, however after reviewing the questions I wonder who would actually qualify for one of their policies?  And why did it take seven months to simply return her premium payments?

One thing that I think I've discovered though in this month of November is that I still want to take some creative writing classes, and I may have finally found a way to do that, online via a real university, and without paying them all of my earnings for one year.  The UCLA Extension Writer's program seems to be legit, cool, and offers a certificate program - total cost $6,700!  I can probably figure out a way to pay for that all on my own and work at a pretty reasonable pace to finish some writing courses that might actually teach me how to write the novel that lives inside my head.  

Maybe I'll be a famous writer before I die, or before the dark ass characters in my head pay someone to assassinate me too.  Hopefully someone will bury me in a tricked out coffin with an escape hatch.  Just don't cremate me!

1 comment:

Catherine Emilia said...

This is really interesting. Why don't you want to be cremated?