InDUSTrial Distraction

I used to look at the scenery to the south from the back deck. It was fields of corn and soy beans and alfalfa with breaks of trees and a winding creek in between. Now all I see are the three towers topped with seemingly alien antennae and a multi story square of brownish tin. The color does not deceive. It is not the true color of earth or crops.

In the midst of farmland, they erected a plant to wash the soil. Well, not exactly soil. It is meant to wash the sand they dig so deeply to uncover. They drop sticks of dynamite into drilled holes and send tremors through the underground, enough to rattle walls and windows and set the floor rolling beneath my feet.

Trucks carrying this grainy gold abuse the highway with careless tarps flapping to the breeze of high speed travel. Dust particles disappear on the wind to find cracks in walls and windows until they burrow into lungs and labor breathing.

To the west, the barren spring field exposes the neighbor's home and chicken coops. Trucks with orange crates line the field and distract from the yellow play set constructed to protect pipes flowing with natural gas. I imagine children climbing it like a jungle gym, unaware of the danger buried three feet beneath them.

Farmers struggle. Neighbors fight. They take the ground out from under us and send it across state lines in trucks and trains in the name of oil and money. They promise jobs and prosperity. They claim to be good neighbors.

A misfire sounds like an elephant gun shot outside my bedroom window. The glass tinkles as if it's falling to pieces. Another charge dropped sixty feet makes the walls roll and cave inward. Will they bother to search for survivors when the walls give and the roof collapses? "It's all within regulations," they say. "We want to be good neighbors," they say.

They cut corners and contamination seeps into the earth. It could take two years to reach the aquifer. When it hits, we may never know. They don't make tests to uncover these cancerous chemicals.

"We want to be good neighbors," they say. They poison the air and water and pat citizens on the head as if reassuring children. "Here's a nickel or a lollipop," they say and offer meaningless tokens. A nickel won't filter our water. A lollipop won't clean the air.

These good neighbors are killing us a speck at a time. We die a bit each day with the promise of burial beneath what's left of the earth. Tell me. Who will buy their oil when we're gone?

With the sun comes the burn

Since I'm doing everything in my power to avoid editing for a few weeks, I'm making a commitment to at least write more often in the blog. Any practice is good, right?

Yesterday turned into a trip to the local softball to watch my youngest niece play in a tournament. We had sunny skies and warm temperatures with enough of a breeze to keep it comfortable. I even remembered to wear sunscreen on my face, though I forgot to reapply. Three hours resulted in a red tinted face. The top of my head didn't fare as well, or so I discovered in the shower this morning. I need to dig out my cap for the ensuing track meets and games coming up this week.

My oldest nephew stopped after the game with a friend and the friend's boys, ages 2 1/2 and 4 3/4. The boys had a blast playing in a pile of dirt. They get a running start, climb to the top, and slide down the other side. Their pants didn't fair as well.

The open road called. It was nice to drive with music blaring and windows down. The shopping part wasn't as exciting. The warehouse club was crowded and the bookstore and clothing store offered nothing.

Today, I went in another direction, finding what I didn't the day before. The rest will be spent in preparation for Game of Thrones  and reading. I need to get in the practice of reading others books again, since I didn't have the time or the brain power to separate another's story from my own.
 

Now What?

I finished. The story has an end and I reread part four twice to edit. It is now in the hands of a friend who is making notes, watching for consistency, and giving general comments. (Not cowboy boots!)

In the meantime, I've sworn to give myself a few weeks of distance and time away from the story. The problem is the characters won't shut up. They're in my head, telling me to say this and change that.

I'm doing my best to ignore them. I have another idea on tap, but I don't want to get too involved when I know I have alterations. I cleared one book from my to read pile. Last night, I started on the stack of magazines that has been building up un the corner. I watched Six Feet Under on Prime while distractedly paging through articles I never stopped to read. Tonight, it's a blog post and the rest of the magazines (I hope) and Cold Justice. Tomorrow is a softball tournament.

Despite the inconvenience of writing five to seven days a week around a full time job, I miss the task. I feel a bit lost without putting down at least a few hundred words each night.

So, great internet void, now what?