End of the Year Post: Stories
Interesting short paper by Dembski, written six years ago. (I feel rather guilty having accused him of selling snake oil (though he is), because after reading more of his stuff it's become apparent to me that he really does believe what he says.)
But I'm a writer, too. I've decided to post one of my short stories, and everyone should be able to view it now, which I'm waiting to hear back from a publisher about. It's based on real events; the agate mentioned in it exists and is in a safe place.
UPDATED: AJ linked to my post.
But I'm a writer, too. I've decided to post one of my short stories, and everyone should be able to view it now, which I'm waiting to hear back from a publisher about. It's based on real events; the agate mentioned in it exists and is in a safe place.
UPDATED: AJ linked to my post.
Labels: Dembski, fiction, intelligent design, Kristine
posted by Kristine | Sunday, December 31, 2006
8 Comments:
Google docs sez I'm not allowed to view this.
Viewer discretion thing, maybe?
I mean, that would make sense. I have very little discretion.
I'm sorry, AJ! I fixed it.
Bloggerbeta (which I guess they aren't anymore?) offers Google Docs and Spreadsheets, with the option to post to your blog. I post to my blog, and it says "Minneapolis, we've got a problem, your blogger account was migrated to Google." But I thought I was dealing with Google! Aaarrrrgggghhh!
You should be able to view it now.
...there was a suspicion that hung in the air, and lurked behind the curt confidence of the men, and rose as an exaggerated lilt in the voices of the women...
Yeah. Pretty much. Indeed, even.
I still find myself thinking of the (quite rural) place where I was raised that it is a lovely country... if you can look past the wide pockets of resentful anti-intellectualism, the utter lack of privacy, the general weight of the expectations of conformity that hang like odourless poison about certain households and communities... That there are wild-eyed artists in the hills, here and there, and men who carve their own canoes and 300-year old Hemlock in jagged pockets between upthrusts of gneiss that frustrated the progress of the timber crews, and thoughtful octogenarian men of the Earth, watching the seasons change, and soft-spoken biologists pondering the microscope life in pristine meromictic lakes far from where the noisy outboards troll, far from where beer-swilling louts sit telling petty, racist, sexist, and generally unfunny jokes to one another and all in earshot, and flipping their bottle caps into the ancient lakes...
But you have to look to see that. And even if you do, it's still not much of a place to live... unless maybe you could somehow hide somewhere in the hills beneath the stars and never actually come anywhere near a church picnic, a community hall, or anywhere else too much of the population gathers and crowds...
Given this, I consider it my grail to ensure my children live out their adolescence in a decent city (or a few) where they can go on a date and not have every word and gesture ogled and inspected by the gossipping old ladies at the end of their own block... and beyond that, I'll do my best to ensure they do nonetheless get to see the stars a few times, too, and fall upward into them, and read Sagan in their sleeping bags (or whatever it is they might wish to read there)...
And, again, nice. Nicely wrapped up. Good luck with the publisher.
Thank you.
As you can tell, I'm conflicted about rural life; I actually grew up in an underdeveloped suburb where I had a huge garden every year, and I long for those days when the vacant, weeded plots held grass that grew over one's head and trees to climb, when there were still meadows and woods housing animals. Too many kids grow up surrounded by cement and live in the shadow of their parents' fears of child molestors, so they aren't free to wander and play outside all day as we did.
I have always felt a real connection with nature and never felt alone even when I was. Sometimes I wonder if this feeling of not-being-aloneness is what other people call "God" except that I do not locate this feeling outside of myself.
I guess that's why I am so attracted to the early (literary) works of the surrealists, who made umbrellas and barometers and such their main characters--and sometimes I wonder if that isn't a form of Asperberger's, this personification of "inanimate" objects! So many kinds of interpersonal rituals and communication are excruciating to me.
One place that I have fallen in love with is the West--Montana, Wyoming. Yes, there are crazy artists out there, and the people are friendlier than in the Midwest and more tolerant of eccentricity; it's pretty much MYOB out there. I didn't expect to like Billings, but I do. Bozeman is way too expensive now, but I saw it before the Californians invaded, and it's still a gem. I adore Butte (not the flats, but the old hill town), but there are no real jobs to speak of.
Wow, very good Kristine. I really liked that ending.
But when you wrote, "The Shasta was intelligently built" I swear on all that is holy and made of pasta that I read, "The Shasta was Intelligently Designed".
:)
Anyways, thank you for sharing this story.
Happy New Year!
May you be the frequent recipient of Molly's Wish in 2007!
Kisses from bo'fus!
I must say, that was an excellent story with a slight twist at the end. I kind of thought that the story had to do with your heart when you mentioned the shape of the agate. Makes me wonder about it.
Very easy read. Should be in it the New Yorker.
I definitely understand your ambivalence about the country - It can be very sad to be walking in aseemingly idylic verdant paradise only to come across an empty can of Budweiser and a shotgun shell.
(Now, where DID I put those old Omni Magazines? )
WOW! What an awesome story, Kristine. I really liked the ending and I can relate on so many levels. The only difference is that I am still a nerd. :)
I look forward to seeing your story in print soon.
Happy New Year, my friends!
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