the ten commandments of detective fiction

1. The criminal must be someone mentioned in the early part of the story, but must not be anyone whose thoughts the reader has been allowed to follow.
2. All supernatural or preternatural agencies are ruled out as a matter of course.
3. Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable.
4. No hitherto undiscovered poisons may be used, nor any appliance which will need a long scientific explanation at the end.
5. No Chinaman must figure in the story.
6. No accident must ever help the detective, nor must he ever have an unaccountable intuition which proves to be right.
7. The detective must not himself commit the crime.
8. The detective must not light on any clues which are not instantly produced for the inspection of the reader.
9. The stupid friend of the detective, the Watson, must not conceal any thoughts which pass through his mind; his intelligence must be slightly, but very slightly, below that of the average reader.
10. Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them.

Thank you, Ronald Knox. Always a pleasure. 

sometimes bulimia is the healthiest option

I am regretting the night's activities. Harmless movie followed by harmful consumption.

Fast food always seems like such a good idea at the time, but regret almost always follows. (Why do I forget that regret almost always follows?) Poor decisions put me in a slightly urgent state of moral dilemma: Do I complacently allow my body digest the large side of cow and harvest of potatoes I was too foolish to deny--resulting in a drastically reduced lifespan filled with obesity, heart disease, and self-loathing? Or do I just have up with it all?

It's an interesting evening when you realize that developing an eating disorder may be a strategic advancement up the rungs of the health ladder.

i still need you but i don't want you now

The video? Disregard.

The music? Embrace.

planning the metaphorical winter of my life.

Periodically, I feel old. Really old. This, as I am fully aware, is utter lunacy. I am young. I have not lived a quarter of a century. (I am youngish. I have lived almost a quarter of a century.)

Today, however, I found the perfect combatant to prematurely inappropriate thoughts of age. Courtesy of Sigur Ros.

I don't have a five-year plan. I don't have a ten-year plan. My one-year plan is terrifyingly vague. But rest assured my 45-year plan is solid, complete with firecrackers, dirt clods, and a wooden sword.

Not Crazy

Sometimes I think I need to clarify my current standing in the world. Despite several suggestions to the contrary, I am deeming myself sane.

It was a close call, though. I'm not going to pretend the jury had an easy go of it. Of late, I have been a bit neurotic, insecure, and, well, some other things which just are not me. Characteristically. Tonight, though, was a good night. I snapped out of my delirium (or at least a large portion of. No one wants to be completely free of delirium). Verdict in: not crazy.

Congratulate me.

Ice Dance

Escape, if only temporarily.

This weekend, I went with a group to tidy a local cemetery. Rake leaves, enjoy the weather, that sort of scenario. We worked for a productive couple hours, and by the end produced clear headstones and taunting leave piles as proof of our efforts. As we were concluding our part and preparing to return home, however, we were met with the surreal: a gust of wind. Like technicolored snowflakes, leaves simultaneously leapt from the surrounding trees and poured from sky to ground. Any indication that we had spent the previous hours clearing the grounds instantly disappeared. It was delicious irony.

The moment the winds began, I could hear the insulted complaints of those around me. To them, the wind had no sense of propriety, no consideration.

To me, the wind was a perfect conclusion.

I looked above--saw the leaves gather and fall--and danced.

I may sound comically juvenile, but my mind instantly played a piece from Edward Scissorhands. I heard the music, I saw the snow, and though I was surrounded by falling leaves, I danced in it.

Perhaps it's the impending pressure of my future career. Perhaps it's the threat of adult responsibilities looming over the rising months. Perhaps it's dealing with the aftermath of death. Perhaps it's simply the stress that comes from living each day and finding the energy to maintain steady breaths. No matter the need for the moment, it came. The escape was transitory, it was temporary, but it was perfect.

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

Let four captains
Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage;
For he was likely, had he been put on,
To have proved most royal; and, for his passage,
The soldiers' music and the rites of war
Speak loudly for him.
Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this
Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss.
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

Halmet, Act V, Scene II

In time, I will write much about the past week. But not today, not tonight. My mind can't make sense of what it insists on seeing.

I feel the coarse flag under my fingertips, hear the military commands, the rifles. I keep seeing the same white ranks filing past row after row after row after row. White over rolling hills. Pristine lines. Always called to attention. It's the white, I suppose, which denies my sleep.

But not yours. Sleep well, Phillip. Your brothers shot for you.