The eBook Revolution

 

 

The “eBook Revolution” is here and, for better or worse, (depending on whose side you're on) it has changed the publishing game for 'good' or shall we say the Rubicon has been crossed and there's no turning back. So, what’s going on with the book marketing industry these days? E-books are everywhere, and it seems everyone is reading them or rather a considerable number of people are. While the inherent goodness of a hardbound copy, and the look and the feel of a well crafted masterpiece in its three dimensional form will always certainly be appreciated, there's no denying the fact that ebooks are fast becoming a viable alternative to the printed version in terms of profitability for the writer and affordability for the reader.
 

In recent years, abelha.co has watched this interest grow and there is no denying the fact that ebooks are here to stay. In 2011, Amazon reported they had sold more ebooks than print books. Since then, ebook sales have tripled in the book marketplace and are running neck and neck with print book sales.  As this trend grows, where does it leave traditional publishers? No one knows for sure. The one thing that is certain is that the gatekeepers no longer control the gate, and publishing is changing forever. As a result of this growing interest, abelha.co has joined the "eBook Revolution" and is proud to announce its first release,  Phanork! The Misadventures of a Schwirdlock by C.L. Fondo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Land of Morpheus

     Land of Morpheus

Last night I saw something unlike anything that I had ever seen before while sojourning in the Land of Morpheus. Some of the details are lost to me now but fortunately the significant ones did not return to from whence they came, that is, they did not disappear into the sub-conscious so quickly as they often do.

 

In this singularly strange dream, it seemed that I was a non-participant, whereas normally during these interludes of repose, I am actively doing something, or rather my subconscious allows me to imagine that I am. In any case, the setting appeared to be somewhere in Central America or southern Mexico. The dream began with a group of about ten people with jaguar features standing at the foot of a pyramid such as those in the jungles of Meso-America.

 

There seemed to be a sense of urgency in the demeanor of the jaguar men as they proceeded to climb the pyramid. After they reached the middle section of the structure, they went inside and into a large room that was illumined by some mysterious light source that radiated from the center. At this point, I wondered if Marlon Brando as Dr. Moreau would make an appearance but that was not the case.  At the center of the huge windowless room, was another individual who was about twice the size of the jaguar men and who somewhat resembled a mythical griffin, but with humanoid features as well.The creature was adorned with the feathers of tropical birds and was wearing an armor breast plate wrought from gold and bronze and decorated with strange pictographs that were etched into the breast plate. The jaguar men approached the towering creature and formed a semi-circle about twenty to thirty feet away from him. The griffin-like individual said a few words in some strange language, probably to the effect of, "What is it?" The jaguar men, each in turn, stepped forward and presented something. One threw a cow carcass on to the floor. The next individual stepped forward and tossed a piece of heavy machinery, possibly from a loader, on top of the carcass. Another jaguar man stepped forward and dropped a handful of some bullets onto the pile. Some coins followed that, all being thrown into the pile, except for the last thing. The more important looking person of the jaguar men walked toward the huge feathered creature and gently placed on the floor near the redoubtable being a plant of some sort. The jaguar man stepped back from where he had approached and waited. The huge feathered creature raised his hands with his palms facing inward. Talons that glowed like molten steel extended from his fingers and for a brief moment he held his terrifying hands aloft with their dagger like claws. Then he clenched his hands and brought them to his sides. At this, the griffin-like being's strange gesture, the jaguar men turned and walked out of the pyramid.

 

For the most part, that was  it. The strange dream compelled me enough to want to find out if there was some significant underlying meaning. I did a bit of research and found out a thing or two that helped to clarify the symbolism. The overall message seems to point to an imbalance, and although the dream ended without any indication as to what follows, it would appear that there is something that needs to be done urgently to correct the imbalance, though it is unclear as to what should be done. What is clear, however, is that something important must be brought back into balance one way or another.

 

Are You a Sugar Junkie?

                   

I don't know about you (unless you're famous), but I'm of the opinion that most people eat way too much sugar. However, I'm not going to try and dissuade a sugar junkie from harming his health or even slowly killing herself by consuming excessive amounts of sugar. It's a free world, and truth be told, I don't really care enough to convince a sugar addict that drinking sugary sodas and eating candy bars everyday is a surefire way to rot his or her teeth, get fat, and increase the risk of coronary disease and type II diabetes. But I will try to inform those who, for some reason or other, may not be aware of the dire consequences of eating jelly filled donuts and other sugary foods and drinking carbonated liquid sugar on a regular basis.

In a previous web log entry, I talked about the adverse affects to one's health from consuming foods containing such food additives as trans-fat (used mostly in fast foods), and from the use of tobacco products, especially where it concerns artificially increased levels of nicotine. Now it's time to say a few things about sugar. To be fair, sugar is not a bad thing if the food item or beverage that contains refined sugar does not exceed an amount that would be considered reasonable by health experts (assuming that the sugar industry does not strong arm or bribe the experts into saying that ten teaspoons of sugar in a can of soda pop is not really unreasonable). But therein lies the problem, because when it comes to lobbying, the sugar industry is quite a big player and a huge influence on "the Hill". It has contributed millions in donations in the federal elections for decades, and in turn, the sugar industry has been subsidized by the U.S. government for about just as long. For those who would like to see less sugar in food products and beverages, they would have to take on a formidable foe. But where these concerned citizens might stand a chance against the sugar industry lobbyists, is if the facts are brought out about the health risks and adverse effects of excess sugar consumption and presented by a panel of experts, possibly in the form of a class action law suit.

No reasonable person can say that a little sugar in one's coffee or tea is a bad thing. In fact, a small amount of sugar is good for the brain. But when the per capita consumption of sugar has increased twice as much in the U.S. since the last century, and kids are consuming more sugary sodas than ever before, while dentists reap the financial benefits by fixing more and more rotted teeth because people have become addicted to too many sugary foods and drinks, then it's safe to say we have a national health crisis on our hands. Of course, one only has to look around on a crowded street or in a shopping mall and see the numerous fat people going hither and thither to note the empirical evidence (of a health crisis).

 

"But what about artificial sweeteners?" You might ask. To which I say,"Fuggedaboudit!"

A Cosmic Vaudeville Performance

         



 
So there I was in my bedroll as the sounds of mice foraging for food and the crackling embers of the campfire began to lull me toward the land of nod when a sudden sharp bang on the metal roof of the mountain shelter jolted me fully to my senses. "What the blazes was that!?" was exactly what I said, but Hank was busy sawing logs, so he was oblivious. It must have been a tree limb that had fallen on to the shelter, was what I thought. But then I heard it again! ...and again! The frequency of the banging noise increased with a furious intensity that was deafening. That's got to be hail, I thought. I sat up in my bunk and peered out just beyond the polyethylene sheeting that was flapping wildly like a ship's ensign. I could see large raindrops splashing on the ground.

 

Under normal circumstances the noise would have no doubt been unbearable but we were dog tired from our 10 mile trek up the mountain carrying 50 pound rucksacks earlier in the day and could have practically slept through a hurricane. Eventually, I was able to fall asleep, but then I was awakened once more by a grumbling noise. I looked toward the bunk where Hank was sleeping. He was moving around restlessly. The dim reflections from the embers of the fire revealed a hole in the roof just above him through which the rain was steadily dripping. He managed to move over to one side and the rain water dripped noisily through the wire mesh bedroll support to the earthen floor where it began to form a spreading puddle.

 

I was beginning to think that I would not be able to get any sleep at all, at that point. This belief was further reinforced by yet another disturbance that was coming from beyond the shelter. However faint, I was certain that what I was hearing were people's voices. This time, somewhat quietly but forcefully, I whispered over to Hank,"Hey, wake up!" It was no use. He was too intoxicated with sleep, that even a bugle blowing reveille would probably not have awakened him, though the water dripping on him most certainly had. "For God's sake, what is it this time?," I muttered to myself. " Are they backpackers trudging toward the shelter? The questions only seemed to accentuate the apprehension that had come over me. I reached for my revolver and removed it from the holster, made sure it was fully loaded, and then laid it across my chest. In the other hand I held my hatchet.

 

The rain began to subside and had let up enough to allow me to hear more clearly what the possible intruders were saying. I listened closely and noticed that not only were the words like some strange foreign language, but what I actually heard was singing. In my estimation, backpackers trekking up the trail in the middle of the night while belting out a tune just after a downpour would rate fairly high up on the list of very strange and unusual occurrences. But apart from that, there was something else, something intangibly and palpably different, as if nature had transcended to another realm or dimension. I felt the tension falling away, however, as I lay in the bunk listening to the fascinating song blend harmoniously with the sound of tree frogs and crickets. It was a symphony of sound, both natural and otherworldly.

 

A minute or two had passed and I realized that the troubadours were not any closer. An inclination for discovery, or something else maybe, compelled me to investigate the cause of the curiosity. When I got up out of the bunk, almost immediately I noticed that the ground did not feel so firm under my feet. Moreover, my other senses had somehow also been altered to such a degree that I could now see even the slightest details around me in the darkness that would not have been so apparent, otherwise, without the means of some sort of reflective light source, for example. As disconcerting as these sensory changes were, the mystery continued to draw me onward, still. Although it had been somewhat cold, it was now only slightly cool. The rain had stopped and the clouds had dispersed enough to reveal glittering stars that resembled diamonds scattered across the firmament. The hemlocks, rhododendrons, ferns, and poplars shimmered from the silvery light of the starry sky. In a small clearing by a stream, a stone's throw from the shelter, was a most incredible sight and was, in fact, the cause of the mysterious chorus. Stealthily as a ninja, I proceeded through the woods until I was close enough to discern several strangely dressed figures. Their brilliantly colored clothing reminded me of jewels and fish scales sparkling in the starlight. The spectacle was like a cosmic vaudeville performance. I felt the urge to shout out exclamations of approval, but controlled the urge and continued to quietly watch the curious performers, instead.

 

Just then, a voice bellowed down into the woods to the clearing. The mysterious troubadours stopped and glanced toward the shelter. I turned to look up the hill, as well. A gust of cold wind brushed my face and quickly I turned back to look at the musical performers, but they were no longer there. I stepped out into the clearing and walked around the grassy stage hoping to find some evidence, as proof for my own sake at least, that what I had been witness to had actually taken place, but there was nothing to be found.

Again, Hank's voice bellowed.

 

"Yeah, I hear you! I'm over here!" How strange that I was surprised by my own voice and then suddenly, it seemed, I was lying on the bunk and in my sleeping bag.

 

Hank's voice called out again, but much louder this time, "I'm brewing coffee. Rise and shine!"

 

What an unusually strange dream that was, I thought. I eased myself off of the bunk and walked out of the shelter. For a moment, I reflected on the wonders of nature and the goodness of its gifts. It was a glorious day. the sun was streaming through the towering trees and warming the earth. "I'm just going down to the stream to wash up. I will be back in a few minutes."

 

"Well, be careful," warned Hank. "I saw a huge razorback rooting around down there about an hour or so ago."

 

I looked at him warily. "You're joking, right?"

 

"You'd better take your six-shooter, just in case," was his reply.

Chinese Pencil Pushers

      

Sometimes, when I'm relaxing, whether sitting by a crackling fire on a cold winter night or lazily swaying in a hammock on warm breezy days, I let my mind wander until I drift off, as it were, to a place where all of the cares and worries of this world are left behind. Unfortunately, there are those moments when the reverie is disrupted by thoughts about things that have absolutely nothing to do with my usual fantasy involving a bottle of bubbly and me chasing a couple of freshly scrubbed half naked geisha girls with silky smooth skin the color of plum blossoms around in the garden while beneath the glow of the Autumn moon. The disruptions to my daydreams and fantasies used to be worrisome thoughts about slow pay clients, a woodpecker that pecked holes the size of Little Richard's head in the side of my house, and a deranged garbage man who, perhaps intentionally, would virtually destroy perfectly good garbage cans within a month's time. But those thoughts that disrupted my reverie have been pushed aside by a new intruder called the "dollar store". Why is that? I wonder. Could it be because I am somehow concerned that 99.7% of everything that can be bought at a dollar store is made in China and that these stores are multiplying faster than a Chinese store clerk calculating profits on an abacus after drinking a pot of expresso coffee? Who's to say? I guess I can't help thinking about how the Chinese economy continues to churn out massive amounts of mass produced junk as its GNP soars into the stratosphere year after year while sustaining enormous trade imbalances with its trading partners. But then it all makes sense when one realizes the vast number of people that live in that "developing" country and how fundamentally easy it is for multi-national corporations to pay, in many cases, much less than 50 cents an hour to a veritable slave from an ever abundant labor pool of expendable workers in a country with no labor unions.

 

When the "evil empire" , or the U.S.S.R. (as it was more commonly known), came to an end, it must have made those Chinese bureaucrats more nervous than a cat on a hot tin roof to see Russia throw off the yokes of Communism for the excesses of Capitalism. The only reason why that happened, though, is because the  Communist status quo could no longer fool the proletariat by selling it promises in the form of a system which proclaims that all men are created equal (at least as far as the state is concerned). But as anyone with a modicum of intelligence will tell you, erudite proclamations often look good on paper, whereas the application of those sorts of things, well... that's a horse of a different color.

 

At any rate, at the time of the breakup of the Soviet Union, the Chinese pencil pushers must have wondered if Russia would become a shining beacon of prosperity that the Chinese proletariat would take resentful notice of, but it never happened, and there's no doubt that the CPP (Chinese Pencil Pushers) were damn glad that it didn't, either. So while Russia's fledgling democracy went from no better than before to maybe even worse (economically speaking), the CPP watched, took notes, and eventually realized that by creating pockets of capitalism, or free market zoning, if you will, the CPP could have their cake and eat it too. In other words, they could gradually build a Capitalist economy, but only in select areas or "special economic zones" (SEZ), and yet still retain control over the people by never allowing them to vote or voice their opinions freely, either in a public setting or through the media. When you think about it, the Chinese bureaucracy (CPP) is damn clever. Since the seeds of a post-industrial revolution had been planted at Tianamen, though suppressed, it's not unreasonable to think that it wouldn't happen again in the near future. So the pencil pushers beat the revolutionaries to the punch, and now it's okay for folks to go shopping in China, which is what most people want to do, anyway. However, there's more to this picture than meets the eye...much more.

The Would-be Pugilist

        

 

Out of any given number of people surveyed, how many can honestly say that their first day in first grade was a bit scary? The percentage would probably be high if those surveyed answered honestly, but no doubt very few people would readily admit that they experienced a sort of weak knee sweaty palm sensation as they walked down the aisles of their respective new school surroundings surrounded by strangers who were for the most part considerably larger. If there’s a reason why they didn’t experience that kind of fear, it must be because they don’t remember such an awe inspiring moment.

The kid remembers. Except what he remembers is running full tilt along the concrete walkway of the one story annex building at Ortega Elementary School and sliding to a screeching halt in his well-worn canvas sneakers in front of his first grade class room. He even remembers the teacher’s name; Mrs. Echols. Or was it Ms. Echols? Well, whichever it was, her name was Echols, that much he remembers. As he came to a stop, he jumped through the door and nonchalantly headed toward the back of the room. The teacher gave the students a look that said, I’m the boss around here. Now, find a desk and pay attention ‘cause I’m gonna do you some learnin’. Actually, she didn’t give a look quite like that but that’s the way most people speak in the South. The long hand on the clock was straight up. The kid had just made the bell.

He found a desk in the back of the classroom near the window where he could communicate with the birds and scope the class for potential pals. Everything went well for the first month or so. He even developed a crush on a cutie pie. She was hard to get next to, however, as there was competition. The competition’s name was Brian. The kid and Brian didn’t like each other and for obvious reasons. The object of their attention and contention was a girl named Amy and she was workin’ it like a princess at the prom. She had those boys steppin’ and fetchin’ like their heads were on fire.  She was milkin' it for all it was worth. You get the picture. She was the cutest girl in the class.

Eventually, which is to say, within a relatively short period of time, things got a little out of hand and Brian and the kid came to blows. They were scrappin’, b-slappin’, and knockin’ each other in the head somewhat fiercely. The other kids were encouraging one or the other to “Get him! Rip his head off! (not literally of course) and other similar ring-side exclamatory remarks.

 

The teacher had left the classroom briefly but had returned about the time the kid had Brian in a headlock and was giving him a wedgie . She broke up the fight, but to everyone’s amazement and joy, she announced that the little street fighters would be able to continue their brawl during recess in a more appropriate venue, namely the playground. In the meantime, she told them to open their books to page 33 and read the chapter about Lucy, the Chimpanzee.

 

The animosity had been bottled up long enough. The kid resolved to put Brian in his place and show everyone who the king of the school yard was. Brian was thinking the same. At the sound of the bell, the teacher and the students marched single file out of the classroom. The early Autumn weather was warm and sunny on that day so the students took off their shoes just outside the classroom annex before going to the playground. The teacher had brought along some boxers’ gloves and told the kid and Brian to lace-up. Brian’s buddy, Bud, helped Brian get into a pair of well fitted Everlast gloves while the kid’s pal, Carl did the same, only the kid’s gloves were held together with duct tape and were so large they reminded him of what circus clowns use. The kid stared daggers at Brian and Brian stared darts, both with equal amounts of deadly disdain and vengeful purpose.

When both boys had their gloves secured, the teacher called them forward and she blew her whistle and Brian threw a haymaker.

The kid was wise and jumped back and dodged the swing and Brian spun around almost 360 degrees from the exertion. The kid was not at all happy to be laced up with the over-sized gloves. They were hindering him so he would just have to be creative. He rushed in with his left elbow and jabbed Brian sharply in the side and knocked him to the ground. The teacher stopped the fight and made it clear that a fair fight did not include using elbows, knees, or feet.

 

So this teacher obviously thought it was fair to give one opponent a pair of cool Everlast gloves and to the other, with whom she must have had issues, a pair of gloves that once belonged to Bozo, but why? Truth be told, Brian was a brown-noser who had played the teacher like a Stradivari from day one. Damn fine pickle! Alright, so when life hands you the proverbial lemon you make a damn fine lemon pie, considered the kid.

 

As the two brawlers came at each other, the boy with Bozo’s gloves lowered his head and butted Brian in the breadbasket. Brian let forth a loud “Umph!” but he kept his footing and rained down on the kid with a right hook, and some kind of wild punch that dazed the kid. The kid had mostly flailed with his useless Bozo gloves. While Brian was pummelling him, the kid was able to pull his hand out of one the oversized gloves and with the laces wrapped around his hand he swung it like he was hurling a

hammer and clocked Brian up-side his head and then whipped it around again, this time hitting Brian square on the side of his face. Brian’s eyes bugged out. Clearly, he was stunned.

The kid was about to deliver the coup de grace while Brian was senseless, but Brian snapped out of it and gave the kid a wicked counterpunch and knocked the kid to the ground where he lay exhausted while the students counted down in unison. It was over. Brian had won, maybe not fair and square, but there was no point whining about it. The fact was, the kid wasn’t a fair fighter either. So, fair enough. Still he wasn’t pleased about it. It wasn’t so much that he had lost since one can’t always win. He just found it intolerable watching practically the whole class dancing around with Brian hoisted up on their shoulders, yelling, “Brian beat the kid! Brian is the king! Yea! Brian! Go Brian! You showed him, Brian! Blah! Blah! Rah! Rah!”

“Enough, already!” the kid yelled angrily at the excessive show of pomp and pride.

Sitting next to the kid on the sandy ground was Carl who was, evidently, the only friend the kid had. Carl tried to soothe the kid’s wounded pride. “Hey don’t worry about it. I beat up Brian last year and made him cry. At least you gave it your best.”

The kid snarled and he wasn’t soothed, at all. In fact, he decided that he shouldn’t sit there stewing about it in the sandlot. It was time for action.

“Let’s go!”

“Where to”, answered Carl to which the kid replied, “You’ll see." Surreptitiously, like spies, they stealthily moved from pine to bush and from bush to pine being very careful not to be spotted.

When they had made their way back to the classroom, Carl asked, “So, what’s up?” The kid looked at Carl and then down at the rows of shoes lined up in front of the classroom and said, “These shoes are going up… on the roof! Start throwing!

“What?” said Carl.

“I said, start throwing! Recess will be over soon. We need to hurry!” 

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. I don’ t know and I don’t care. Do it!”

So our anti-heroes started throwing shoes bing bang boom as fast as they could grab them and hurled them onto the roof. When Carl came to his shoes, he hesitated and looked at the kid who was winding up. He seemed to be trying out for the Red Sox. “What about our shoes?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You have to throw yours up there too or else you’ll give us away.”

“Okay!” and with a reluctant heave, Carl tossed his shoes on to the roof.

The Kid and Carl had done the deed. They had crossed the Rubicon and were well on their way to being expelled if their deed were ever exposed. The kid didn’t care, though. He felt a great sense of relief and satisfaction at having expunged the pangs of distress at the kind of defeat that is rubbed cruelly in one’s face.

But they were clever boys or maybe just lucky as it was never discovered who had been responsible for the mysterious and curious incident.

However, just as carefully and quickly as before, they returned to the playground. Nobody had even noticed that they had been MIA, as it were. There were too many kids running around to keep an eye on. Who would have noticed a couple of persona non grata, anyway? When the teacher and the students returned to the classroom and discovered their shoes missing, the looks and cries of despair and confusion were almost too much to handle for Carl as he was frozen with fear at possibly being made but the kid could just barely contain himself as he struggled to hold back the laughter. Somehow they were able to keep up the charade and everyone went home barefooted.

Epilogue

 

Eventually, the shoes were discovered but by that time of course they were ruined from the rain and cracked from the sun and no one was none the wiser.

The Crackpot Crow

 

 

 

 

The majority of people probably know how intelligent and clever crows are. But did you know that, just like humans, they suffer from mental disorders? Actually, not really sure that they suffer from things such as depression, OCD, or other maladies of the mind, but it would seem that way just based on what I observed recently. I think it's fair to say that, at the least, they perform rituals...just like humans!

As per my usual schedule, I was waiting for a train at a major train station, and enduring the plethora of god damn noises that the train company  apparently (and perhaps passive agressively) has no problem assaulting peoples' ears with; construction noises, various repetitive loud announcements, screeching train wheels, and so forth. At any rate, there I was looking  down rather vacantly at the train tracks from a platform when I spied a sleek luxuriantly feathered crow between the tracks a short distance away. It was busily engaged in some activity but I couldn't make out exactly what it was that it was engaged in. I moved closer to where it was but it was so busy that no doubt under normal circumstances, it would have surely flown away as I approached. However, in this case, It was obviously too intent on seemingly accomplishing some task that it completely ignored me.

The rail tracks are filled in with large chunks of sharp edged gravel and it was this that the crow was busily sorting through with its beautifully polished sharpened beak, picking up one rock and moving it to another spot then picking up another and moving it to a different spot and so on for several minutes. And it wasn't  just moving large chunks of gravel, some of which seemed hardly possible for the crow to move, but it was also plucking tufts of grass growing between the rocks and covering the spots from which the crow had moved the rocks. I wondered, what on Earth could this fella be doing, apart from the obvious? It was undoubtedly the most curious thing I had seen in quite some time. At some point the crow must have realized that I was watching it, with some degree of amazement no less (no one around me seemed to even notice what appeared to be for all intents and purposes some sort of compulsive ritual) and possibly out of embarrassment or maybe just because it just wanted to take a break, he hopped up onto a rail and began to stretch his legs and wings. But after a moment or two the gravel which the crow had such a curious and keen interest in lured him back and he began his sorting task once again.

Again, after a period of sorting and plucking, the crow suddenly stopped and and stared at me for a moment and then with its pristine beak picked up a hefty chunk of gravel and flew across to the other side of the train tracks above another platform where there was a ledge. A few minutes later, a crowd of people began to arrive and were conveniently enough (for the crow at least) walking toward the bombardier.  

They say that crows have an uncanny ability for remembering peoples' faces and is depicted in fables and myths as being very cunning. In one fable a crow comes up to a pitcher and knows that his beak is too short to reach the water that is too far down in the pitcher and he realizes that if he tips it over, all the water will fall out. So what does the crow do? The crow then proceeds to pick up pebbles and places them in the pitcher so the water may rise and he can reach it to relieve his thirst. It's not a far stretch that crows are not incapable of that kind of cleverness which brings me back to the bombardier crow. As he was perched on the ledge with the sizeable rock at his feet looking toward the oncoming traffic, it seemed as if he were patiently waiting for someone, maybe eagerly so. Unfortunately, the train I had been waiting for had just arrived and blocked my view. There was no way to know what had happened after that but we can guess with reasonable accuracy as to what the mischeivous and clever crow did.

Ouch!