Letter 4 (Jeremy)

 

Dear Erwin Tn Chamber of Commerce,

I'm thrilled to nominate Carla Veatch for the Distinguished Service to the Community Award. As someone who's had the pleasure of working alongside Carla on some community projects, (in a much smaller capacity) I've witnessed her unwavering dedication to helping those in need.

Carla's passion for supporting local families is evident in her efforts to collect and distribute school supplies to children who might otherwise go without, and Her commitment to ensuring our community's children have the tools they need to succeed is truly inspiring! (in fact it's entirely changed the trajectory of my own life and Worldview in many ways and given me a renewed sense of purpose. She serves as a daily reminder there are still GOOD People in the World and even seemingly small acts of generosity and kindness can lead to profound results, not only for individuals' personally, but the overall Community collectively.)

But Carla's impact doesn't stop there. She's also been instrumental in organizing food drives, providing essential sustenance to families struggling to make ends meet. And, through her community help center, she's offered a safe and welcoming space for individuals to access vital resources and support.

What's more, Carla's compassion extends to our furry friends, too. She's worked tirelessly to provide pet food and supplies to local animal shelters and families in need.

I'm honored to call Carla a friend and see her as a true community advocate. Her selflessness, kindness, and generosity make her an outstanding candidate for this award. I strongly encourage you to recognize Carla's remarkable contributions to our community.

Thank you for your time .

Sincerely,

J.Stephen.H. (Jeremy.)

Letter 3

Erwin Chamber of Commerce,

I'm writing this to nominate Carla Veatch for the Distinguished Service to the Community Award. Carla has made a real difference in our community, and I think she deserves to be recognized for her efforts.

Carla is always finding ways to help those in need. She's provided pet food and supplies to local families and animal shelters, set up a community help center, and organized homeless hygiene packs and supplies. She's also run food drives, collected school supplies for local kids, and helps out in many other ways!

I've seen firsthand the positive impact Carla has had on our community. She's kind, compassionate, and always willing to lend a hand. I think she's a great example of what it means to give back to your community.

So, I'd like to ask that you consider Miss Carla for this award. Because she truly DOES make a REAL difference in the lives of many people, and I think she deserves to be recognized for all of her hard work and dedication.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely, 

Eric Mullins (Mullie.)

3 act story structure

 Here's a step-by-step guide to outlining a 3-act story structure:

*Act 1: Setup*

1. *Opening Image*: Describe the opening scene or image that sets the tone for the story. This should introduce the protagonist and their ordinary world.

2. *Protagonist's Goal*: Define the protagonist's main goal or desire. What do they want to achieve or gain?

3. *Establish Stakes*: Introduce the stakes or consequences of the protagonist's goal. What will happen if they fail or succeed?

4. *Inciting Incident*: Describe the event that sets the story in motion. This should disrupt the protagonist's ordinary world and set them on their journey.

5. *Establish Supporting Characters*: Introduce key supporting characters, such as friends, family, or mentors.

6. *Plot Point 1*: Describe the first major plot point that sets the protagonist on their journey. This should raise questions and create tension.

*Act 2: Confrontation*

1. *Rising Action*: Describe the series of events that create obstacles and challenges for the protagonist. This should test their skills, abilities, and resolve.

2. *Midpoint*: Describe the midpoint of the story, where the protagonist gains new information or insight that raises the stakes or changes their approach.

3. *Complications and setbacks*: Describe the complications and setbacks that the protagonist faces. This should create tension and conflict.

4. *Plot Point 2*: Describe the second major plot point that raises the stakes and creates a sense of urgency.

5. *Crisis*: Describe the crisis or turning point where the protagonist must make a critical decision or take a risk.

*Act 3: Resolution*

1. *Climax*: Describe the climax of the story, where the protagonist faces their greatest challenge or obstacle.

2. *Resolution*: Describe the resolution of the story, where the protagonist's goal is achieved or not achieved.

3. *Denouement*: Describe the denouement, where loose ends are tied up and the story is concluded.

4. *Final Image*: Describe the final image or scene that leaves a lasting impression on the reader.

*Additional Tips*

- Make sure each act has a clear structure and purpose.

- Use plot points to create tension and raise the stakes.

- Use character arcs to create emotional resonance and depth.

- Use theme to tie the story together and create a cohesive message.

Remember, this is just a general guide.

They Love Cats

 They Love Cats.

__________________________

Two kids are intrigued by their new elderly neighbors who recently moved in next door. A mysterious couple who are unusually over -protective of their three pet cats. At first they assume that Mr. And Mrs. (not yet named) are just fussy, aged eccentrics. But as they spend more time observing the couple, they become embroiled in a terrifying Mystery that will challenge the strength of their friendship, and what they presume to know about right and wrong.

*

Leonid: (masc./meaning: Lion-like.) 

A Cat. /Kid.

Yuri: (masc./meaning: Farmer/Earthworker.) A Cat/kid.

Elena: (fem. /meaning: Shining Light.) A Cat/kid.

Galina Tsiganova. (The wife )

Vladimir Tsiganov. (The husband )

Eddie Foster. (main character )

Aurora Day. (main character)

++++

positive

I Will Try to Be Positive because there are still people like you guys, Lamont/Carla/Gordon, several of those i work for etc in the world. 

And .. I haven't yet lost my ability to be enthralled by: A Piece of Music , Work of Art, or even a darn Cat brushing up against my leg to say hello in greeting. (Whatever supposedly genius brain-scientist came to the conclusion animals were without emotion needs his or her fuckin head examined based on my observations of the beings)

I still notice genuine gratitude in people when I do a good deed or random act of kindness. And honestly , Whether it's  because they're *Deterministically Designed that way and/ or reacting to various external forces that shape their mode of being or some other reason.. that's irrelevant. I just know it's a far FAR better feeling than The Emptiness that I feel so often when I distance myself from it all and go into The Black Place. 

In simplest words: People are WORTH the hassle. &

Love is worth the pain it sometimes brings, when it tears open those calloused scabs that have set up and festered on a heart so long. 

I'll try to be positive because: I still find myself surprised by random moments and the small (seemingly ) simple things/life moments I playfully scoff at when I'm in more cynical moods. 

&

Because 

36 yrs. Later and the shittier parts of life haven't managed to completely beat the heart out of me yet. And I still have love to show/give . Whether I bitch and bicker over it the entire way through or not. My Star has Not Dimmed, only flickered.

I will be positive because I have more people in my corner now than at any point in my life, and they CARE for/believe in me. And I'm curious to see how The Dance transpires. (challenge still accepted my friend. Sorry about earlier. I think I was purging. I'm good. ) 

The Book of Disquiet/Pessoa

Pessoa's Book of Disquiet.

       +++++++++++++

Fernando Pessoa's *Book of Disquiet* (Livro do Desassossego) isn't a novel in the traditional sense; it's a sprawling, fragmented collection of aphorisms, diary entries, philosophical musings, and fictional narratives woven together to create a portrait of profound melancholia and existential unease.  Its lack of a cohesive plot, its shifting perspectives, and its intensely personal nature contribute to its enigmatic power and enduring appeal.  Instead of a conventional narrative arc, the book offers a deeply introspective journey into the mind of Bernardo Soares, Pessoa's heteronym – a fictional persona distinct from the author himself.

Bernardo Soares, a Lisbon bookkeeper, serves as the primary narrator, though his identity remains fluid and somewhat elusive throughout. He's a man acutely aware of his own insignificance in the grand scheme of things, yet simultaneously obsessed with finding meaning in the mundane. His observations are sharp and often cynical, filled with a sense of disillusionment with both himself and the world around him. He grapples with feelings of alienation, loneliness, and the crushing weight of existence, revealing a profound dissatisfaction with the limitations of human experience.

The fragmented nature of the text mirrors the fragmented nature of Soares's own consciousness.  Entries jump between seemingly unrelated thoughts and observations, creating a sense of disorientation that reflects the narrator's own internal chaos.  This structure, while potentially frustrating to some readers, is crucial to understanding the work's essence.  The lack of linearity emphasizes the chaotic and unpredictable nature of life itself, mirroring the seemingly random and often illogical nature of human thought.

Soares's writing explores a multitude of themes, often interwoven and overlapping.  The central theme is undoubtedly the experience of *desassossego* – a word often translated as "disquiet," but which encompasses a broader range of emotions including restlessness, anxiety, and a deep-seated dissatisfaction with life.  This isn't simply a melancholic mood; it's a fundamental condition of being, a constant companion to Soares throughout his existence.  He explores the limitations of human knowledge, the absurdity of existence, and the impossibility of ever truly understanding oneself or the world.

Alongside *desassossego*, the text delves into themes of identity, creativity, and the nature of reality.  Soares's relentless self-examination leads him to question the very nature of his own being.  His constant introspection and his struggle to define himself contribute to the book's overall sense of ambiguity and uncertainty.  He explores the relationship between the individual and society, often feeling alienated from the larger world and yet acutely aware of his place within it. His creative process, his writing itself, becomes a means of confronting and processing these feelings of unease.

The language of *Book of Disquiet* is simultaneously precise and evocative.  Pessoa masterfully utilizes poetic imagery and evocative language to create a richly textured and deeply personal experience for the reader.  The prose is often dense and philosophical, demanding careful attention and repeated readings.  The fragmented nature of the text requires the reader to actively participate in the process of meaning-making, reconstructing the narrative from its scattered pieces.

In conclusion, *Book of Disquiet* is not simply a book to be read; it's an experience to be lived. Its fragmented structure, its introspective narrative voice, and its exploration of profound existential themes create a deeply affecting and unforgettable reading experience.  It remains a challenging and rewarding work, continually prompting reflection on the nature of life, consciousness, and the human condition. The enduring appeal of the *Book of Disquiet* lies in its profound honesty and its ability to articulate the universal experience of human unease with remarkable depth and beauty.

"A Boy and His Dog"

“Your room still looks like shit!” he screamed. (The rage burning in his eyes like bonfires in summertime always made my youthful blood run colder than constant winter.) “I thought I told you to clean it, boy?!” he spat. His bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils indicated he'd already had his liquid breakfast (as he humorously termed it). “I'm...I'm sorry, Uncle Dick,” I responded meekly. “I did my best. I was at it for hours.” Chad always trashes my room when he's here and never helps clean up the mess! My voice had a whiny, panicked tone that sounded weak and pathetic to my own ears and filled me with an even greater amount of shame than what I often felt each time I displeased the hard and hate-filled man who was (in many ways) like a second father to me. “Oh, don't give me that shit, Chad's ass! You were up there with him the whole time, and it's your responsibility to keep shit locked down, you hear? It's up to you. Ain't nobody else gonna hold your hand, wipe your ass, or be your fuckin' maid, kid. Do you hear me?” “Yes,” I whispered softly, defeated. (His odd ability to blend fundamental truths and insights with his own bizarre and illogical self-logic never failed to keep me confused and questioning my own perceptions of reality and truth.) “Yes, what?” he asked/rasped expectantly. “Yes, sir!” I yelled as loudly as I could, the shame further intensified by my fool's compliance with this madman's expectations. “This is the third time,” he whispered, voice deceptively soft. “I'm sorry,” I tried again more earnestly this time. “Sorry's ass!” he barked, cuffing me upside the head hard enough that I saw bright starbursts of pain flicker briefly behind my tear-filled eyes. Then, as he drew back his hand for a better swing, Shadow (my black dog I'd found abandoned a few months back and made a pet) came out of nowhere and sank her teeth into his arm. Because of his drunken state, it had little real effect on him, but already I could see blood oozing out of his arm where Shadow was still latched onto him, growling savagely and jerking her head back and forth in swift, jerking motions. “Fuckin' mutt!!” he screamed in a high-pitched, near-squeal, slinging Shadow across the yard and into the big oak tree. (The sound her body made crashing into that tree is a sound that replays in my head even to this day.) I could tell immediately that her back was broken by the way she writhed painfully, whimpering, trying to get up but unable to make her legs work enough to stand. Her deep, intelligent brown eyes peered into mine, seeming to say, “Are you okay?” Even in her painful state, she was my protector, my best friend, and constant companion, who cared for me and showed me love when few others ever did (either because they had none left in them to give or simply didn't know how). The guilt I felt was immediate, clenching my guts tight and filling me with such self-hatred that I could have died in that moment and found my only joy in death. “I told Sandi that bitch was dangerous. She's snapped at me before, twice now!” my Uncle said. The self-indignation in his voice added a new layer to my hatred. He was a monster, I thought then (and still believe to this day), far worse than any I had read about in the fairytale books I often read when chores were done. And the worst kind of monster...because he was human and real. After spacing out, lost in my own reverie for a moment, his voice broke through the mental barriers my mind had momentarily put in place to process the events that had just transpired. “She's your responsibility,” he said, reaching his arm out to me. In my semi-conscious dream state, I hadn't even noticed he'd unholstered the .45 Colt Revolver that he always carried on him. He was holding it out now, patiently, expectantly, waiting for me to take it. As if by my own accord, I saw my hand reaching out and taking the gun. And in my head, I imagined several horrible, unthinkable scenarios playing out (most of which involved shooting him in the head and then turning the gun on myself). But at that timeless moment in time, at that moment, I simply took the gun and walked with him over to where Shadow was laying, squirming painfully on the ground.

“Maybe I could keep her chained up from now on?” I begged/pleaded, my voice so thick with tears I was surprised he understood me enough to answer: “She ain't comin' back from that one, Buddha-Boy.” (My family called me Buddha-Boy back then because I was a bit over 200 lbs. and had the build of those popular fat versions of Buddha that you always saw everywhere in novelty shops.) “And she's dangerous.” He continued. “Needs put down. For her sake and others.” “Once a dog gets a taste of blood, they're ruined, boy. Can't ever trust 'em again, y'hear?” “I CAN'T,” I screamed. My voice taking on a strength and loudness I had never known or expressed before. “She's YOUR fuckin' responsibility. YOU BROUGHT THE GODDAMN THING HERE!!” He screamed. His slurred, drunken voice filling with a rage I'd long since come to know and dread. (And sadly, for a long time after, reflect.) “Now, you take care of your business RIGHT GODDAMN NOW, or I'll stomp the bitch to bits right here in front of you, you goddamn pussy little FUCK!!” I knew it was hopeless then. No chance for compromise. No magical fairies or strong heroes like the ones from my stories would come, wave their wands, and restore my friend to health or bravely defeat the monster towering over me now. Without another word, I walked over to Shadow, my best friend and constant companion, aimed the gun at her head (avoiding eye contact as best I could), looked away, and pulled the trigger. The roar was deafening, and the gun bucked in my hand enough that I felt a slight pain in my wrist. Looking down at Shadow's still, dead frame did something to me. Something in me faded. That light of hope Pastor Bacon always talked about in church. My blood ran cold, tears dried up. Everything went numb. Numb to the point I didn't feel anything good, bad, or painful. And in that horrible moment, I was extremely grateful for that cold numbness. 

(Because I had just killed my best friend.)

J.Stephen.H.