I have rarely found editorials to be moving and thought provoking on a literary basis. The New York Times' Behind the Aurora Borealis is so worthy. It is worthy enough to be discussed as an educational piece -- to be used as an example of not just good writing, but as an example of writing that teaches one to stretch his or her imagination, from the clouds to the moon.

When was the last time you thought about the Earth’s magnetic field? Or, for that matter, the solar wind? Perhaps now is a good time to do so.

Last year, NASA launched a constellation of five new satellites to investigate substorms — celestial events caused when the Earth’s magnetic field captures energy from the solar wind and then releases it. Data from the satellites and ground observations show that the Earth’s magnetic field lines — stretched well into space by the solar wind — suddenly snap back into place like giant rubber bands and shower the planet with solar particles. As astronomers have recently reported, that sudden release of energy is what causes the northern lights to flicker and dance.

If you have ever seen the northern lights, you know they cause a wonder that is itself a kind of question. We’re used to clouds sliding past on a windy day and the steady, predictable movements of celestial objects. But there is something startling about the aurora borealis, and not least its unpredictability. To see great sinuous sheets of light towering over the dark horizon is to feel that some fundamental force is being illuminated in the most diaphanous of ways. Until now, the cause of the aurora’s sudden shifts in mood was unclear. Now we know.

Perhaps it’s better simply to say that now astronomers know. What we get to do instead is imagine. The next time you see the northern lights, you’ll be able to imagine immense lines of magnetism reaching toward the moon, capturing the solar wind as if they were sails, and then spilling the wind’s particles into Earth’s atmosphere. What we are seeing, in a sense, is the last iridescence of a particle-breeze blowing outward from the Sun.

"According to Bernabei, one of the agents suggested that as she looked for the document she should try not to think about what it contained."

 —'State Secrets,' by Patrick Radden Keefe, The New Yorker, April 28, 2008

It was a warm night. It was a night with a soft breeze carrying the smells and sounds of summer. It was a night for boys.

"Go wash your hands."

Upon their father's command, the two boys raced on up the stairs and into the bathroom, trying to wash their hands at the same time. They finished with hands flicking at each other and they ran back down the stairs, drying their hands on their shirts, jumping three whole steps at the end.

"Slow down," their mother said as they slid into the kitchen full of the aromas of their dinner: ham smothered with raisin sauce, candied yams, peas and carrots wallowing in butter, and for dessert? That would be a surprise. (continued)

Hello,
Can I ask you something?

Can I write to you
Whenever I am feeling lonely?
Can I give you card
Even when there is no holiday?
Can I send you flowers
Just because it is a rainy day?

Can I think of you
When I see a painting I like?
Can I contemplate
Buying it for you if I could?
Can I someday perhaps
Paint my own painting for you?

Can I think good thoughts of you
Each and every day?
Can I hold you in my arms
When I am sad or feeling blue?
Can I talk to you, at night
In the dark, when all is calm and well?

Can I?

Dear _____,

I now know that when you love someone you want to always be nice and kind and helpful, helping with the smallest of things as well as the biggest of things.

When in love with someone you want to share everything; the joys and the sorrows, comforting as much as you can whenever needed and without question; you want to get out of the way when needed and lift up bodily if necessary; you never want to interfere or critisize or be sarcastic or belittle or be picky; yet you'll be tempted to give a good ribbing so as to laugh together.

Being in love means that bringing a smile to your face is the most important thing in the world.

Being in love means that the feel or your hand in mine is the most precious thing I can wish for.

I didn't know what love was until I met you.

How am I doing?

I am good, bad, focused, scared, aware, shaky and at times happy, but sometimes suicidal, and always, in general, perplexed.

I cry a lot.

In my car in a blinding downpour on the highway beside two tractor trailers with the deafening roar of the rain, the road and static on the radio -- alone -- I cry over shame and guilt of leaving too unprepared, over fear and anxiety of family and friends left behind too soon.

Have I lost so completely? Again?
 (continued)

Have your fancy tickled at Studio 360 by this Haran Ellison interview.

Harlan Ellison

Over the last 50 years, he's written hundreds of short stories ("A Boy and His Dog"), several novels and movies and worked on TV shows like "The Man From UNCLE," the original Star Trek, and "The Outer Limits." But don't call him a science-fiction author: Ellison says he's the heir to Edgar Allan Poe and Jorge-Luis Borges. Kurt asks Ellison about his brash reputation and about the new documentary about him called "Dreams With Sharp Teeth."

See also: "Dreams With Sharp Teeth".

"Where do you get your ideas?"

Have you ever heard that question before? Sure. We all have. Quite frankly, I never understood how a writer wannabe could possibly ask such a question -- if you are not chock full of ideas why would you want to write?

Well, while I get plot and story ideas forming in my head constantly, mostly out of the blue, I do get many ideas about aspects of situations and devices from everyday reading (newspapers, magazines, books, the Internet). For example, here is a summary of "various Big Brother gadgets that the government wants to or already has added to surveillance cameras in the UK."
 (continued)

There is something that frightens me and I know not what it is.

The closest I have come to meeting this fear was once in a dream. In a typical childhood fear-dream, I was laying in bed in my room at the top of the stairs and someone, some dark form, was coming, sneaking, up the stairs toward me. Paralyzed with fear I could do nothing but wait as this unknown form slowly came closer, closer... up the stairs it came. All I knew was that something with bad intent had me as it's goal. (continued)

A cool breeze
A rain shower
A snow fall
You remind me

A bird song
A rose flower
A sunset
You remind me

I remember you,
your auburn hair that
caught the wind and
carried me along
as we danced in
the woods, singing
hand in hand in
celebration of
all we see and
hear and feel
among the stirring
trees with
their falling
leaves and their
wonderous scent
and their golden
boughs and you'd
smile at me and
sometimes you'd wink
at me.

"Do you ever see,"
you said to me
before you went away,
"the little speck of light
spiraling down the
corner of your eye?

"That is me saying,
Hello, goodbye."

I don't know if
you can change
my world.

But you can
help me through
a difficult day.

I've lost it, he said with such a sadness.
What, I asked.
A thought. Not just any thought, oh no.
A thought of such beauty and contentedness
That it needs to have been written down.
I'm not sure what is was now,
But it was there.

You hear about it
off handedly,
oh by the way,
in the briefest of mentions;
the funeral of a cleric,
a family shot in a car,
a six year old boy run over by a tank;
all matter of factly,
as an aside,
an oblique reference,
so someone in the back of their mind can say,
"See, we did report it.
"It was mentioned."
And the guilt builds and some day,
someone will have to pay for it.

Harold didn't see the ground coming up toward him, he felt it. Only after the second of disorientation and the reminder of gravity and pain did he realize that he was face first in the dirt, the feet of the cause of his predicament walking away. He tried hard to prevent his tears. He was unsuccessful.

Harold got up slowly, wanting to wait until the crowd dispersed. Luckily then, the bell rang to start the rest of the kids off to class. (continued)

There came a knock at the door,
    "Who is it?"

There came a cry from the dark,
    "The Constitution!"

There came a knock at the door,
    "What is it?"

There came a cry from the dark,
    "They are coming!"

There came a knock at the door,
    "Who is it?"

There came a cry from the dark,
    "The Bill of Rights!"

There came a knock at the door,
    "What can I do?"

There came a cry from the dark,
    "They are here!"

There came a knock at the door.

After a long drag on his cigarette Chase stared at its large glowing head and blew his breath over it, exciting its redness with an array of spark and ash, then flicked it up at the underside of the overpass above him, causing a burst of hot red rain to shower down on him and his crew. The others jumped or rolled aside, batting their heads and cursing.

"What the fuck, Chase!" Rat said wiping his mohawk. He called himself The Rat but everyone else just Rat.

"Let's blow this taco stand, Cruds," Chase said. Computer Redundant Usurping Dudes. Radix, that freaking computer addict came up with that idiotic name, even wears a goddamned computer, knows his shit though.

"Yeah! Let's go do crimes," Scarface said. Scarface. Scarhead, Scar, Scarry, Scarman. Cut open his own face with a razor, into bodyart, body hacking is more like it. Has more cuts, burns and marks on him than a Middle-East torture victim. But being fucking crazy has its usefulness. Point man.

Chase slid down the graffiti covered concrete ramp, past the graffiti covered concrete pillars and stepped over the glass and can infested graffiti covered concrete curb and onto the road, his crew following. (continued)

July 20

It has been a long six months since last I was able to write. I am weary. We are all weary. We have a new home and Basram is staying with us. His parents are dead as far as we know.

He is holding up well, considering what we have been through. I mean what he has been through, especially. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't talk much anymore, actually. He reads his books, few that we managed to keep, over and over. That's almost all he does, except to go out at night to look for more books. He does not want me to go with him. We are not supposed to be out after dark. I am afraid for him, but he seems okay mostly. Poor Basram. (continued)

A path is inviting, I do not follow,
    And I die a little inside.

An injustice occurs, I do not speak,
    And I die a little inside.

A child is in pain, I do not comfort,
    And I die a little inside.

A person is in trouble, I do not help,
    And I die a little inside.

They stood at the ticket counter, the father arguing with the woman behind the computer terminal, the mother sighing, constantly rolling her eyes, ticking her tongue and looking at her watch.

"Here you are, Sir," said the woman behind the counter, passing him a ticket booklet. "You have to call the number on the back of the ticket to file a formal complaint--"

"Don't you think I won't," the father said. He was in a slightly disheveled light brown suit. He hastily bent and picked up his bag and turned away, peering down each end of the long hall before picking his direction. "Come on, Alice. Let's get going."

"Come along, Becky," the mother said. She had a tube shaped pocketbook with a long strap on her shoulder, a wide, flat brimmed hat, eyes that were hidden behind large brown sunglasses, and a face hidden behind makeup. She turned and followed her husband.

"Come along, Peaches," their daughter, wearing a light blue dress with white shoes and tall white socks, said to her doll. (continued)