Special thanks to Maurice Kinal for starting off the encouragement process.<br /><br />

<a href="http://emptydimensions.blogspot.com/2005/10/mentioning-of-thanks-to-select-few.html" target="_blank">Mentioning of Thanks to a Select Few</a><br />
Posted on 10/02/2005<br /><br />
<p>First, I'd like to thank <a href="http://yoda.chickencat.com/">Yoda</a>. One day he owned a blog known as <a href="http://webpages.charter.net/brainstatic/">Brain Static</a>; this was in the very primitive and early days of blogging. He saw a writing I had made, which looked similar to a drawing. He said, "Andy Alkaline, you must guest post upon my site!" I said, "No, Yoda, I cannot, for I have not the brushes nor pen in which to make the words colorful."<br /><br />He then tied me to a notebook and demanded I make words for him. This was the time when it was in my best interest to agree. A sentence forced itself upon me, starting only as one idea. The sentence became fatter and I had made a guest post upon his blog as he viciously demanded of me. More guest posts fell out of me and onto the Brain Static; soon thereafter, the static cleared and <a href="http://www.mentaldimensions.com/">Mental Dimensions Humor Ezine</a> was born. This was a strong duration past, now close to 4 years. The Mental Dimensions has been up, it has been down, it has been up, and... for it has many mood swings you see. And that is the story of how I came to thank Yoda.<p></p>As for my creative influences, I would first direct your attention to the Hawkeye of the MASH television show. I watched as a small boy with very keen interest and smiles on my face, and pain in my heart.<br /><br />A writing influence to mention would be that of one Mr. John Winston Ono Lennon. For a Beatle fan I became two decades following my birth, and his writing I looked upon. Some type of it soaked into my fingers and deep into my subconsciousness.<br /><br />There is more of this boring tale to tell. There once was a ninth and tenth grade English teacher who read the words I made told me they were good words. I looked upon them with shock, for I had not the confidence to believe my words had been made good. Suddenly and without warning, a Mr. Scott intervened and also threw encouragement at me. He was not even an Englishman but a Worldman, who was knowledgeable in the ways of borders and lakes.<p></p>Sadly, my tenth grade English teacher did pass on, and I have not cried the tears for him. A young man he was, far too young to follow after death. I would like to cry these tears and remember him. There is happiness within the tears because he lives on in the thousands of students he encouraged. If I am to encourage other people, it is because the encouragement once came flying at me by kindness and Beatles. I would like to write more of this man, but tears do come, and thoughts fail me. I remember him as a teacher and more, a man, a person who I could talk with on occasion when I was late for class or had to smoke in the bathroom at school. There was a Turner who I'm sure feels much the same way as I, as do thousands and millions more, the millions who are not yet born, but will be from the students to which the great Englishman taught letters and sentences to. If I had stayed with him, I may now be able to finish my sentences properly, and with no prepositions as I have just done.<br /><br />There are two people more, in such a state; the same state as it is. Later the words will come. No longer will my keys be victim to fingers; not until the next day, which is always tomorrow.</p>