Blogging Without Obligation

Thanks for this idea and link, ti. I'm posting it right away. Lord, I don't need the pressure.

Practice Makes Me Mediocre

Well, with prompting from Bug to do exercizes, I finally caved. So, here's my attempt at voicing what my newest character is yearning for. It's fairly long, so don't feel like you've got to read the whole thing. It was really for me to kick myself in the ass, to write SOMETHING as I've gotten to the point in the story that I don't really know where to go. The action has taken place now I need to resolve. Perhaps this helped:

This picture really doesn't have anything do do with the story. The kid's just so damn cute- I'm making a loose connection to practicing, as if the kid were practicing badmitton like I am with writing, but I think my allusion is not really working. (Which is why I needed to explain it)

Okay, the exercize:

Jesus, my legs don’t work like they used to. The worst thing about getting older is how brittle and yellow your finger nails get. Like the vampire’s nails in the old Bela Lugosi films. I really don’t want to die. I’m holding on tight even though the quality of life after seventy goes down hill pretty quickly. I am having a lot of trouble with the aging process altogether. I hate being wrinkled and I hate the way people pay absolutely no attention to you—and if they do, it is pity that shows in their eyes, not respect, certainly not envy. When I was younger the dowdy housewives would always shoot me looks of disapproval. They were jealous of my shapely legs, my tiny waist. I knew. I knew what those looks meant. There used to be men watching too, but now not even old men check me out. It’s an even worse punishment than not having jealous stares. No one envies or desires anything from you at eighty-five.

Even my son pays no attention to me. I’m in his way now, a nuisance. I never felt that way about him, even when he was a little kid- and I’ve never really liked children. How I ended up with three is a mystery to me. The girls were in my hair all the time. Trying to keep them out of trouble was too much work. I couldn’t be following them around when I had to be out working at all hours, trying to put food on the table. It was inevitable that JoAnne would turn out bad. If their father had stayed he could have helped, could have worked while I stayed home to watch the kids. Wayne, however, he was a big help with his sisters. He took care of them when I couldn’t. But JoAnne just wouldn’t be helped by her younger brother. That girl was as stubborn as they come. She just wouldn’t be helped by anyone- never will be. Dottie did alright for herself and I think it was because of Wayne. That boy was good to her, took care of her. And all Dottie does is put her brother down. I think she’s jealous of his success. Or maybe she’s jealous of his good looks. I don’t know, but there’s a lot of jealousy floating around in my life, always has been.

All I really ever wanted was for them—all of my children—to love me in a way that I couldn’t love them. Something shut off inside of me when Reynold left. Something congealed like the culture dishes in a lab. It’s a terrible thing to get to the end of your life and realize you’ve done it all wrong. I should have been able to hold on to him—I should have fought to keep my soldier husband. With a father figure to look up to maybe Wayne would have had the confidence to stick with acting. He might have gone on to acting school instead of working in that damn cemetery like some kind of joke. It was funny to him when he was a teenager to be working there, playing a gravedigger, playing at acting morbid. He could of made it as an actor, I know. He was so good in high-school plays, good at everything he did, always entertaining the family. I would have been so proud to have a son in the movies. I would have been happy to die then, knowing at least my son was someone to be envied. At least I would have done something good in life.

Day Off/ Day On

I'm newly inspired today as I read each of your posts. I'm always thanking you, but I have trouble on my own. Here, I'm going to show you just what a geek I am and quote Evita: "It's hard to keep momentum when it's you that you are following." In my defense, I only know the musical so intimately because I worked on a production at summerstock on the coast of Maine when I was 19.

Funny, the things that stay with you--which is actually what I want to talk about as I've been studying Robert Olen Butler's From Where You Dream. I picked it up thinking, God, not another craft book. But, to my great surprise the book is comprised of his lectures that expound on how writers must get out of their thinking brains and into their unconcious (I would guess he mostly means subconcious, but who am I to question a master?) Regardless, this is just the advice I've been needing as we've spent so much time analyzing and tearing apart stories this past year. I need to find a happy medium between where I started (all artistic impression, subconcious flow) and where I went (dry as can be, over-structured, over-written).

To help kickstart the flow, D & I took the day off yesterday and went to see the newly remodeled Seattle Art Museum. Much better, much better than the old cramped building. We were both in love with the painterly quality of the John Singer Sargent (I'm always surprised with the force of my reaction to his work). I was disappointed by the Rauschenburg they had (one of his earlier "combine" pieces), and the Jasper Johns wasn't my favorite of his either. We were surprisingly taken in by the Warhol (above). And there was, an intense piece by Do Ho Suh, a gigantic samurai coat made out of dogtags, some kickin' Japanese scrolls and panels, and a wild Australian aboriginal piece, but I can't remember her name- started with an S. Oh, that's lame, but it sure was nice to be in the city for a day. We ate in Chinatown & got our city walking fix with a promise to ourselves to get back to it with a vengence today. So, I better stop fooling around here.

Raising Funds & Teenagers

Oh, those darn kids are amazing to me. They give me hope for the future. They're the ones that will forge ahead, leading us into a brighter, greener, safer tomorrow. I'm in love with a group of teenagers- is that wrong?

So, our little fundraiser had salsa dancers (7 youngsters who choreographed their own piece)*, raps about Harry Potter, raps about Calculus, a rockin' band, a not so great solo performance by quite the Diva who somehow managed to mix spanish, reggae, harmonica, guitar and strange social commentary, confusing her audience but looking fabulous while she did it, and poetry readings (some original, some by Sherman Alexie--no, he wasn't there). The skateboarders boycotted because they didn't want to wear full protective padding, but the kid who's taking an engine out of a truck & converting it to battery power was present with his informational wall of photos. And the popcorn and molassass-ginger cookies- amazing. Love them. Chocolate cake and lemonade, what more do you need? And, to top it all off, we made $600 from the generous donations of the attendees (I think it was mostly the parents).

My husband said-- after he was done helping me pick up, bless him-- "What a community we live in. The parents mix with the teenagers like it's nothing. No way, when I was a kid, would we have been good with our parents hanging around. These kids love it. It's a different world."

Of course, my husband is very east coast.


* The salsa dancers were my favorite. I'll have picts. later.

Just When You Thought I was Gone, Now You Will Get to See Exactly What I Am Up To....

Oh, It’s been a long time sisters, but inspired both by Bug and TI, I’ve decided to wrangle my time into this reverse schedule. How come it seems like more to do when I write it down? Wow, I better stick to it, or I’m going to get jammed up the last week, where, as you will notice, I’ve taken some work- work I said I wasn’t going to do this semester, but well, dammit, I like having money in the bank & the Youth Council business just isn’t cutting it in that department, (though it’s rewarding and gives the warm fuzzies and all).

THIS IS MY IMAGE OF WARM FUZZIES

Time to run. Got to put on a show, you know…..

September 7^th- Send out Packet

September 1^st-6^th- Work Microsoft show, write 7 pages Craft Essay & do exercises from The Scene Book, Draft Letter to AJ

August 28^th- 31^st- Prep for Microsoft show & finish last few “passes” of story in the evenings

August 21^st- 27^th- Finish Draft of new story

August 20^th- Send out story for IS

August 14^th-19^th- Read From Where You Dream, Write Rough Draft of new story, go over IS story again

August 13^th- Write Draft of IS

August 12^th- Finish Section of The Art of Fiction

August 11^th- Go Chaperone my Youth Fundraiser!!

I'm Back but I'm in a Dust Bowl

Oh, the rigorous life of the rock n' roll roadie. Okay, so I'm not a roadie anymore, but I couldn't pass up the repetition opportunity. I'm out in the big world, crawling out of my cozy little cave and lo and behold, I've surfaced in a Tennesee dustbowl. It's confusing because the air is so heavy with moisture, the sweat clinging to our skin, and yet as we breathe we take in pints of dust. The cilia in my nose have caved in- they're taking a beating on the front lines and the rear guard (the lungs, of course) are feeling the heat.

But it's a Bonnaroo blissful time out here in the trenches. I'm listening to the Police in the distance- they sound just like the do on the record I had when I was 12. I've got some jamming bands on my stage and I'm making the crew happy by stashing a case of beer for them. I just keep smiling because I'll be on my way to school in another week, I've got these darn bands under control and I just interviewed a couple of EMTs to solidify some details in my latest story- very very enlightening. Rock on.

Okay, Okay

I will be back, really. I just, well, I just....Hmmmm. You know. I've been busy.

La Voix

I thought I'd post my favorite Baudelaire poem, which many of you probably already know, for Poetry Thursday (though I didn't link to the PT site)-- you inspired me, bug! This translation is by George Dillard, and is in my opinion the best I've read:


The Voice

My bassinet against the wall of books was thrust:
A gloomy Babel, where fiction, science, fabliau,
Everything, Latin ashes and Hellenic dust,
Mingled in chaos. When I was high as a folio,
Two voices spoke to me. The one, insidious, firm,
Was saying: “Earth is a most delicious cake. Be wise.
I can (and then your joy would have an endless term)
Give you an appetite of corresponding size.”
The other voice said, “Come! Come travel into dreams,
Far out, beyond the possible, beyond the known.”
That voice was like the wind along the shore, that seems
A music out of nowhere, into nowhere blown-
A crying phantom, to frighten yet to captivate.
And I replied: “I will, delightful voice!” Then fell
What one may call, alas, the special curse, the fate
That still pursues me. Always, behind the spectacle
Of this immense existence, in the unstarred abyss
I see, distinctly, extraordinary world on world,
And, ravished victim of my own clear-sightedness,
I go with stinging serpents round my ankles curled.
Since then, like the old prophets waiting for a sign,
I love most tenderly the desert and the sea;
I find a curious suavity in bitter wine,
I smile at the saddest moments, I weep amid gaiety;
I take facts for illusions—and often as not, with eyes
Fixed confidently on heaven, I fall into holes.
But the Voice speaks to me: “Guard, fool, thy dreams!
The wise
Have none so splendid as thou hast.” And the Voice
consoles.

Statements Containing Fundamental Character

Okay, I’ve decided since only ti knew a couple of these words, I should put up the definitions. And thanks for the contributions, Megan, Kiyotoe, FC and ti. I looked them up if I didn’t know the meaning & have added them to the list here.

Priapic- 1. Of, relating to, or resembling a phallus; phallic.
2. Relating to or overly concerned with masculinity.

Bifurcated- To divide into two parts or branches.

Paroxysm- 1. A sudden outburst of emotion or action: a paroxysm of laughter.
2. a. A sudden attack, recurrence, or intensification of a disease.
b. A spasm or fit; a convulsion.

Extirpate- 1. To pull up by the roots.
2. To destroy totally; exterminate. See Synonyms at abolish.

Troglodyte- a. A member of a fabulous or prehistoric race of people that lived in caves.
b. A person considered to be reclusive, reactionary, out of date, or brutish.

Ciliate- Having cilia:
1. A microscopic hairlike process extending from the surface of a cell or unicellular organism. Capable of rhythmical motion, it acts in unison with other such structures to bring about the movement of the cell or of the surrounding medium.
2. An eyelash.
3. Botany: One of the hairs along the margin or edge of a structure, such as a leaf, usually forming a fringe.

Clerihew- A humorous verse, usually consisting of two unmatched rhyming couplets,
about a person whose name generally serves as one of the rhymes.

Nimiety- Superfluity; excess.

Lateritious- from Latin latericius (made of brick): brick-red

Agamist- from Greek a(without) gamos(union): an unmarried person

Bibulous- 1. Given to or marked by the consumption of alcoholic drink: a bibulous fellow;
2. Very absorbent, as paper or soil.

Mome- A stupid, doltish person; blockhead, fool.

Tatterdemalion (Excellent word!)- A person wearing ragged or tattered clothing;
ragamuffin

Defenestration (got to love it)- An act of throwing someone or something out of a
window

Discursive- 1. Covering a wide field of subjects; rambling.
2. Proceeding to a conclusion through reason rather than intuition.

Heteronormativity (this wasn’t even in my dictionary, but on wikipedia):
the perceived reinforcement of certain beliefs by many social
institutions and policies.

Toper (ha!)- A chronic drinker.

***Dragon, yours were good, but I’m a painter (triptych) and a technician (lavaliere mics) who doesn’t like to equivocate. I just happened to know them all!

Dam/Words

Well, the dam hasn't actually broken, but there do seem to be a few cracks in the wall. There's a couple of drops trickling through here and there. These fissures speak of an impending wave that I'm ready to ride the crest of. I'm speaking in metaphor today, I'm all about the phrase.

And so I offer you up a myriad of interesting words to ponder, words I've taken down in print over the years because they interest me. I have yet to use any of these beauties myself, but it's good to know they are in my back pocket if I need them. Some, you may already know, some you may question their validity. I considered handing you definitions as well, but, then that would spoil all the fun.

Priapic

Bifurcated

Paroxysm

Extirpate

Troglodyte

Ciliate

Clerihew

Nimiety

Lateritious

Agamist

Bibulous

Mome

That's enough for now. What can you all add to the list?

Blocked as a Rock

I’m still feeling emotional. I’m still walking around a gooey mess, and this seems to have put a real halt to my creative abilities. I’ve only written five pages on my new story so far. That’s one page more than I had last week. And so I want to talk about this block.

This is what I am up against

I sit at the blank page day after day. I write a sentence, I erase it. I write a paragraph & go over it twenty times, changing the order, changing verbs. I’ve looked through craft books & thought about doing some of the exercises, but can’t bring myself to make the effort. I’ve written in a journal about the character. I know about the character. But action? The story seems as incapable as I am of making a move.

I know, I know. Kill the inner critic and just write something, anything. But I can’t. I type another sentence and spend an hour polishing it. I’m waiting for the dam to crack. I’m

anticipating a flood any day now. Bound to happen.

But while it isn’t happening, while I’m sitting here contemplating why I can’t manage to write anymore, I put forth the idea that there is a certain amount of stimulus that we are comfortable working with. We want small dramas, or if we have big dramas, we need distance before we can write about them. Small dramas because we need material, but we as writers cannot afford to be overwhelmed emotionally. Anything larger requires too much energy—energy that should be put into the writing.
Well, see, I’ve managed to at least put this down on paper. Maybe I’m on my way.

Oh, bug, thanks for the shout-out for the Thinking Blogger meme, but I think I'm gonna pass today, especially as most of my blog buddies have been tagged already from one person or the other. Just look to the left- all of the links listed are smarty-pants (to use Gili's terminology).

I'm Not Talking

There are times when you are going through something, something intense, but you just can't talk about it. That's what I've heard. Some people clam up when they are feeling emotional. Some people hate to share. Perhaps it makes them feel vulnerable. Perhaps they believe showing emotion will paint them as weak. Whatever their reasoning, let me say, I am not one of those people. In fact, I tend to be quite the opposite. If I have a hang nail I'm likely to whine about it to the guy next to me on the bus.

No, really, I'm not that bad. But I do like to talk about my pain. I like to share my uncomfortableness with my friends in the hopes that I will evoke some empathy. That's why we write, correct? To try somehow to identify what it is that makes us feel, what brings us joy; to evoke some empathy.

This has been a particularly emotional couple of weeks for me, and instead of talking about it, instead of being right up front here on the blog, I've chosen the other form. Upon advice given to me by others, I've joined the realm of clams. Honestly, it's almost physically painful to keep it in. I'm a born blabbermouth when it comes to my discomfort. So, until I can talk about it, until I'm ready to divulge the form my emotions have molded into, I'll just have to blog about my distress in a general, angsty sort of way. I'm feeling it.

Crunch Time

I'll tell you, life is so busy. All of the time, busy busy busy. I'm back at home and trying to catch up on my work for the book review class, with accounting for my husband's company, with the housework, and all those appointments you put off month after month that finally catch up with you (dentist, doctor, tune-up for the car). Add into the mix unexpected visits from friends and you've got yourself a booked calendar when all you really want to do is sit down and write a story or two. I'm looking forward to things settling down again soon, but I think perhaps I'm just fooling myself. They may never calm down. How will I ever fit in my bike rides?

Dirty Work

I've spent enough time this week winging about my work, so I don't want to go on and on, but there is something that happened yesterday that came very close to throwing me into a rage, which is something I try hard not to let work do to me. After all, what's the point? It is only hurting me.

Because I have spent many years in this business and have worked extremely hard to get where I am, gigs like this throw me for a loop. The position I accepted for this one is Master Electrician. That means I figure out the circuiting and power for instruments. I do it on paper and when we get to the venue, I have a crew to put it up. I explain to them where we want it. Simple enough.

But on this show, they didn't hire enough crew for me. So I have spent 12 hours a day for the last 4 days lifting heavy cable, pushing boxes around, climbing ladders & driving lifts. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind working. I don't even mind that much getting dirty, but there's always someone who will try to make you feel bad for just the things you should be proud of (i.e. hard work)

Yesterday, around my tenth hour of work (with no breaks, by the way, someone bringing me food) I was pushing a case out of the tent-- yes, the fashion show is in a tent-- there was a young man, I would guess around twenty, with a tailored shirt, designer jeans, and some product in his hair smoking a cigarette just where I needed to put the case. I think he was there setting up some display. Remember, this is a high-publicity fashion show, so every wanna be in the city is hanging around. I politely asked him if he would step aside, and the little shit wouldn't even look at me. He refused to budge. And I was 2 feet away from him. I know he heard me. Finally, his friend who was near pulled him over a step. I thanked him for moving. He still wouldn't acknowledge me.

This exchange took the wind out of me. All of a sudden because of this little prick I lost any sense of dignity I might have had about the job I was doing. I felt like a dirty, thirty-something low life. What a shame that somebody could hold that power. Class systems are a big point of contention with me, and I always make a point of treating all types of people equally. Now I need to work on not being so sensitive to those that don't.

Check out this post on one of my favorite's blog. We were feeling sympatico today.

Middle of the Night

I’ve spent most of the day alone, finishing up the last details of putting the rig together, doing paperwork and keeping my thoughts to myself. It’s now 2 am and I have to get up at 5 to fly to Houston and start the load in. I can never sleep the night before I travel (afraid of oversleeping) or the night before a load-in (afraid I forgot a piece of equipment), so I’m doubly cursed tonight. I’m alternating between reading and writing, tossing and turning, and trying to discern what the noisy people next door are saying. I haven’t understood a word. My room is scorched from the forced air heater and my throat feels like Mexican sand. Water has never tasted so sweet. When I lay my head back on my pillow once again I’m going to count my blessings instead of sheep. I’m going to remember all of the good things in my life.

I may not be with you all for a few days, but I’ll be back soon.

Somebody Help Me

This morning I am no longer apologizing for my condescending attitude towards my coworkers. I’ll give you an example, a piece of a conversation that took place after leaving a Thai restaurant (Yes, unbelievably they agreed to Thai food after grudgingly giving up the bar-b-que restaurant because I’m veggie):

The scene: Thai restaurant in a strip mall in Dallas, 3 male technicians, 1 female. At the next table, 4 obviously gay men having an excellent time. Technicians are talking loudly about the famous people they have worked with. Female coworker staring longingly at the other table, wishing she was with them.

Action: Technicians finish meal and leave restaurant.

Coworker #1: I think we weren’t gay enough for that restaurant.

Coworker #2: No kidding, man. [ Laughter]

Coworker #3: [sidelong glance at female coworker] At least we know its good food if the gays are going to it.

Coworker #1: So where are we going now?

Coworker #3: Anywhere they have beer.

Coworker #2: I saw a sportsbar on our way here.

Coworker #1: There’s a liquor store right there. We could just open a sixpack and sit on the floor & drink it. [Laughter]

Coworker #2: [They pile in the car] The bar’s just a couple of blocks.

Coworker #3: [Addresses female coworker] Are you in?

Female Coworker: I’ll just take a cab back to the hotel.

Already Bitter?

Here I find myself in the Lone Star State once again, feeling indeed a little bit lonely, a little forlorn driving around a town where I know about six people that I met last time I was here. People with lives of their own, people who want me to go have a drink with them after work but, to be truthful, we have so very little in common that I’m glad to have my schoolwork as an excuse to bail out. I may be missing an opportunity here to find that spark of human interest (perhaps a character study?) but the fact is I’ve known these guys. I’ve known hundreds of stagehands and industry workers and it is the rare fellow indeed who makes a comment of interest to me. Oh, there have been a few: the pot-smoking guitar tech that would find literary quotes and post them on his work box. After the tour was over I’d send him postcards with definitions of rarely used words. There was the electrician who was also a photographer and met each day with such joy, I couldn’t help but be elated by his contagious smile—and he liked to play Scrabble. We were immediate friends. Unfortunately, those fellows are few and far between here. I don’t like to be a snob, but I like even less wasting my time. I don’t want to go to the bar, to see a game, read industry mags about the latest technology or play video games. I don’t like being backstage at concerts and I don’t think this is the coolest job ever. I’m not interested in who you’ve worked for. If that’s all you’ve got to say to me, I’d rather not here it. Uh oh. I told myself I’d have a good attitude this week if I took this job. I better get moving on this writing thing.

I'm a Fan

I've written my first book review for my IS class and I'm quite proud of it. Other than the fact that I forgot to mention what the book is about (oops!), I think it's pretty good. In fact, I'm going to post it for you all to read, as if you need more to read. It's a review of Stephen McCauley's latest book Alternatives to Sex. I was inspired to read his work after we heard him speak at Lesley's graduation. Here's a link as well to an interview on NPR as well. He's a funny, funny man.

Book Review:

Alternative Lifestyles

Not everyone is comfortable reading about anonymous gay sex generated from online chat rooms. For that matter, not everyone is comfortable reading a novel about real estate brokers. But Stephen McCauley is just brilliant enough in Alternatives to Sex to make you overlook any squeamishness you might have about subject matter—particularly because he manages to explore within such a framework themes such as a society’s reaction to disaster (namely, 9/11) and our innate need for spiritual fulfillment.

William Collins, a real-estate agent, is a forty-four year old self-effacing clean-freak that we immediately warm to. In one of his many confessional moments he admits: “I like to think of myself as highly ethical, although what that boils down to isn’t making careful ethical choices but acting on impulse and then advertising my guilt and regret about having done so.” McCauley continues on with similar such witty, urbane language, spinning a tale with a cast of eclectic characters. Though the storyline is sometimes predictable, above all, it is McCauley’s acute observations about everyday American life that make this book so readable. Like many Stephen McCauley novels (The Object of My Affection or The Easy Way Out for example), reading Alternatives to Sex feels akin to watching an episode of Six Feet Under: you feel a little guilty that you’re watching non-educational television, but it’s some of the most daring, edgy, intelligent television you’ve ever seen.

McCauley casually reveals a typical yet profound response to the 9/11 attacks: “Since the tragedy of the preceding September, everyone I knew was trying to choose between combating the collective evil of mankind by putting selfishness aside and doing good, and abandoning altruism altogether and doing whatever it took to feel good. The result seemed to be a lot of infidelity and binge eating, followed by resolutions to curtail same.” His characters ring true because they struggle with the same mundane, day to day issues of the average person.

The narrative offers up a contemporary mélange of lifestyles: William’s best friend Edward is a flight attendant who is afraid to fly after September 11th. His artist tenant Kumiko is so passive-aggressive that she has not paid rent in months. We meet a Marty, a black female ex-Marine who has a self-help business called Release the Beast; a compulsive apartment shopper who is an anorexic college professor; a doobie-smoking pet-shop owner; a mysterious gay Belgian shoe-factory owner; and a wealthy couple in the midst of marital struggles whom William hopes to befriend.

If there are moments when the author uses obvious devices, such as a notebook that William records his thoughts into (Hmmm, do you think someone will find the notebook and read what he’s written?), or annoyingly divides every scene by using humorous and clever titles, we forgive him. Mainly because these devices often work. His titles are clever: “Come Again?”, “Contemptuous Passion”, and “All Her Shameful Secrets”.

McCauley is a writer who is adept at attacking large subjects with irony and accessible yet erudite language. (How many writers can make the word ‘parsimoniousness’ seem unpretentious?) It is McCauley’s humor that levels the playing field. We do not feel he is judging, even when his characters explore the oft-taboo subjects of religion and politics:

“I’m baffled by spirituality,” William confesses. “When people talk about their spiritual quests and the comfort they take in spiritual pursuits, I usually have no idea what they’re talking about. Or to be honest, I often have the impression that they don’t know what they’re talking about….Religion, spirituality’s sturdier cousin, has its drawbacks, like, for example, being the cause of eighty-five percent of the violent conflict in the world. But at least religions have specificity….Religions have a narrative driving them, and they have, in some form or other, God….Spirituality, in contrast, has eye pillows and green tea.”

Though William Collins’ journey from anonymous online sex to self-awareness is not the most moving of stories, it is Stephen McCauley’s command of language and sharp sense of humor that carry us through. I may not be yearning to read more of William Collins (the character’s) life, but I am determined to read more of Stephen McCauley’s words.

Bare Bones

Lately, I've been lying in bed at night and thinking about how underneath all of this still fairly smooth skin lies nothing but a skeleton. The realization that that's all I really am has been sort of freaking me out. I don't know what got me thinking about that-thoughts of death, disappearance, essence. I don't mean to be macabre, but I've been feeling my mortality.

Then, my husband and I went into town-- he talked me into attending one of his politico functions (it was a war protest sort of thing, so I thought I should go-- was feeling the guilt of not doing anything further than donating a few dollars here and there, but that's another discussion altogether). So, when this "action" was over, we happened to walk right by the Bodies Exhibit.

We had to go in.

It was inspiring to see so many people, of all ages and economic backgrounds educating themselves on a weekday afternoon. And paying a bit of money to do it. The exhibit is layed out nicely, with plenty of information, and has a most excellent volunteer staff that can answer almost all questions. It's amazing how little we know about ourselves. Anatomy should be a requisite in all high schools.

Here's what I've been thinking about since: Why are we grossed out by our own bodies? Why did my stomach turn while looking at the muscles pulled off the bone? Why was I unable to look at the tiny preserved fetuses? My husband thought that it is our survival instincts kicking in--that , like pain, they serve the purpose of letting us know there is something wrong if we're seeing blood and guts. I always thought I was heartier, but now I know I could never be a surgeon or a coroner.

I'm not sure I'm any closer to feeling comfortable with Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust, but it's good to have a bit of working knowledge about this form I'm walking around in.

It's All Crap

It's unfortunate, these feelings of defeat and in-accomplishment (I know, that's not a word but it's appropriate). They really do me no good at all. You see, my foolish foolish idea of not working this semester has exploded in my face. It was a pipe dream, a long shot, but I thought perhaps we could pull it off. In a perfect world, it may have worked-- but you know, cars keep breaking down and tools need to be purchased. Dinner plans are made and birthdays arise. Life costs money, and I'm unwilling to Suffer for Art. I did it for years and it's not any more fruitful. So, I'm back up on my horse and I'm galloping down to Texas once more. Houston Fashion Week, you know (Why o Why is it always the Texans who need my help?- rhetorical question)

And all this frustration leads to a frantic need to finish my schoolwork before I go, which leads to an absolute grinding halt in my abilities. Instantly my fingers forget how to type (unless, of course it is frivolous ranting that is pouring out), my eyes stare blankly at the screen and I can't remember what my character's motivations are and I can't figure out if my thoughts are cliche. It all seems like crap.

On the upside, I got my comments back from my professor and one of the nice things she said was:

"All in all, though, this is a great first draft".

The "though" in that sentence was in regards to the many many bad things, of which, I will only share that I messed up some punctuation on my quotes, which is pretty embarrassing for a grad student.

And Once Again I'm Floored by Technology

I’m not the most tech-savvy person, but normally I do pretty well. But in this day and age, you have to move fast if you want to keep up. Recently, through research I was doing for my Book Review class, I found out about a thing called a webfeed. I had no idea such technology existed. Where have I been? How long has this been going on? Ironic that it took a site about reviewing hard-bound, old-school novels to inform me.

Basically, a webfeed will give you a quick list of all the things happening on all your favorite websites—every day! So, instead of having to check ten different book review sites, I just scan the feeds to see if I want to read a certain review. As long as the web site you like has streaming ability--a little button that looks like this: you’re golden. I used the Firefox program SAGE- it's free & is pretty simple. I suggested to my husband that he set up a feed for all his political chatty-chat he enjoys. Bug and ti could do one for knitting sites.

What a world we’re living in.
Ten years ago I swore I’d never own a computer or a cell phone.

If you already know about RSS and XML I commend you, but if you don’t, you can read up on it here….
http://blog.contentious.com/archives/2003/10/18/what-are-webfeeds-rss-and-why-should-you-care

No Tube

A couple of weeks ago my husband was talking to a friend of ours, going on about how he wanted to get a flat-screen TV, wouldn’t it look wonderful in the living room. I hear them talking and shout from the kitchen (okay, it’s basically the same room so I didn’t really shout) “No way. Not going to happen. Absolute last thing on the list of needs.” He pouted a little bit and then we all laughed at the stereotypical roles D & I have taken on.

Guess what broke this weekend? Yep. Our television. Just stopped working, one straight glowing line across the screen, though you can still hear the audio. "Suspicious," you say, "that it just stopped working?" Yes, very suspicious.

In any case, we have been several days without the raucous thing and what silent bliss. We’ve never been huge TV fans, in fact, we don’t even have cable so we’d mostly watch PBS (big confession, I like American Idol too), but we always ate dinner while watching something. Several nights a week we’d watch a movie.

We’ve since looked at the prices for TVs online and Holy $%**#!!! They are spendy! (I got my previous one from a friend for $25). Now D agrees with me that we should wait a while, particularly if he wants a flat panel. So, we’ll be reverting back to the days similar to our artistic Bohemian twenties when we thought television was a waste of time, and oh, so uncool. What do you want to bet I’ll get a lot more done?

And I'm Back

Well, as usual, I’m having difficulty keeping up with blogging on top of the rest of my life. But now that I have a breather I want to write a little bit about what has gone on with me in the past weeks in regards to my writing.
Something clicked, and it wasn’t a malfunctioning cog in my brain, it was a synthesis. Suddenly I felt able to take a step back from my work and cut, cut, cut all of those questionable sentences, all of those thoughts that nagged at me. In the past I have clung to beautiful sounds and brilliant ideas even if they did not make for a good story. As it turns out, I may be learning something after all. And what I believe I am learning is a little bit of control: how to take a piece and point it—not in the direction that I wanted it to go, but in the direction the story needs to go.

Now, we’ll see what happens when I get my packet back, but for now I’m going to kick back and ride on the high of thinking that I very well might be able to do this after all.

Vindication

Did anyone else watch 60 Minutes last night? If you did you would have seen a piece on a man who has synesthesia-- a savant who can remember something like 23,000 numbers in a row. He is the only savant who does not have severe mental deficiencies in other areas, so neuroscientists are hoping to learn a lot from him. I'm going to look for the book he's written. Brain function is everywhere these days.

But what I really want to talk about is Andy Rooney's commentary on the State of the Union Address. His rant was very near and dear to my heart, because if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is mispronounced (easy) words, particularly by the leader of our nation. I've been going on and on about it much to my husband's chagrin. I was cheering with hands in the air to hear AR chastising Bush on national television. Here's a link. It's well worth the five minutes or so.

Andy Rooney

Burgeoning Talent

While I was looking for a binder, I ran across some old writing of mine-- very old, like the first short story I had ever written, called "Our Own Demons". Very dramatic, I tell you. The story moved between a stripper's daily life and flashbacks her boyfriend was having about Vietnam. While of course the war scenes were ridiculous and over the top, I found there were some touching moments and a few really great sentences. And my plot line was better than the stories I've been writing lately. Not bad for a person who had absolutely no idea what she was doing and purely working on instinct. I had sent this story into Glimmer Train, of all places (I don't even dare with my stories now), and they kindly wrote back suggesting I stick with writing what I know (apparently obvious I hadn't been to war or been a stripper), but that I should keep writing. This was over fifteen years ago. I read that story thinking, what if I had kept going at that point in my life instead of listening to the critics, the ones that told me I couldn't write, that I should stick to painting? Well, no sense wallowing in what might have been. I'm just happy that I finally decided I could do it. It was encouraging to see that even that long ago I did have a smidgen of talent. And I think you'll see what I mean from this poem that I will share with you, written by yours truly:
1
I jogged down-town
I saw a clown
He fell down
and made a frown
I felt sorry for that clown
2
I feel sick it
I can't lick it
I could kick it
If I flicked it
3
That makes no sense
but of course
nothing does
if you're dense

Friday, April 10, 1981

Pain in my leg

Well, as is typical in a relationship where you see someone every day, I have yet to pin down the husband in a discussion about evolution, so that will have to wait. The last few days have mainly been about logistics.

So, in a pinch, I’m going to talk about meditation. This morning I had great difficulty concentrating—nothing particularly new there, but today my focus was not pulled by random thoughts entering my head. Today I could not ignore my left leg that was asleep, increasingly asleep so that eventually I imagined that I was in a great deal of pain. Maybe I was. I shifted and rolled my spine, but I would not allow myself to fully change positions. That’s what I normally do: accommodate my body. This morning I fought that urge and oh was it hard. I thought that half hour would never end. Maybe the alarm wasn’t working? Maybe I would lose my leg to gangrene. Isn’t that what happens when there is extended circulation deficiency?

And, back to the breath. I ask myself what it is that I learned here. Well, certainly that you can recover from a leg that was asleep for a few minutes. But further, I think it is possible that we create so much drama around certain events that we lose sight of the big picture. That big picture is so elusive when pain is present, immediate pain, in our face pain. I can only hope that I will get better at staying with it. Maybe tomorrow.

Mixed Media

Around my house for the last couple of days the talk has been about the future, the role of the artist in it, and the overwhelming nature of an informational whirlwind. A friend of mine (a painter and jewelry maker) suggested that artists now struggle in a way that they never have, that everything is presented in a postmodern conglomeration and that there is no room for, nor any ability to develop an original art form. I argued that artists have always struggled with the concepts of meaning, identity and truth no matter what the age (existential angst is our thing) and will continue to do so in the unique way that our complex society demands (an aside- I was warned in a class on the Use of Metaphor last week that the word “society” was banned from the room, but I think it is an appropriate word to complete my thought [and I’m too lazy to find a synonym] so I’m using it).
My friend countered with the idea that there was a richness to life when people were forced to sit around a fire and discuss books, a richness that is often lost on today’s MTV multi-imaged, live-streaming, video-game playing generation. I did agree with that point, but disagreed that the life of the artist is hopeless or doomed. She then admitted she was a nihilist and had trouble believing in anything at all. I love my friends.

And next time on The Repeater:
My husband thinks that there’s no way that natural evolution can keep up with human invention so we’re eventually going to have to technologically enhance our bodies (silicone chip in the brain, etc.) Hmmm.

I wanted to upload a photo but of course blogger is giving me trouble

A long week of seminars and workshops. I want to tell you there are some smart people out there. They are witty and wise and are doing their best to cram information into this thick skull. I am hoping that just walking around in Cambridge is enough to soak my skin with some liquid intelligence. But while I was walled in my ecru tower it appears the global political scene exploded once again. What are we doing invading an embassy? Has the whole world gone mad? Are there no rules that our power-monger of a president will not break? He’s a spoiled child who wants his candy. He’s the angst-ridden teenager that didn’t get enough love from his father so he’s going to rob the liquor store just to show his family. Just to show them. (Oh, a distraction for a moment- some cuddly cuddly panda’s on the news. Are they the cutest?) I’m on the web trying to find out exactly what happened with all this and it’s darn near impossible. Now our military’s shameless behavior is buried in the news of some kidnapped boys being returned to their homes- fantastic in itself, but I feel so out of touch. What’s going on when there is snow in the Northwest and children are hanging themselves because of a publicized execution? I’m all muddled up and jumping from thought to thought. I’m hopping on a plane once again, gaining a couple of hours that I’m praying will give me the time I need to sort this all out.

Football Sunday

Am I an asshole for making fun of a quarterback? In the silent moments when my friends turned to look at me, all eyebrows furrowed, all mouths turned down, I wondered if I was. People are fiercely loyal to what they perceive as “their team” (fans use the term “we” loosely as if somehow the spectators are responsible for the plays, as if personal superstitions have anything at all to do with “their team” winning). I tried to explain to my sour company that the joke was not in any way directed at “their team”’s quarterback: I was making fun of football players in general. For some reason this did not placate my friends. I had apparently trampled on holy ground.

Let me just ask this question: does it not seem ridiculous that the media continues to interview players after the game? We all know what they are going to say: “Well, we just like to go out there and play the best we can. You know, team work is everything. I knew we would come through if we persevered.” Oh, strike that—persevered is a pretty big word for a football player.

Maybe I am an asshole.

Whole New Year

Oh, how very predictable of me: a new year, a new face on the blog. It's a softer Repeater, misty and clean. We'll see if it lasts. There are so many moments to discuss, so many adventures on the open sea to be shared, so many high-falutin' ideas to be contemplated. I'm overwhelmed. Where to begin? This week I'll be sorting it out and back with you before you know it.