Wii Fit can kiss my butt.
I have reached almost 100 days on that sucker, and I've not budged from between a two pound weight variance (and no, I'm not saying how much). Up/Down, Up/Down, Up/Down, on and on and on it goes. I gain and lose the SAME. TWO. POUNDS. every time I step on that stoopid little talking, sweat-inducing board.
And man, is that thing ever chatty. Mouthy little artificial intelligence exercise dominatrix. You wobble ever so slightly and that thing admonishes you in a smug female voice -- and you can just see it's perfect little geek-wet-dream-cartoon-never-happen-in-nature-body -- that "You're a little shaky!" Well, Duh, Byte-for-Brains! I'm being JUDGED every single nano-second I stand on this White Board of Condemnation! I'll be doing fine -- for me, that is -- until the smarmy voice intones, "You're swaying a bit!" and then I'm like, "Ya THINK?" as I topple off the side, and the Wii goes, "BOINK!" in a cartoony verbal slap at my inadequacies.
The hate. It Burrrrrns.
If you don't stand on Her Majesty just so, she measures you the entirety of the exercise as being "off balance" and lemme tell you... I wasn't particularly 'off balance' until I introduced myself to that unctious little White Platform of Fail...but now? I'm contemplating Wii-hicular Homicide. I plant my feet on her so carefully...and look at the light yellow circle, expectantly...hopefully, even -- "Maybe this time...?" But my little red dot (which makes me think of lasers...attached to the scope of an M16...pointed at that judgey little yellow circle... yeah...) will be off center. GAHHH! What do I have to DOOOOO?!?
I think that perfidious white nightmare would make an excellant clay pidgeon. Now THAT would be a nice workout, yeah?
Heh. The kicker? I primarily do the Yoga exercises... And isn't Yoga supposed to be like, Zen and stuff? Aren't you supposed to be "loving the body you have now" and breathing into the poses with calm serenity? Releasing your anger and all that crapola? Yeah... No. It MAKES me angry, I tells ya! I cuss my way into the Warrior Pose (eh, I've known PLENTY of 'warriors' who work 'Blue'), I grit and gnash my teeth through the Tree Pose, I gripe and mutter through the Dance Pose....
Oh, yeah. I'm Zen. If by Zen you mean "Homicidally maniacal." That little (*&%%$#@)!! Makes me want to rip it's console out by the root and toss those little Wii Rem--
........Hey...what's this?
..................................The Balance Board's batteries are low? Oh NO! I'm sorry, honey!! Mommy didn't mean it!! I swear -- look! I've got some Double A's right here, fresh from the package... please don't lose all my stats, sugar! I will make it up to you, I SWEAR!!
Monday, August 03, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Road to Hell...
I had every intention of submitting a blog post a week. I had intended to write a synopsis of my NaNo '08 novel. I had intended to write character studies of the characters from that '08 novel. I had intended to write the latest chapter of my just for fun, X-Files-inspired story-with-no-apparant-end epic. I had intended to sketch out the next chapter of my unfinished NaNo '07 project...
Instead, I read.
Sometimes intentions can be the road to a personal private hell. And sometimes they can be the road less traveled and sometimes they can be what we wanted but was never intended to be.
I've started another just-for-fun project...and I no longer feel guilty for them. All writing is practice, and, although I've not been doing what I'm meant to be doing...I am writing.
So, here is a half-baked blog post, just so I can cross an item of my "I had intended to..." list.
Instead, I read.
Sometimes intentions can be the road to a personal private hell. And sometimes they can be the road less traveled and sometimes they can be what we wanted but was never intended to be.
I've started another just-for-fun project...and I no longer feel guilty for them. All writing is practice, and, although I've not been doing what I'm meant to be doing...I am writing.
So, here is a half-baked blog post, just so I can cross an item of my "I had intended to..." list.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
When I was your age...
I remember back when I was a kid and my parents were still together, one of the things my parents enjoyed was going to see Clint Eastwood
'spaghetti westerns'. I guess they were produced in Italy or something and thus they were called by that name. Anyway, I was no older than 10 -- that's when my parents split up -- so Clint Eastwood wasn't even a name to me, just squinty eyed glare and thin cigarillo poking out of his grim mouth. It wasn't so much the movies I remember as the venue. They dotted the landscape when I was a kid, but you don't see them around much anymore. As a matter of fact, if you played a variation of "punch buggy" -- slugging your seat partner every time you saw one -- you'd likely fall asleep waiting for the opportunity to get in a 'legal' hit.
What I'm talking about is Drive-In Movie Theatres. Those unmistakably tall and wide screens lit up to five or seven stories tall, giving real heft to the phrase 'larger than life'. It's small wonder I recall Clint's squinty glare and his cigarillo -- they were as big as the family station wagon on those screens.
My husband shares the delight and nostalgic 'awwww' that I feel when we happen upon one of these cherished relics of our separate but oddly joined past. They conjure memories of too much sugar, swing sets set in sand with the screen looming too closely behind, fast friendships made at the foot of those surreal screens meant only to last for the night... The feeling of freedom at parents close enough if the need arose, yet far enough out of pocket to give us our first thrill of independence. Not to mention the giddy joy of watching the stars at the same time you watched a movie from the hood of your car.
We are lucky enough to be caught in a triangle of Texas towns that gives us a choice of not just one, but two Drive-Ins. Oh, there are more -- this one in the picture that I snapped on the way to Grapevine TX, and another down the road a piece (that's a good Texas phrase) featuring a gapped-tooth stare from the sheet metal slowly dropping off the screen's facade occupied by a herd of cows that think the car corral (auditorium, maybe?) makes a good wind break.
I never fail to feel a little sad when I drive by that one.
But back to the picture. You can't see it, because we were driving too fast, but the audience section isn't bermed and ready for cars -- it has rows and rows of benches! Can you imagine? Where did the cars park? And how did you listen? Or, maybe the benches were just the 'front rows' with plenty of room for cars behind. I dunno.
Still... it must have been one heck of a Drive-In in it's day, huh?
'spaghetti westerns'. I guess they were produced in Italy or something and thus they were called by that name. Anyway, I was no older than 10 -- that's when my parents split up -- so Clint Eastwood wasn't even a name to me, just squinty eyed glare and thin cigarillo poking out of his grim mouth. It wasn't so much the movies I remember as the venue. They dotted the landscape when I was a kid, but you don't see them around much anymore. As a matter of fact, if you played a variation of "punch buggy" -- slugging your seat partner every time you saw one -- you'd likely fall asleep waiting for the opportunity to get in a 'legal' hit.What I'm talking about is Drive-In Movie Theatres. Those unmistakably tall and wide screens lit up to five or seven stories tall, giving real heft to the phrase 'larger than life'. It's small wonder I recall Clint's squinty glare and his cigarillo -- they were as big as the family station wagon on those screens.
My husband shares the delight and nostalgic 'awwww' that I feel when we happen upon one of these cherished relics of our separate but oddly joined past. They conjure memories of too much sugar, swing sets set in sand with the screen looming too closely behind, fast friendships made at the foot of those surreal screens meant only to last for the night... The feeling of freedom at parents close enough if the need arose, yet far enough out of pocket to give us our first thrill of independence. Not to mention the giddy joy of watching the stars at the same time you watched a movie from the hood of your car.
We are lucky enough to be caught in a triangle of Texas towns that gives us a choice of not just one, but two Drive-Ins. Oh, there are more -- this one in the picture that I snapped on the way to Grapevine TX, and another down the road a piece (that's a good Texas phrase) featuring a gapped-tooth stare from the sheet metal slowly dropping off the screen's facade occupied by a herd of cows that think the car corral (auditorium, maybe?) makes a good wind break.
I never fail to feel a little sad when I drive by that one.
But back to the picture. You can't see it, because we were driving too fast, but the audience section isn't bermed and ready for cars -- it has rows and rows of benches! Can you imagine? Where did the cars park? And how did you listen? Or, maybe the benches were just the 'front rows' with plenty of room for cars behind. I dunno.
Still... it must have been one heck of a Drive-In in it's day, huh?
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Now With More Pictures
We stayed at the Gaylord Texan in Grapevine th
is past weekend. The Gaylord Texan is a large hotel which houses a 4.5 acre atrium. The atrium features small scale replicas of the Alamo, the San Antonio River Walk and a 9-story oil derrick. Throughout the atrium winding around the landmarks, lush gardens abound. We had a fifth floor room with a balcony overlooking the atrium. I took the picture from our balcony the first night.
The local model train group built an exhibit in the atrium which includes The Hogwarts Express train, the Polar Express train, a bullet train, an old fashioned steam train,a very realistic subway train and a couple of others, too. Right next to that, a large scale platform in the shape of a guitar hosts another group of model trains. In the center of the promenade up on a bridge in the shape of a figure eight, another model train runs periodically. They must like their trains in Grapevine!
Our first (well, only really) day we spent mostly at the beautiful outdoor pool-- not quite olympic sized, but adequate for getting in some laps -- with a line of man-made waterfalls that spill into the pool the entire length. Mostly sun worshipers dominated the space and my little fam felt a tad out of place. The indoor pool seemed basically deserted. Odd; usually it's the other way around -- lot's of family splashing in the outdoor pool while the indoor is occupied by the serious swimmers and adults who want to 'see and be seen'.
Most of our recreation consisted of walking the indoor grounds, and with 4+ acres that was plenty of exercise, lemme tell ya! The hotel literature says they keep that atrium at a steady 72 degrees, so the walking was pleasant, comfortable and free of the clammy sweat induced by walking the (equally beautiful but steamy) outdoor grounds. Outside, the hotel boasts it's own vineyard, honoring Thomas Volney Munson, the Denison, TX expert on viticulture who -- no joke -- saved the European wine industry in the early 1900's by exporting three ship-loads of native Texas rootstock. For this service, Munson was awarded the Legion of Honor, Chevalier du Merite Agricole.
Not bad for an 'Merican, eh? And a Texan to boot.
is past weekend. The Gaylord Texan is a large hotel which houses a 4.5 acre atrium. The atrium features small scale replicas of the Alamo, the San Antonio River Walk and a 9-story oil derrick. Throughout the atrium winding around the landmarks, lush gardens abound. We had a fifth floor room with a balcony overlooking the atrium. I took the picture from our balcony the first night.The local model train group built an exhibit in the atrium which includes The Hogwarts Express train, the Polar Express train, a bullet train, an old fashioned steam train,a very realistic subway train and a couple of others, too. Right next to that, a large scale platform in the shape of a guitar hosts another group of model trains. In the center of the promenade up on a bridge in the shape of a figure eight, another model train runs periodically. They must like their trains in Grapevine!
Our first (well, only really) day we spent mostly at the beautiful outdoor pool-- not quite olympic sized, but adequate for getting in some laps -- with a line of man-made waterfalls that spill into the pool the entire length. Mostly sun worshipers dominated the space and my little fam felt a tad out of place. The indoor pool seemed basically deserted. Odd; usually it's the other way around -- lot's of family splashing in the outdoor pool while the indoor is occupied by the serious swimmers and adults who want to 'see and be seen'.
Most of our recreation consisted of walking the indoor grounds, and with 4+ acres that was plenty of exercise, lemme tell ya! The hotel literature says they keep that atrium at a steady 72 degrees, so the walking was pleasant, comfortable and free of the clammy sweat induced by walking the (equally beautiful but steamy) outdoor grounds. Outside, the hotel boasts it's own vineyard, honoring Thomas Volney Munson, the Denison, TX expert on viticulture who -- no joke -- saved the European wine industry in the early 1900's by exporting three ship-loads of native Texas rootstock. For this service, Munson was awarded the Legion of Honor, Chevalier du Merite Agricole.
Not bad for an 'Merican, eh? And a Texan to boot.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I suspect Pete Townsend visited the Caprock of Texas
My fam and I just got back from a camping trip in an area the locals refer to as the Breaks -- that's the edge of the geographical feature called the Caprock in the Texas Panhandle/ New Mexico area. The land 'breaks' off along a rough line and if you're standing on the east side of it you can see for miles and miles and miles >;-)
We had a great time roughing it and testing our limits against the harshness of the landscape. The rain lashed at us when the sun wasn’t burnishing our skin and the wind blew hard, rattling our tents and our nerves.
But the sky! Oh, it unfurled like a canopy beneath our campsite, stretching like infinity.
Coming from the east coast, I was used to seeing the sky obscured by tightly packed buildings, suburban sprawl or, when we could get far enough out, veiled by a covering of trees. My mountains were the Blue Ridge Mountains. I'd traveled several times through them to my father's place in Texas. Traveling those mountain roads was like driving through a green tunnel.
Even living in Tyler TX, ensconced in the Piney Woods ecoregion, I never got the sense of myself spinning in space on this big rock we call Earth at roughly 800+/- miles per hour, tethered only by that vaguely understood physical law called gravity. As a child I viewed the sky framed by familiar structures, safely seated on the hood of my parent's car. My horizon consisted of my neighbors' rooftops.
It wasn't until I came to the Texas panhandle, surrounded by miles of flat, sparse landscape that I fully apprehended that sense of "Whoa. That sky up there? It's big." I remember likening the vista to a vast soup bowl of inky, star-studded anxiety. It unnerved me, trying to comprehend that many stars in the night sky.
The only comparison I had was the awe I'd felt summers at Virginia Beach, watching a horizon comprised only of ocean and sky, and the smallness I would feel in relation. But I had the high rise resorts just behind me to help quell those overwhelming feelings.
I felt really unsettled for months after I moved here. I couldn't bring myself to look up very often -- even though, as a tween amateur astronomy nerd, I would have sworn that I'd gladly give my freedom for the typical night view most natives take for granted in this part of the country (and I cherish my freedom, yo.) I thought I'd never get comfortable with the limitlessness.
Then I went back east for a visit. I hated it. I couldn't get used to not seeing as far out as forever. I didn't like the buildings obscuring the view of the sky. I felt hemmed in, surrounded, suffocated.
It gets under your skin, this wide open, windy, parched, richly-colored, rugged land. Sometimes, you just have to go away to realize it.
We had a great time roughing it and testing our limits against the harshness of the landscape. The rain lashed at us when the sun wasn’t burnishing our skin and the wind blew hard, rattling our tents and our nerves.
But the sky! Oh, it unfurled like a canopy beneath our campsite, stretching like infinity.
Coming from the east coast, I was used to seeing the sky obscured by tightly packed buildings, suburban sprawl or, when we could get far enough out, veiled by a covering of trees. My mountains were the Blue Ridge Mountains. I'd traveled several times through them to my father's place in Texas. Traveling those mountain roads was like driving through a green tunnel.
Even living in Tyler TX, ensconced in the Piney Woods ecoregion, I never got the sense of myself spinning in space on this big rock we call Earth at roughly 800+/- miles per hour, tethered only by that vaguely understood physical law called gravity. As a child I viewed the sky framed by familiar structures, safely seated on the hood of my parent's car. My horizon consisted of my neighbors' rooftops.
It wasn't until I came to the Texas panhandle, surrounded by miles of flat, sparse landscape that I fully apprehended that sense of "Whoa. That sky up there? It's big." I remember likening the vista to a vast soup bowl of inky, star-studded anxiety. It unnerved me, trying to comprehend that many stars in the night sky.
The only comparison I had was the awe I'd felt summers at Virginia Beach, watching a horizon comprised only of ocean and sky, and the smallness I would feel in relation. But I had the high rise resorts just behind me to help quell those overwhelming feelings.
I felt really unsettled for months after I moved here. I couldn't bring myself to look up very often -- even though, as a tween amateur astronomy nerd, I would have sworn that I'd gladly give my freedom for the typical night view most natives take for granted in this part of the country (and I cherish my freedom, yo.) I thought I'd never get comfortable with the limitlessness.
Then I went back east for a visit. I hated it. I couldn't get used to not seeing as far out as forever. I didn't like the buildings obscuring the view of the sky. I felt hemmed in, surrounded, suffocated.
It gets under your skin, this wide open, windy, parched, richly-colored, rugged land. Sometimes, you just have to go away to realize it.
Friday, May 22, 2009
To everything turn, turn, turn...
So I head out at 7:30 am to Abernathy by a very circuitous route, hugging tightly to the back bumper of the yellow school bus carrying half of the sixth grade band, lest I get hopelessly lost. Band competition: one of those inevitable yet unplanned for things in your visions of the future spent raising your kids.
I lamented to my friend Di that I'd have to miss the May PPW meeting as in my parental "Rock-Paper-Scissors" game of life "Kid" always beats "Selfish Wants." Plus, I had to drag my Youngest, as the love of my life was scheduled to work that day. Joy. I envisioned a recalcitrant child stonily harrumphing through the whole day-long event. My visions were not far from reality, either, but more on that later.
Di said, (and I love this about her -- her optimistic viewpoint that everything, EVERYthing can be used as a writing prompt!) "Ooooh, what a GREAT opportunity to get some good human-behavior observations down on paper!!!"
Isn't that cool? She looks at all situations as just one more potential writing exercise ;-)
Anyway, I said, "Oooh," back and thanked her for the gentle, optimistic reminder, packed my trusty, beat-up notebook into my purse and suddenly looked forward instead of askance at the prospect.
The day was rainy, chilly and generally miserable and Youngest, against my protest, had worn my old dojo robe over a tank top, shorts and sandals as a defense against the elements. (Notoriously under dressed, that one) Plus she had to go into the building sans dojo robe as it's really (no, really) not appropriate for public display.
She grumbled throughout the entire competition -- "I'm cold," I'm hungry," "this is boring," "are we leaving yet?" I attempted several times to appease her by running out to the car to get snacks we'd packed and an extra t-shirt I keep in the car, but she would not be appeased. She's nine, bless her heart. (If you are southern, you know what I'm really saying when I use the phrase "Bless her heart....")
After our sixth grade band performed their portion, I turned to Youngest and said, "Okay, chicky, they're done. You wanna stay in here or go out to the-," She cut in "To the car!"
We made our way out there, me gripping her tight to my side to try to keep her from plunging her sandaled foot into the puddles and the wind whipped us both inside the warm car without too much trauma. Through my crazy ninja-mutha skillz, I actually got her smiling again, (Yes. I do rock, thank you.) which turned out to be a good thing, because the band took their sweet time eating a school-provided lunch of which we two little lost souls were left out. (Oldest forgot to hand in the note explaining that her mom would be tagging along. Harrumph.)
I get home, and a couple days later Di asks, "So...did you get anything good written down in your human-behavior study? And, because I have a really short attention span, I said, "Huh?" She reminded me about the writing I was going to do at the band competition and I said, "Oh, yeah, that."
She said, "...what?" like she knew what was coming, and I told her the recaplet of the sojourn and how instead I spent my time entertaining Youngest. She commiserated, and we went on to talk about whatever meandering things we usually expend an hour on the phone hashing out.
Well, Di, I'm happy to tell you that Chance gave me another...well, chance. I attended the Spring Band Concert last night, and was able to get a mulligan on my Human Behavior Project, with the added bonus of the rest of the Jr. High band and High School bands too.
Here's what I observed: (names changed to some inane nickname to protect the innocent ;-)
Master: A voice like a strung willow branch, plucked; high, a bit tinny but not unpleasant. Unhurried yet abbreviated movements, controlled and devoid of dominance. He offers a smile of distracted elegance while his eyes take in all, registering neither disappointment nor relief.
Apprentice: Her brow creased in alarm, hand emerging slow as a turtle's head in tentative welcome. A smile spreads slow and reaches her eyes; her brow, however, misses the "all clear" sign.
Junior Officer: Is this the willow branch upon which Master's melodic voice is strung? Like a linear sigh he seems too insubstantial for gravity to hold him! Bending inward protecting wisps of logic and strength embedded in almost painfully thin veneer. Walking sheet music, "blink and you might miss him," he conceals more than the ink hieroglyphs scratched upon his surface. Close your eyes and open your ears. You'll see him as he is.
Trombone: His voice must have room, more than even the Tuba. Sliding forth, testing outer limits followed by eventual retreat to familiar places. He has vague ideas of the notes to play but -- unlike the other brass with buttons to press -- must feel his way to make the notes true.
Confidence came late but once he discerned the 'sweet spots' the underbrush cleared and the path -- which he thought he'd have to trail blaze -- had been there all along, waiting for him to find it. Distractions tempt him to unsure ways; will he lose the path or blaze new paths all his own?
Horn: He is uncomfortable with his voice. To cover, he's ever watchful of those who speak out confidently, counting mindlessly with sure toe taps, understanding the melodic scratches on the page. Fearful of playing a wrong note, unsure of the symbols others read with ease, he can hear it but cannot see the music.
Maybe he will surrender for a while, lay his voice aside, revel in the physical knowledge of pure sport. One day, on his way to the court a black line like the readings of a heart monitor will catch his eye. He'll stop, tilt his head, prick his ears and stare, focused on the line until the meaning emerges from the blur. He'll hear and see. His fingers will twitch out the interpretation of the line like a heart monitor read-out. The court forgotten for a while, he'll allow his hand to find his voice again.
People Concerto in A minor, by Grief, Good. ;-)
I lamented to my friend Di that I'd have to miss the May PPW meeting as in my parental "Rock-Paper-Scissors" game of life "Kid" always beats "Selfish Wants." Plus, I had to drag my Youngest, as the love of my life was scheduled to work that day. Joy. I envisioned a recalcitrant child stonily harrumphing through the whole day-long event. My visions were not far from reality, either, but more on that later.
Di said, (and I love this about her -- her optimistic viewpoint that everything, EVERYthing can be used as a writing prompt!) "Ooooh, what a GREAT opportunity to get some good human-behavior observations down on paper!!!"
Isn't that cool? She looks at all situations as just one more potential writing exercise ;-)
Anyway, I said, "Oooh," back and thanked her for the gentle, optimistic reminder, packed my trusty, beat-up notebook into my purse and suddenly looked forward instead of askance at the prospect.
The day was rainy, chilly and generally miserable and Youngest, against my protest, had worn my old dojo robe over a tank top, shorts and sandals as a defense against the elements. (Notoriously under dressed, that one) Plus she had to go into the building sans dojo robe as it's really (no, really) not appropriate for public display.
She grumbled throughout the entire competition -- "I'm cold," I'm hungry," "this is boring," "are we leaving yet?" I attempted several times to appease her by running out to the car to get snacks we'd packed and an extra t-shirt I keep in the car, but she would not be appeased. She's nine, bless her heart. (If you are southern, you know what I'm really saying when I use the phrase "Bless her heart....")
After our sixth grade band performed their portion, I turned to Youngest and said, "Okay, chicky, they're done. You wanna stay in here or go out to the-," She cut in "To the car!"
We made our way out there, me gripping her tight to my side to try to keep her from plunging her sandaled foot into the puddles and the wind whipped us both inside the warm car without too much trauma. Through my crazy ninja-mutha skillz, I actually got her smiling again, (Yes. I do rock, thank you.) which turned out to be a good thing, because the band took their sweet time eating a school-provided lunch of which we two little lost souls were left out. (Oldest forgot to hand in the note explaining that her mom would be tagging along. Harrumph.)
I get home, and a couple days later Di asks, "So...did you get anything good written down in your human-behavior study? And, because I have a really short attention span, I said, "Huh?" She reminded me about the writing I was going to do at the band competition and I said, "Oh, yeah, that."
She said, "...what?" like she knew what was coming, and I told her the recaplet of the sojourn and how instead I spent my time entertaining Youngest. She commiserated, and we went on to talk about whatever meandering things we usually expend an hour on the phone hashing out.
Well, Di, I'm happy to tell you that Chance gave me another...well, chance. I attended the Spring Band Concert last night, and was able to get a mulligan on my Human Behavior Project, with the added bonus of the rest of the Jr. High band and High School bands too.
Here's what I observed: (names changed to some inane nickname to protect the innocent ;-)
Master: A voice like a strung willow branch, plucked; high, a bit tinny but not unpleasant. Unhurried yet abbreviated movements, controlled and devoid of dominance. He offers a smile of distracted elegance while his eyes take in all, registering neither disappointment nor relief.
Apprentice: Her brow creased in alarm, hand emerging slow as a turtle's head in tentative welcome. A smile spreads slow and reaches her eyes; her brow, however, misses the "all clear" sign.
Junior Officer: Is this the willow branch upon which Master's melodic voice is strung? Like a linear sigh he seems too insubstantial for gravity to hold him! Bending inward protecting wisps of logic and strength embedded in almost painfully thin veneer. Walking sheet music, "blink and you might miss him," he conceals more than the ink hieroglyphs scratched upon his surface. Close your eyes and open your ears. You'll see him as he is.
Trombone: His voice must have room, more than even the Tuba. Sliding forth, testing outer limits followed by eventual retreat to familiar places. He has vague ideas of the notes to play but -- unlike the other brass with buttons to press -- must feel his way to make the notes true.
Confidence came late but once he discerned the 'sweet spots' the underbrush cleared and the path -- which he thought he'd have to trail blaze -- had been there all along, waiting for him to find it. Distractions tempt him to unsure ways; will he lose the path or blaze new paths all his own?
Horn: He is uncomfortable with his voice. To cover, he's ever watchful of those who speak out confidently, counting mindlessly with sure toe taps, understanding the melodic scratches on the page. Fearful of playing a wrong note, unsure of the symbols others read with ease, he can hear it but cannot see the music.
Maybe he will surrender for a while, lay his voice aside, revel in the physical knowledge of pure sport. One day, on his way to the court a black line like the readings of a heart monitor will catch his eye. He'll stop, tilt his head, prick his ears and stare, focused on the line until the meaning emerges from the blur. He'll hear and see. His fingers will twitch out the interpretation of the line like a heart monitor read-out. The court forgotten for a while, he'll allow his hand to find his voice again.
People Concerto in A minor, by Grief, Good. ;-)
Sunday, May 17, 2009
the path
"We can do this the easy way...or we can do it the hard way"...
Those words have been spoken in some incarnation in a lot of movies by a lot of different heros. John Wayne, all the dudes that interpreted Wyatt Earp on screen, heck probably even Bruce Willis said something near it in his Die Hard movies -- although not nearly as memorably as his Yippee-ky-yay M*****F*****. (You don't get many catch phrases as good as that one. Well, maybe Ahnold's "I'll be back," comes close. But I'm chasing rabbits, now -- back to the point)
We can do this the easy way or the hard way... Like we have a choice. Most people can do it no other way than the hard way -- and I know. I'm a people. Who usually does "it" the hard way. Someone much wiser than me said, It is only through the hard times that one grows...(or words to that effect.)
It's the high winds that bend the juvenile trees (almost so far that you'd swear they were going to break) that actually strengthens them and helps them grow tall -- if they don't break, that is. Heh -- that's another one, what don't kill ya, makes you stronger. How many times have I had that phrase shoved at me by some stalwart old fart...who, I begrudgingly admit, knew better than me? How many times since I've started to become a stalwart aging fartlet have I said the same thing to other young saplings who -- I know looked at me like I was just as crazy as I thought the old farts were who were saying the same thing to me?
I had a friend who told me that you have to beat the tomatoes to get them to grow. That probably doesn't make sense to anyone who hasn't planted a bunch of tomato plants and anxiously watched them suck your water bill to over three thousand extra gallons a month only to appear to swoon every single day in the harsh sun of a typical TX panhandle afternoon. But if you have? Well, you know exactly what my friend was talking about -- it may not actually do any good... heh. But it sure makes you feel better ;-)
Is it true? Do the beatings you take in life make you stronger? I pondered this today as I had a pretty frank conversation with my soon-to-be twelve year old...about a very difficult period in my life. I found myself at one point in the conversation saying that although I was pretty strong when I was in high school, I went through a terrible period in college wherein I surrendered everything that made me "me"....but that now, I was much stronger than I'd ever been before the terrible period with the difficult people in my life and I was actually -- if not exactly grateful -- I was at least thankful that I learned from it, and grew...and that I would never just let someone strip me of my self-worth again.
I don't have the abject terror of being unloved the way I did then... perhaps because I stumbled upon someone who loves me unconditionally --- and allows me to love him back the same. I don't need approval the way I -- even subconsciously -- did then because I've learned (well, more accurately I'm in a constant process of learning) that I need only stay true to my core values and I need no other approval. I no longer see the necessity of perfection in myself...I only have to give my endeavors my best. Sometimes my best is half-assed, and that's okay too as long as I don't make a habit of it.
My husband -- before we were even dating, when we were just two friends who worked in a dinner show together -- used to nab me by my sleeve as I was storming out the stage door for a smoke after I flubbed a cue and he'd look me in the eye and he'd say, "Let it go. If you focus on what you messed up, you'll blow the next cue...and the next...and the next. Concentrate on the moment and you'll do fine."
He was right. When you concentrate on the moment -- whatever it is -- give it your focus as if it's the only thing happening right now, as if there's no other concern in the world, you'll do fine. Will you make mistakes? Sure you will... but in the end, you'll regret only the things you didn't do, not the things you tried and flubbed.
Maybe that is the "hard way" -- ranging around, giving your best, getting messy, making mistakes, flubbing your lines and staying on stage in spite of it -- because of course the 'show must go on' -- pitting your wits against the wind and raising your fist and saying "Give it your best shot!!!"
Live wild. Live hard. Live like you mean it. Let the wind blow, the rains lash, the elements nearly break you. And then feel that powerful sinew in you grow.
Those words have been spoken in some incarnation in a lot of movies by a lot of different heros. John Wayne, all the dudes that interpreted Wyatt Earp on screen, heck probably even Bruce Willis said something near it in his Die Hard movies -- although not nearly as memorably as his Yippee-ky-yay M*****F*****. (You don't get many catch phrases as good as that one. Well, maybe Ahnold's "I'll be back," comes close. But I'm chasing rabbits, now -- back to the point)
We can do this the easy way or the hard way... Like we have a choice. Most people can do it no other way than the hard way -- and I know. I'm a people. Who usually does "it" the hard way. Someone much wiser than me said, It is only through the hard times that one grows...(or words to that effect.)
It's the high winds that bend the juvenile trees (almost so far that you'd swear they were going to break) that actually strengthens them and helps them grow tall -- if they don't break, that is. Heh -- that's another one, what don't kill ya, makes you stronger. How many times have I had that phrase shoved at me by some stalwart old fart...who, I begrudgingly admit, knew better than me? How many times since I've started to become a stalwart aging fartlet have I said the same thing to other young saplings who -- I know looked at me like I was just as crazy as I thought the old farts were who were saying the same thing to me?
I had a friend who told me that you have to beat the tomatoes to get them to grow. That probably doesn't make sense to anyone who hasn't planted a bunch of tomato plants and anxiously watched them suck your water bill to over three thousand extra gallons a month only to appear to swoon every single day in the harsh sun of a typical TX panhandle afternoon. But if you have? Well, you know exactly what my friend was talking about -- it may not actually do any good... heh. But it sure makes you feel better ;-)
Is it true? Do the beatings you take in life make you stronger? I pondered this today as I had a pretty frank conversation with my soon-to-be twelve year old...about a very difficult period in my life. I found myself at one point in the conversation saying that although I was pretty strong when I was in high school, I went through a terrible period in college wherein I surrendered everything that made me "me"....but that now, I was much stronger than I'd ever been before the terrible period with the difficult people in my life and I was actually -- if not exactly grateful -- I was at least thankful that I learned from it, and grew...and that I would never just let someone strip me of my self-worth again.
I don't have the abject terror of being unloved the way I did then... perhaps because I stumbled upon someone who loves me unconditionally --- and allows me to love him back the same. I don't need approval the way I -- even subconsciously -- did then because I've learned (well, more accurately I'm in a constant process of learning) that I need only stay true to my core values and I need no other approval. I no longer see the necessity of perfection in myself...I only have to give my endeavors my best. Sometimes my best is half-assed, and that's okay too as long as I don't make a habit of it.
My husband -- before we were even dating, when we were just two friends who worked in a dinner show together -- used to nab me by my sleeve as I was storming out the stage door for a smoke after I flubbed a cue and he'd look me in the eye and he'd say, "Let it go. If you focus on what you messed up, you'll blow the next cue...and the next...and the next. Concentrate on the moment and you'll do fine."
He was right. When you concentrate on the moment -- whatever it is -- give it your focus as if it's the only thing happening right now, as if there's no other concern in the world, you'll do fine. Will you make mistakes? Sure you will... but in the end, you'll regret only the things you didn't do, not the things you tried and flubbed.
Maybe that is the "hard way" -- ranging around, giving your best, getting messy, making mistakes, flubbing your lines and staying on stage in spite of it -- because of course the 'show must go on' -- pitting your wits against the wind and raising your fist and saying "Give it your best shot!!!"
Live wild. Live hard. Live like you mean it. Let the wind blow, the rains lash, the elements nearly break you. And then feel that powerful sinew in you grow.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Malconent in the Middle
I guess I don't have as much to crab about as I thought I might, lo these many years since I started blogging. That was the reason I started to blog - to get my bitch on, and dump it squarely somewhere so my husband wouldn't have to listen to a constant stream of complaint.
But looking back over the posts I've made -- I haven't really complained all that much. A real "Huh." moment for me, actually.
Dare I say that must mean I'm...happy...? Ugh. For a post-modern, slow-maturing, aimless, caught-between-Gen's X-and-Why-doesn't-really-fit-in-either Gal, that's quite a shocking realization.
I practically ™'d Miserable Dark Girl.
sigh. I guess I'm like most people -- much cooler in my own imagination than I am in actual living color. Much less a dweeb, much hipper, more insightful and deep, than anyone out there gives me credit for... Heh. Right.
But one thing I can say, without reservation, pride or prejudice, is that I think by myself, for myself. Sure, I pick up as much imput as I am humanly able -- and I don't stick to one source, either; I crib from everything left, right and center that I can find.
Once I've let the mash stew for a bit... I form my opinion. Which usually ends up coming out something along the line of, "Well... I see both sides -- I really do and can honestly say I think the truth...is somewhere in the middle."
I'm so middling it's probably the topmost reason I'm so damn boring.
Conflict in the Middle East? I see both sides, I really do...and I think the truth is somewhere in the middle -- but only one side might be willing to step to the "middle" if their damn dance partner wasn't so willing to blow it's own children up as a statement that they don't particularly like the style of music.
American politics: Left? or Right? I see both sides... I really DO (and have at various times in my life been on both of them) but I think the truth is somewhere in the middle -- only, politics is so much more fun when we can gain power by demonizing the other side and placating huge swathes of complacent, uninformed people with meaningless platitudes in order to maintain that power! (and yeah, I think it happens on the left and the right.)
Okay...here's another tough one. Abortion: For? or Against? Heheheheh. I guess you know what I'm going to say. I see both sides... I REALLY do, and though it horrifies me personally, and I don't think I'd have one myself (can't really say, as I've never been pushed into that particular corner, and don't really WANT to be, thankyouv,v,much) we've traversed too long a road to try to repeal Roe v. Wade now and I cannot, would not in good conscience impose my moral stances against someone's own right over their own body. It's so impossibly sticky, that my stance is the best "lesser of two evils" I can hope to ever come up with...
See? Middling. Horribly, horribly middling. But it's the best I can do. And I'll tell you, it IS a stance, the middle. Some people might say that it's no stance at all...that you either have to be right or left, pro-Palestinian or pro-Israel, for Abortion or against it... And maybe they're right.
But I don't think so. (Lookit. You've GOT to have enough weight in the middle to keep the seesaw from clunking down hard one side or the other...s'all I'm sayin') I think that mind-set is what got the world into this kind of trouble in the first place.
Look. If there's a God, a Creator (and I, personally, believe) then that God gave the human creation one very precious gift: Free Will. Left it up to us, to muddle along as best we could in a divine love so intense that it would rather we evolve, slowly and painfully -- maiming, warping and killing ourselves along the way to finding the path to not just surviving...but THRIVING -- than to ever IMPOSE upon us, like a dictator or tyrant, its own Will.
Some think that is the height of uncaring, dispassionate, ambivalent feeling. And sometimes... I do too. Sometimes I think, Ah, God...can't you come down here and make us all get along? Make all the paths straight? Make all the wrongs right?
Then I think... do I really want to be an automaton? It's like in my parenting -- which I do unevenly, sporadically and to very mixed results, I might add (my kids are great thru no fault of my own, btw) -- though it kills me, almost literally, I have to let them make some mistakes and (more importantly) to face the consequences all on their onesies if they are going to learn, grow and survive.
But I'm only human. I still stick my hand out in front of them when we are somewhere high up and they step too closely to the edge... (they are 9 and almost-12) I still remind them -- every single time they take a bike ride -- to watch carefully at all road crossings. I still -- God love 'em -- clean up their more minor messes -- both literal and figurative -- for the umpteenth time...because I'm not omnipotent, omniscient or omniwise. (I made that last word up) I have myself all fooled up that I actually possess a modicum of control.
I can get away with "imposing my will"... because I don't have all those nifty "omni-" gadgets at my disposal. I can still claim ignorance for meddling and keeping my "creation" from learning valuable lessons the old-fashioned way... thru trial and, unfortunately, error.
In God's big arena, though, error sometimes has devastating, far-reaching consequences.
But it ain't like we haven't been warned or (in human-parent vernacular) nagged sufficiently either. Can we really claim no culpability in the whole mess?
But looking back over the posts I've made -- I haven't really complained all that much. A real "Huh." moment for me, actually.
Dare I say that must mean I'm...happy...? Ugh. For a post-modern, slow-maturing, aimless, caught-between-Gen's X-and-Why-doesn't-really-fit-in-either Gal, that's quite a shocking realization.
I practically ™'d Miserable Dark Girl.
sigh. I guess I'm like most people -- much cooler in my own imagination than I am in actual living color. Much less a dweeb, much hipper, more insightful and deep, than anyone out there gives me credit for... Heh. Right.
But one thing I can say, without reservation, pride or prejudice, is that I think by myself, for myself. Sure, I pick up as much imput as I am humanly able -- and I don't stick to one source, either; I crib from everything left, right and center that I can find.
Once I've let the mash stew for a bit... I form my opinion. Which usually ends up coming out something along the line of, "Well... I see both sides -- I really do and can honestly say I think the truth...is somewhere in the middle."
I'm so middling it's probably the topmost reason I'm so damn boring.
Conflict in the Middle East? I see both sides, I really do...and I think the truth is somewhere in the middle -- but only one side might be willing to step to the "middle" if their damn dance partner wasn't so willing to blow it's own children up as a statement that they don't particularly like the style of music.
American politics: Left? or Right? I see both sides... I really DO (and have at various times in my life been on both of them) but I think the truth is somewhere in the middle -- only, politics is so much more fun when we can gain power by demonizing the other side and placating huge swathes of complacent, uninformed people with meaningless platitudes in order to maintain that power! (and yeah, I think it happens on the left and the right.)
Okay...here's another tough one. Abortion: For? or Against? Heheheheh. I guess you know what I'm going to say. I see both sides... I REALLY do, and though it horrifies me personally, and I don't think I'd have one myself (can't really say, as I've never been pushed into that particular corner, and don't really WANT to be, thankyouv,v,much) we've traversed too long a road to try to repeal Roe v. Wade now and I cannot, would not in good conscience impose my moral stances against someone's own right over their own body. It's so impossibly sticky, that my stance is the best "lesser of two evils" I can hope to ever come up with...
See? Middling. Horribly, horribly middling. But it's the best I can do. And I'll tell you, it IS a stance, the middle. Some people might say that it's no stance at all...that you either have to be right or left, pro-Palestinian or pro-Israel, for Abortion or against it... And maybe they're right.
But I don't think so. (Lookit. You've GOT to have enough weight in the middle to keep the seesaw from clunking down hard one side or the other...s'all I'm sayin') I think that mind-set is what got the world into this kind of trouble in the first place.
Look. If there's a God, a Creator (and I, personally, believe) then that God gave the human creation one very precious gift: Free Will. Left it up to us, to muddle along as best we could in a divine love so intense that it would rather we evolve, slowly and painfully -- maiming, warping and killing ourselves along the way to finding the path to not just surviving...but THRIVING -- than to ever IMPOSE upon us, like a dictator or tyrant, its own Will.
Some think that is the height of uncaring, dispassionate, ambivalent feeling. And sometimes... I do too. Sometimes I think, Ah, God...can't you come down here and make us all get along? Make all the paths straight? Make all the wrongs right?
Then I think... do I really want to be an automaton? It's like in my parenting -- which I do unevenly, sporadically and to very mixed results, I might add (my kids are great thru no fault of my own, btw) -- though it kills me, almost literally, I have to let them make some mistakes and (more importantly) to face the consequences all on their onesies if they are going to learn, grow and survive.
But I'm only human. I still stick my hand out in front of them when we are somewhere high up and they step too closely to the edge... (they are 9 and almost-12) I still remind them -- every single time they take a bike ride -- to watch carefully at all road crossings. I still -- God love 'em -- clean up their more minor messes -- both literal and figurative -- for the umpteenth time...because I'm not omnipotent, omniscient or omniwise. (I made that last word up) I have myself all fooled up that I actually possess a modicum of control.
I can get away with "imposing my will"... because I don't have all those nifty "omni-" gadgets at my disposal. I can still claim ignorance for meddling and keeping my "creation" from learning valuable lessons the old-fashioned way... thru trial and, unfortunately, error.
In God's big arena, though, error sometimes has devastating, far-reaching consequences.
But it ain't like we haven't been warned or (in human-parent vernacular) nagged sufficiently either. Can we really claim no culpability in the whole mess?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Ads that make you go, "Huh?"
I have a difficult relationship with commercials. Mostly I consider them a nuisance, except for when I'm in need of a restroom or drink break. Well, and on those rare occasions when they actually work, and I consider them a pithy little shot of entertainment in their own right.
I mentioned the stupid Valentine's teddy bear commercial in my last post, and added to it the even stupider and more crass Burger King commercial. I also can't stand the plastic King -- so creepy -- but I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in that one. (Oi, poor Burger King! They've never been able to top "Have it Your Way")
I'm also unimpressed with those commercials for some financial planning company which look like a live action filmed commercial with the cartooning effect superimposed on top -- what's the point? I mean, film it, and then animation on top of it? Isn't that a bit like tracing?
Just saw one with pigs sitting at a table in a restaurant - Okay, is that supposed to sell something? I mean to humans?
There are others that I can't think of now, and I can't be arsed to sit through youtube vids looking for them. The less I recall them, the better my sanity.
There are a few I enjoy, like the Sonic Drive-In Comedy Duos -- the two guys are funny, the husband and wife are growing on me and they've just launched the Mom and Son -- I think they're funny because they're identifiable. The duos are comical, but in a down-to-earth, "ain't life quirky" kind of way.
Then there's the Hall's cough drop "War Face" commercial -- I think it's hilarious and I laugh evertime I see it. That one isn't even slightly identifiable -- I mean, I've never had a Military Sargeant roll out of a thunder clap and give me a boot camp pep talk when I pop a Halls cough drop in my mouth, You? Yet isn't that what that first inhale feels like after you do? "Let me see your 'war face'!" indeed.
I roll when I see the "Bing-O was his name-O" style of that commercial for the employment website, with the woman screaming and banging the wheel of her car, the man walking by the desk casually greeting the fellow employee "Hello, Dummy" and the guy weeping uncontrollably (along with the punching of the stuffed animal -- don't tell peta) I've had jobs where I felt EXACTLY like each one of those repeated scenarios. It never fails to make me laugh. Again, very identifiable.
I guess they're all pretty successful -- even the ones I don't like -- because even if I can't recall the exact company name they're advertising, I can at the very least hit the industry.
Is that always good though? I mean, I have an aversion to Burger King and I'm not sure if it's because the plastic Burger King freaked me out on some subconscious level or because I just prefer McD's french fries.
Is it just a coincidence that I continue to go to the Sonic Drive-In, even though the one here in town without fail gets my order wrong, puts waaaay too much ice in their drinks so you just know you're getting ripped off and everything (from the ice cream to the burritos)tastes like it's been cooked in the same stale grease?
Do I neglect to invest for my future because I'm some cool cat who can't be bothered planning for my old age, or because I think the commercials for the financial planning company "cheat" because the artwork is traced?
Do I spend a little more on Halls rather than the knock off because it's actually better, or because I'm hoping Sp. Agent Gibbs (the best-looking fictional former Marine I know of...) to roll out of a clap of thunder and exhort me to "put on my war face"? (Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?)
I dunno. The advertising companies have so fully embedded psychological study into the process that perhaps we are ALL just the victim of choices we made based on some unfairly stacked media advertising practices.
Makes me wonder, though; now that we've entered into the concrete, visible phase of economic downturn -- paybacks for rampant requisitioning, maybe? -- will we see a day when advertising companies are held accountable for making people want what they don't need, can't afford, and isn't necessary? Will we see trial lawyers (the scourge, imo, of our modern times) humping the pass the buck gravy train for our consumerism run amok onto advertisers who unfairly weighted their campaigns with subconscious appeals to that greedy nature in us all?
I don't know. I'd like to think that once you become an adult you start accepting some responsibilty for your choices -- no matter how manipulated or coerced you may have felt. Some things you just know deep down inside. Like, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is. Like, anyone who tries to tell you they have the corner on the absolute truth is either lying or trying to sell you something. Like, you can't pay for an Escalade on a Hyundai income. Given the raw numbers set before them, wouldn't even a fifth grader be able to predict that one?
Huh. Come to think of it, maybe our government needs to go back and relearn some fifth grade arithmatic, eh?
I mentioned the stupid Valentine's teddy bear commercial in my last post, and added to it the even stupider and more crass Burger King commercial. I also can't stand the plastic King -- so creepy -- but I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in that one. (Oi, poor Burger King! They've never been able to top "Have it Your Way")
I'm also unimpressed with those commercials for some financial planning company which look like a live action filmed commercial with the cartooning effect superimposed on top -- what's the point? I mean, film it, and then animation on top of it? Isn't that a bit like tracing?
Just saw one with pigs sitting at a table in a restaurant - Okay, is that supposed to sell something? I mean to humans?
There are others that I can't think of now, and I can't be arsed to sit through youtube vids looking for them. The less I recall them, the better my sanity.
There are a few I enjoy, like the Sonic Drive-In Comedy Duos -- the two guys are funny, the husband and wife are growing on me and they've just launched the Mom and Son -- I think they're funny because they're identifiable. The duos are comical, but in a down-to-earth, "ain't life quirky" kind of way.
Then there's the Hall's cough drop "War Face" commercial -- I think it's hilarious and I laugh evertime I see it. That one isn't even slightly identifiable -- I mean, I've never had a Military Sargeant roll out of a thunder clap and give me a boot camp pep talk when I pop a Halls cough drop in my mouth, You? Yet isn't that what that first inhale feels like after you do? "Let me see your 'war face'!" indeed.
I roll when I see the "Bing-O was his name-O" style of that commercial for the employment website, with the woman screaming and banging the wheel of her car, the man walking by the desk casually greeting the fellow employee "Hello, Dummy" and the guy weeping uncontrollably (along with the punching of the stuffed animal -- don't tell peta) I've had jobs where I felt EXACTLY like each one of those repeated scenarios. It never fails to make me laugh. Again, very identifiable.
I guess they're all pretty successful -- even the ones I don't like -- because even if I can't recall the exact company name they're advertising, I can at the very least hit the industry.
Is that always good though? I mean, I have an aversion to Burger King and I'm not sure if it's because the plastic Burger King freaked me out on some subconscious level or because I just prefer McD's french fries.
Is it just a coincidence that I continue to go to the Sonic Drive-In, even though the one here in town without fail gets my order wrong, puts waaaay too much ice in their drinks so you just know you're getting ripped off and everything (from the ice cream to the burritos)tastes like it's been cooked in the same stale grease?
Do I neglect to invest for my future because I'm some cool cat who can't be bothered planning for my old age, or because I think the commercials for the financial planning company "cheat" because the artwork is traced?
Do I spend a little more on Halls rather than the knock off because it's actually better, or because I'm hoping Sp. Agent Gibbs (the best-looking fictional former Marine I know of...) to roll out of a clap of thunder and exhort me to "put on my war face"? (Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?)
I dunno. The advertising companies have so fully embedded psychological study into the process that perhaps we are ALL just the victim of choices we made based on some unfairly stacked media advertising practices.
Makes me wonder, though; now that we've entered into the concrete, visible phase of economic downturn -- paybacks for rampant requisitioning, maybe? -- will we see a day when advertising companies are held accountable for making people want what they don't need, can't afford, and isn't necessary? Will we see trial lawyers (the scourge, imo, of our modern times) humping the pass the buck gravy train for our consumerism run amok onto advertisers who unfairly weighted their campaigns with subconscious appeals to that greedy nature in us all?
I don't know. I'd like to think that once you become an adult you start accepting some responsibilty for your choices -- no matter how manipulated or coerced you may have felt. Some things you just know deep down inside. Like, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is. Like, anyone who tries to tell you they have the corner on the absolute truth is either lying or trying to sell you something. Like, you can't pay for an Escalade on a Hyundai income. Given the raw numbers set before them, wouldn't even a fifth grader be able to predict that one?
Huh. Come to think of it, maybe our government needs to go back and relearn some fifth grade arithmatic, eh?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
"Oi" is not the first part of "Oink"
Gah. I'm sitting here at my laptop, trying to find a link for some recipe I want on the realsimple.com website, when what do my wondering eyes behold but a television ad for a Stuffed Bear company based in a maple-y North Eastern state... It's the most pig-oriented ad I've seen, standing out in a sea of Valentine's Day cliche's. I cannot believe that someone isn't grousing about this from the feminist camp.
It opens with a bunch of 'Central Casting'- men partitioned in office cubbies all eavesdropping on a group of soft-porn stand-ins for real female office workers gushing over a (stupid) Valentine's Day, 'Zoro'-masked stuffed bear using heavily double-entenre'd adjectives.
"It's bigger than I thought!" is one that stands out. Hahahah. I get it, Beavis.
The women in the commercial are model-perfect, plumped-lip, cooing barbie dolls, and the men are stereotypical skulking lounge lizards, trolling the internet looking for that one item that will give them a 'lock' on that most cherished of Valentine's Night destinations. One of them even makes the 'white man's overbite' face. And this message, conveyed by a child's toy? Great..../sarcasm.
Who do you think still enjoys receiving and giving stuffed toys for Valentine's Day, anyway? I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count. (for those who need a cheat: it's teen-agers.)
As far as I'm concerned, count me in with 'Sheila Kingston'... You want a bulls eye on the 'most romantic' gesture and (almost) guaranteed entrance into that cherished Valentine's Night destination? "Go paint my house!" Forget the flowers, the diamonds, the expensive chocolates (I'll never turn away Dove's Dark, however.) Instead, clean my gutters...or change my oil...or put the kids to bed for a solid week.
Flowers fade, chocolates disappear (with two sneaky daughters, I have a LOT of help with that one), and diamonds ...well, they are pretty cool, actually. But doing something for me that I'd have to pay someone else to do? Timeless....
UPDATE:
Added to the hit list? That Burger King Commercial for the Burger Bites. Uggh.
It opens with a bunch of 'Central Casting'- men partitioned in office cubbies all eavesdropping on a group of soft-porn stand-ins for real female office workers gushing over a (stupid) Valentine's Day, 'Zoro'-masked stuffed bear using heavily double-entenre'd adjectives.
"It's bigger than I thought!" is one that stands out. Hahahah. I get it, Beavis.
The women in the commercial are model-perfect, plumped-lip, cooing barbie dolls, and the men are stereotypical skulking lounge lizards, trolling the internet looking for that one item that will give them a 'lock' on that most cherished of Valentine's Night destinations. One of them even makes the 'white man's overbite' face. And this message, conveyed by a child's toy? Great..../sarcasm.
Who do you think still enjoys receiving and giving stuffed toys for Valentine's Day, anyway? I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count. (for those who need a cheat: it's teen-agers.)
As far as I'm concerned, count me in with 'Sheila Kingston'... You want a bulls eye on the 'most romantic' gesture and (almost) guaranteed entrance into that cherished Valentine's Night destination? "Go paint my house!" Forget the flowers, the diamonds, the expensive chocolates (I'll never turn away Dove's Dark, however.) Instead, clean my gutters...or change my oil...or put the kids to bed for a solid week.
Flowers fade, chocolates disappear (with two sneaky daughters, I have a LOT of help with that one), and diamonds ...well, they are pretty cool, actually. But doing something for me that I'd have to pay someone else to do? Timeless....
UPDATE:
Added to the hit list? That Burger King Commercial for the Burger Bites. Uggh.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
January "jones"
I don't really know her work, but her name is really cool.
The entire month practically gone, and no blog post for January. New Years' resolutions are something I gave up with Barbies and a complete, unquestioned faith in Santa Claus. (Hey, I said "unquestioned faith" not total disbelief -- I believe...I just have serious questions, is all.)
Many times, in a quiet moment, I'd sit at the computer and try to come up with a post, but nothing ever gelled. One of the most disturbing parts of being a writer, is forging ahead in spite of feeling that every word that flies off your fingertips is complete and total garbage.
You know, my daughters, both of them like to write. When I bring my little Dana along, if I'm not using it, one of them is sitting with it in their lap tippity tapping something out. It's heartwarming, and it's astonishing, too. They, both of them, sit down with no angst, no worry, no hemming and hawing... and they write. They don't futz over whether or not it's publishable. They don't squirm when I read it (or when they are writing it...) Afterwards, they are proud of it -- "Look what I did, Mom!" -- and they don't go back to it obsessively tweaking over and over, picking at it like so much lint on a sweater until it's "perfect" ...but bland.
And the kicker? The stories are usually good. I mean really good. Imaginative, inventive, colorful, evocative... with characters that jump off the page. Are the stories "perfect"? No, heck no. They have surprisingly few spelling errors (my youngest especially is a very good speller), and a few grammar errors...but that is beside the point, and we all know it. Those things can be easily corrected. The creativity and spontaneity they exhibit in their stories I hope will never be edited away.
When I think of their writing, of course, I'm proud of them, although I don't feel proprietary -- I try real hard not to live through them. I try to say as little as possible that isn't along the lines of "Wow, thank you so much for sharing this with me! I'm honored!" They'll have teachers in their future, likely in college (hopefully they will be able to go to college) who will smash their work to bits -- come on, I had plenty of those types of professors, and I know you did too -- so I'm gonna be firmly ensconced in their cheering section.
Reflecting on this careless, reckless abandon with which they approach their own writing...I often wonder if a "little child shall lead them" in my case...and if I can absorb a smidgen of that careless, reckless abandon in my own writing?
So...other than a quick spellchecker on this puppy, I'm going to embrace that ideology and let this blog post ride, as hammered out in first draft style. And hopefully, in a small way, it can kick off a little bit of psychic 'new years' resolution' in my soul, and inspire me to approach all my other writing in the same way. It's something I've been attempting since the 2007 NaNo -- to give that inner editor a bottomless cup of aromatic Joe, drop her into a cushy chair with lots of books around her and tell her I'll be back in a few hours -- when I'm done recklessly hammering out whatever chapter I happen to be writing.
Here's to the new year!
The entire month practically gone, and no blog post for January. New Years' resolutions are something I gave up with Barbies and a complete, unquestioned faith in Santa Claus. (Hey, I said "unquestioned faith" not total disbelief -- I believe...I just have serious questions, is all.)
Many times, in a quiet moment, I'd sit at the computer and try to come up with a post, but nothing ever gelled. One of the most disturbing parts of being a writer, is forging ahead in spite of feeling that every word that flies off your fingertips is complete and total garbage.
You know, my daughters, both of them like to write. When I bring my little Dana along, if I'm not using it, one of them is sitting with it in their lap tippity tapping something out. It's heartwarming, and it's astonishing, too. They, both of them, sit down with no angst, no worry, no hemming and hawing... and they write. They don't futz over whether or not it's publishable. They don't squirm when I read it (or when they are writing it...) Afterwards, they are proud of it -- "Look what I did, Mom!" -- and they don't go back to it obsessively tweaking over and over, picking at it like so much lint on a sweater until it's "perfect" ...but bland.
And the kicker? The stories are usually good. I mean really good. Imaginative, inventive, colorful, evocative... with characters that jump off the page. Are the stories "perfect"? No, heck no. They have surprisingly few spelling errors (my youngest especially is a very good speller), and a few grammar errors...but that is beside the point, and we all know it. Those things can be easily corrected. The creativity and spontaneity they exhibit in their stories I hope will never be edited away.
When I think of their writing, of course, I'm proud of them, although I don't feel proprietary -- I try real hard not to live through them. I try to say as little as possible that isn't along the lines of "Wow, thank you so much for sharing this with me! I'm honored!" They'll have teachers in their future, likely in college (hopefully they will be able to go to college) who will smash their work to bits -- come on, I had plenty of those types of professors, and I know you did too -- so I'm gonna be firmly ensconced in their cheering section.
Reflecting on this careless, reckless abandon with which they approach their own writing...I often wonder if a "little child shall lead them" in my case...and if I can absorb a smidgen of that careless, reckless abandon in my own writing?
So...other than a quick spellchecker on this puppy, I'm going to embrace that ideology and let this blog post ride, as hammered out in first draft style. And hopefully, in a small way, it can kick off a little bit of psychic 'new years' resolution' in my soul, and inspire me to approach all my other writing in the same way. It's something I've been attempting since the 2007 NaNo -- to give that inner editor a bottomless cup of aromatic Joe, drop her into a cushy chair with lots of books around her and tell her I'll be back in a few hours -- when I'm done recklessly hammering out whatever chapter I happen to be writing.
Here's to the new year!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride,
Nobody's gonna slow me down...Oh no, I've got to keep on mooovin'.
That's a great song, and an even better sentiment. One I've only begun to tap into now that I'm solidly in my 40's.
I grew up being a bit, let's say 'morose' to be kind to my younger self, and didn't really even see the glass much less be able to tell if it was half full or empty. I didn't spend a lot of time thinking 'happy' thoughts. My father was an alcoholic with pedophile tendencies, my mother tepid in her demonstrations of love, and my younger brother a complete pain in the (bleep). Your basic garden-variety late '70's family dysfunction.
In recent years, however, I've allowed my husband to rub off on me in some very good ways. (stop it... I'm not being dirty) He's a gem, and like I said in my last post usually a very positive person. When he gets down in the dumps, I feel my duty to be the lifter upper. Back in the day -- when we were just starting out together -- it was exclusively the province of my guy to lift me out of the dumpster emotionally. I feel the sting of those years -- all that hefting with very little reciprocal effort on my part -- and thus feel compelled to 'make up for it' in redoubled efforts now.
So, I've noticed -- and happily, so have close friends -- that the doldrums don't hold me under water quite so long as they used. That's the way with bullies: their power over you decreases in direct proportion to your increasing confidence in triumphing over them. And the moroseness or depression or the doldrums or the blues -- whatever you want to call it -- is one big, bad bully. But then, the ones generated from inside usually are.
Of course the way to invite a bully to another attempt at domination is to announce on the bullhorn that you've bested him.
In a sense, with winning the NaNoWriMo challenge, getting a much needed new car,finding out that the damage done to our bank account was only in the amount of three dollars -- (yes I went yesterday, found out it was an organized effort by someone(s) in Florida just systematically hitting a series of bin numbers) ** I had started to feel ... shall we say a little smug? Yeah, that's a good word. I was letting down my guard, opening my arms wide, picking up that bullhorn and shouting "Look at ME! I'm able to stay 'up' all by myself! The Bully has LOST!"
(**Okay, so I'm naive -- it was more like over $150.00...but still. It could have been worse. Way worse.)
Heheheh. Someone much more eloquent than I once wrote "Pride goes before a fall." Lucifer knows that one by heart... and so. do. I.
Oh, yeah, I'm a good one for getting lazy when I've hit a high spot. If anyone can coast on past accomplishments, I can. If anyone can diet to the right size and then think "My work here is done," as they rub their hands together in anticipation before diving into the bin of unlimited Oreos, I'm your gal. Matter of fact, I've done it every year for the past six. If there's EVER been a soul who thought, "I've achieved (__________) now I get to fall back and watch the motes floating lazily in the sunbeams," I am that soul.
But that's not the way it works, is it? Those of us who struggle -- be it with our weight, or depression, or addiction -- must always be vigilant. Always on the lookout for that little chink in the armor or crack in the fortified wall or hole in the dam.
As devotees of (insert your passion here) like to say, "It's not__________, it's a way of life," so too must the strugglers, the battle-scarred worriers, the bullied, the sullied, those pilloried by real or phobic or outright imagined fears.
For me, I think I can identify with all of those bondages in one way or another. And so... I soldier on, trying to remain vigilant, on the look-out for any sign of vulnerability...never really awake, and only occasionally very well rested. My armor is lightweight, though, and the weapons are deadly accurate, sharpened as much by intent as by daily use. When I do fall asleep on the job, the quicker I can wake and fight, the better the outcome.
Because I've been without the armor before. And it's a defeated end to a fight that is never really begun.
That's a great song, and an even better sentiment. One I've only begun to tap into now that I'm solidly in my 40's.
I grew up being a bit, let's say 'morose' to be kind to my younger self, and didn't really even see the glass much less be able to tell if it was half full or empty. I didn't spend a lot of time thinking 'happy' thoughts. My father was an alcoholic with pedophile tendencies, my mother tepid in her demonstrations of love, and my younger brother a complete pain in the (bleep). Your basic garden-variety late '70's family dysfunction.
In recent years, however, I've allowed my husband to rub off on me in some very good ways. (stop it... I'm not being dirty) He's a gem, and like I said in my last post usually a very positive person. When he gets down in the dumps, I feel my duty to be the lifter upper. Back in the day -- when we were just starting out together -- it was exclusively the province of my guy to lift me out of the dumpster emotionally. I feel the sting of those years -- all that hefting with very little reciprocal effort on my part -- and thus feel compelled to 'make up for it' in redoubled efforts now.
So, I've noticed -- and happily, so have close friends -- that the doldrums don't hold me under water quite so long as they used. That's the way with bullies: their power over you decreases in direct proportion to your increasing confidence in triumphing over them. And the moroseness or depression or the doldrums or the blues -- whatever you want to call it -- is one big, bad bully. But then, the ones generated from inside usually are.
Of course the way to invite a bully to another attempt at domination is to announce on the bullhorn that you've bested him.
In a sense, with winning the NaNoWriMo challenge, getting a much needed new car,
(**Okay, so I'm naive -- it was more like over $150.00...but still. It could have been worse. Way worse.)
Heheheh. Someone much more eloquent than I once wrote "Pride goes before a fall." Lucifer knows that one by heart... and so. do. I.
Oh, yeah, I'm a good one for getting lazy when I've hit a high spot. If anyone can coast on past accomplishments, I can. If anyone can diet to the right size and then think "My work here is done," as they rub their hands together in anticipation before diving into the bin of unlimited Oreos, I'm your gal. Matter of fact, I've done it every year for the past six. If there's EVER been a soul who thought, "I've achieved (__________) now I get to fall back and watch the motes floating lazily in the sunbeams," I am that soul.
But that's not the way it works, is it? Those of us who struggle -- be it with our weight, or depression, or addiction -- must always be vigilant. Always on the lookout for that little chink in the armor or crack in the fortified wall or hole in the dam.
As devotees of (insert your passion here) like to say, "It's not__________, it's a way of life," so too must the strugglers, the battle-scarred worriers, the bullied, the sullied, those pilloried by real or phobic or outright imagined fears.
For me, I think I can identify with all of those bondages in one way or another. And so... I soldier on, trying to remain vigilant, on the look-out for any sign of vulnerability...never really awake, and only occasionally very well rested. My armor is lightweight, though, and the weapons are deadly accurate, sharpened as much by intent as by daily use. When I do fall asleep on the job, the quicker I can wake and fight, the better the outcome.
Because I've been without the armor before. And it's a defeated end to a fight that is never really begun.
Monday, December 08, 2008
It's always somethin'
Looking out the window which frames the tree that flips me off, I can see blue sky bright with sunshine wherein puffy clouds drift lazily. I think, "It's December," with no little amount of astonishment. The odds of the contracted roofers replacing our worn patchwork quilt of protection before the winter snow arrives grow shorter by the hour. "It's coming, it's coming," my mind whispers, lest the snow gods hear me and come bearing gifts of enchantment and treachery.
It all started several months ago, actually in early June, when around these parts the late spring gives into summer's insistence and the tornadoes threaten wide swathes of retribution on the evil and the good alike. We aren't particularly evil...but then we aren't exceptionally good, either. So, it all comes out a wash, I guess. Anyway, our proverbial number was up.
Some background, first. We had endured many a season here ensconced in a snug if sprawling house with good bones but a terrible, old, worn out flat roof. Alas, fixing a flat roof is a crap shoot and the patch job performed before we finalized the purchase of the house lasted approximately 6 months. Coincidentally (or was it?) at the first rain, we had three separate leaks inside. Fun. Ah well, at least we had enough buckets.
My husband being an enterprising young man rigged syphons in the low spots - first using left over evaporative air conditioning tubing (did I mention that up until about a month ago we haven't had central air for about four years? Ah-- yes, well, I digress) and later, after the cooler tubing wore out, some fresh poly tubing. Easy peasy -- if you don't mind going out in every snow and rainstorm and sucking on the tubing to get the water flowing. (and yes, we've both done it, though to be fair, he's done it much more than I)
We knew it would be a loooong time till we could afford to have the roof redone, so we reconciled ourselves to the 'sucking'. (metaphorical usage intended)
Then came last June, and the tornadic weather which brought us - our whole town, really - a blessing disguised as a curse: the worst hail storm anyone can remember -- and we've got some folks around here who are in their 90's and still sharp as a tack. So, yeah. Looong time.
Not a skylight emerged intact from the wrath of that storm, unleashing it's fury in the form of softball sized (yes, really) stones.
It all started several months ago, actually in early June, when around these parts the late spring gives into summer's insistence and the tornadoes threaten wide swathes of retribution on the evil and the good alike. We aren't particularly evil...but then we aren't exceptionally good, either. So, it all comes out a wash, I guess. Anyway, our proverbial number was up.
Some background, first. We had endured many a season here ensconced in a snug if sprawling house with good bones but a terrible, old, worn out flat roof. Alas, fixing a flat roof is a crap shoot and the patch job performed before we finalized the purchase of the house lasted approximately 6 months. Coincidentally (or was it?) at the first rain, we had three separate leaks inside. Fun. Ah well, at least we had enough buckets.
My husband being an enterprising young man rigged syphons in the low spots - first using left over evaporative air conditioning tubing (did I mention that up until about a month ago we haven't had central air for about four years? Ah-- yes, well, I digress) and later, after the cooler tubing wore out, some fresh poly tubing. Easy peasy -- if you don't mind going out in every snow and rainstorm and sucking on the tubing to get the water flowing. (and yes, we've both done it, though to be fair, he's done it much more than I)
We knew it would be a loooong time till we could afford to have the roof redone, so we reconciled ourselves to the 'sucking'. (metaphorical usage intended)
Then came last June, and the tornadic weather which brought us - our whole town, really - a blessing disguised as a curse: the worst hail storm anyone can remember -- and we've got some folks around here who are in their 90's and still sharp as a tack. So, yeah. Looong time.
Not a skylight emerged intact from the wrath of that storm, unleashing it's fury in the form of softball sized (yes, really) stones. We called our insurance peeps a week later -- after someone advised us we should. What did we know? We thought, "Flat Roof -- no one's gonna touch it," so we didn't call at first. The adjuster came out and totaled the roof, though.
And we've been waiting ever since to get it fixed. (There was the little matter of the heating and air conditioning guy who stopped up the progress by 'intending' to do this or that, showing up without calling, doing about an hour and a half worth of work every sixth day and letting new leaks rain water down the new holes he sawed into our already overtaxed roof...But I digress again.)
Yeah... But we do have our dining room finished -- except for six pieces of trim that we cannot match (still looking) -- but then we did that job 100% on our own, too.
Last night my husband said, "I'm through depending on other people. They always let you down." Aw! That is sad. This man is not that kind of man. He's always hoped for the best, prepared for the worst...but kept on believing the best -- of everyone. That he said something like that? Is not a good sign.
And now... just got a call from the bank -- at 5:02 pm (riiight) telling us our debit cards have been turned off due to some "suspected fraudulent activity". When I asked the bank rep "how much we talking about here" she said, "I can't tell you anything about it, I'm only calling you (at 5:02 pm, when you have to sit and STEW all night long worrying about it but be unable to DO anything because the bank hours are set to 'closed') to let you know why your card wouldn't work should you try and use it..." Great. Hope we don't bounce any outstanding checks while we work this little snafu out.
Our life is full of many blessings that cannot be measured in dollars and cents... but when it comes to dollars and cents...
It's always somethin', idn't it?
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Confetti and Cocktails Time!
I did it. That's what I can say, now, to the question "Have you written a novel?" Why yes, yes I did. As in past tense, as in already accomplished.
I've just submitted and been approved by the NaNoBot Overlords 52,541 words, topped off with "the end" and everything and I've now got the purple bar with the white lettering that says, "winner" on it displayed under my user name. I've printed out my pretty certificate with my name and my novel's name on it that has "Winner" emblazoned across it, and I'm gonna figure out how to put the winner badges on this here blog.
(the number of times I can use the word "winner" let me show you it)
I feel...Like I can accomplish anything, now.
So, I'm going to celebrate, kick back, enjoy the holiday...and plot my Script, for the upcoming Office of Letters and Light challenge, "Script Frenzy".... heheheheh... I'm addicted.
I've just submitted and been approved by the NaNoBot Overlords 52,541 words, topped off with "the end" and everything and I've now got the purple bar with the white lettering that says, "winner" on it displayed under my user name. I've printed out my pretty certificate with my name and my novel's name on it that has "Winner" emblazoned across it, and I'm gonna figure out how to put the winner badges on this here blog.
(the number of times I can use the word "winner" let me show you it)
I feel...Like I can accomplish anything, now.
So, I'm going to celebrate, kick back, enjoy the holiday...and plot my Script, for the upcoming Office of Letters and Light challenge, "Script Frenzy".... heheheheh... I'm addicted.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Some Random Thoughts...
I just distilled my writing Mission Statement in one sentence in an email to a friend:
"...I want to write trashy, gossipy, messy, escapist mainstream fiction which gets consumed in mass quantities. -- A lot of it. "
He implored me not to sacrifice my art for filthy lucre... And I had to ask, "Have you read my stuff?" I'm just sayin'...
Now, I'm not meaning to imply that I've never had more literary, lofty goals -- I am known to spew good intentioned -- but still rather bad -- poetry on occasion... But my writing desire is more satisfyingly filled when I'm spinning an entertaining story. Full of quirky yet believable characters. Who get thrown into believably simple yet frustrating situations. Who maybe find a little redemption along the way.
I wish I had the capabilities of a Jane Austen or -- shoot, I can't stand 'em, but they've definitely stood the test of time -- even the Bronte sisters to tell stories so full of scope and timelessness that they become classics read the world over. It's probably not gonna happen... and even if it does? I'll likely be dead, so I won't know anyway.
At the end of the day, I just want to look over a chapter I've cranked out, and smile a little in recognition, wince a little in shared pain, thrill in anticipation, and finally sigh with a little release... I want to...transport, and entertain, and maybe lift up a little... bring a smile... occasionally a tear... maybe just a tiny dash of conviction...?
So, yeah. I wanna tell great stories...but like the kind you tell after a glass of wine, sitting around in front of the fire with a group of friends, just enjoying each other's company. The kind you repeat to other groups of friends because you know they'll bring a smile. The kind of seemingly insignificant event which ends up becoming the gold thread weaving in and out of the tapestry of your days. (What did I tell you about the bad poetry...? See?)
So, yeah. It's not lofty...or significant...and probably won't be a blip on the radar in fifty years...but that's my writing life, in a nutshell.
Here's a quote, from my quietly BRILLIANT husband on writing, and more specifically, editing when you're supposed to be getting the story on paper. He said, "Honey, trimming an overgrown hedge into a topiary shape is much easier than growing a hedge into a topiary shape."
I love it -- I've quoted it to everyone who will listen.
So, yeah: Rule 1# - Get the words down while the muse is dictating in your ear like a chipmunk on an amphetimine high -- you can cut, edit, shape, style and beautify after she crashes into a post-rush dream state.
"...I want to write trashy, gossipy, messy, escapist mainstream fiction which gets consumed in mass quantities. -- A lot of it. "
He implored me not to sacrifice my art for filthy lucre... And I had to ask, "Have you read my stuff?" I'm just sayin'...
Now, I'm not meaning to imply that I've never had more literary, lofty goals -- I am known to spew good intentioned -- but still rather bad -- poetry on occasion... But my writing desire is more satisfyingly filled when I'm spinning an entertaining story. Full of quirky yet believable characters. Who get thrown into believably simple yet frustrating situations. Who maybe find a little redemption along the way.
I wish I had the capabilities of a Jane Austen or -- shoot, I can't stand 'em, but they've definitely stood the test of time -- even the Bronte sisters to tell stories so full of scope and timelessness that they become classics read the world over. It's probably not gonna happen... and even if it does? I'll likely be dead, so I won't know anyway.
At the end of the day, I just want to look over a chapter I've cranked out, and smile a little in recognition, wince a little in shared pain, thrill in anticipation, and finally sigh with a little release... I want to...transport, and entertain, and maybe lift up a little... bring a smile... occasionally a tear... maybe just a tiny dash of conviction...?
So, yeah. I wanna tell great stories...but like the kind you tell after a glass of wine, sitting around in front of the fire with a group of friends, just enjoying each other's company. The kind you repeat to other groups of friends because you know they'll bring a smile. The kind of seemingly insignificant event which ends up becoming the gold thread weaving in and out of the tapestry of your days. (What did I tell you about the bad poetry...? See?)
So, yeah. It's not lofty...or significant...and probably won't be a blip on the radar in fifty years...but that's my writing life, in a nutshell.
Here's a quote, from my quietly BRILLIANT husband on writing, and more specifically, editing when you're supposed to be getting the story on paper. He said, "Honey, trimming an overgrown hedge into a topiary shape is much easier than growing a hedge into a topiary shape."
I love it -- I've quoted it to everyone who will listen.
So, yeah: Rule 1# - Get the words down while the muse is dictating in your ear like a chipmunk on an amphetimine high -- you can cut, edit, shape, style and beautify after she crashes into a post-rush dream state.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
I, For One, Welcome Our New NaNoBot Overlords...
I plugged my manuscript in the 'tester' run of the NaNoWriMo Official Counter...and actually GAINED about 700 words! Woot!
NaNoWriMo has been such a huge educational journey this year. I'm hooked. I'm now officially part of the NaNoBorg and want to assimilate as many closeted writers as I can.
I feel the overarching message in the whole is that I can write every day -- and it can be a raucous, wild, free-wheeling, creative ride, instead of a drudge that I have to do.
Oh, and a side message: Housework is NOT essential. (except for laundry and toilets -- those kiiinda need cleaning on a regular basis.)
Given the choice between scrubbing the tub and writing a chapter...?
Well.... just guess which I will pick? heheheheh.
NaNoWriMo has been such a huge educational journey this year. I'm hooked. I'm now officially part of the NaNoBorg and want to assimilate as many closeted writers as I can.
I feel the overarching message in the whole is that I can write every day -- and it can be a raucous, wild, free-wheeling, creative ride, instead of a drudge that I have to do.
Oh, and a side message: Housework is NOT essential. (except for laundry and toilets -- those kiiinda need cleaning on a regular basis.)
Given the choice between scrubbing the tub and writing a chapter...?
Well.... just guess which I will pick? heheheheh.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
BLAVIN!
I did it. I signed up for NaNoWriMo. Late -- four days behind, to be exact (that's 6,668 words behind) but am now at 11,956 words. I've closed the gap, all I need to be caught up is a little over 3,000 words. I should be able to accomplish that on a Sunday afternoon.
I put the NaNo participant badges on my page here, proudly,and am trying to figure out how to put a little widget word counter on too. Anyone know how to do that? Anyone, Anyone... Beuller...Beuller...Beull - okay, I'll stop. (Figured it out ;-)
I'm writing a kooky story that I'm making up as I go along -- the characters have already taken on some recognizable signs of life, and I'm surviving and continuing to slap words on the virtual page by completely ignoring my internal editor -- and not being afraid to record the suckiest writing that sucks in order to reach the goal of 50,000 words by midnight, November 30.
It's... exhilarating! It is amazing how much output you can achieve if you simply speed write. And it is all practice -- no pressure...just writing like a kid does, for the pure fun of it!
If you haven't checked it out, and you kind of aspire to writing that novel that you just know exists deep inside your brain, check out the NaNoWriMo -- challenge yourself. You never know what you can do, till you sign up for a contest run on the honor system, with no judges, no monitoring and no monetary prize. It's GREAT!
I put the NaNo participant badges on my page here, proudly,
I'm writing a kooky story that I'm making up as I go along -- the characters have already taken on some recognizable signs of life, and I'm surviving and continuing to slap words on the virtual page by completely ignoring my internal editor -- and not being afraid to record the suckiest writing that sucks in order to reach the goal of 50,000 words by midnight, November 30.
It's... exhilarating! It is amazing how much output you can achieve if you simply speed write. And it is all practice -- no pressure...just writing like a kid does, for the pure fun of it!
If you haven't checked it out, and you kind of aspire to writing that novel that you just know exists deep inside your brain, check out the NaNoWriMo -- challenge yourself. You never know what you can do, till you sign up for a contest run on the honor system, with no judges, no monitoring and no monetary prize. It's GREAT!
Thursday, October 30, 2008
...Here be Monsters.
I love that line from Pirates of the Caribbean: "We're off the edge of the map we've made; here be monsters." (and yeah, I know it isn't original to the movie -- it was written on the unexplored margins of most maps back in the day)
I'm still reading this marvelous, humble little book called "Page after Page" and I'm in the home stretch but I've reached the absolute end of my inter-library loan abuse. The marker has been called, and I've got to return it today. So close! (Ah, well, the copy I ordered should be in the mail sometime this week.)
The last section is some good stuff, brother. I just had to come and post -- nay, I was compelled to post!
My thoughts, let me show you them.
God! Heather Sellers is so... good. That tells you nothing! -- let me dig deeper and get into some of my compost, tell you how I really feel. I have to quote from the book, directly. (Disclaimer Ahead!!) These are Ms. Sellers words, not mine:
The thing is, for me, writing is like giving birth. I've only ever attempted it once (hah! birth, not writing) -- despite having two children (first one a scheduled C-Section, the second one an emergency C-Section after being in labor for 24 hours) -- but I remember it vividly. It was hard. And it hurt like the fires of Hell. And it made me SICK and so, so tired. But I didn't even once imagine quitting. I wanted to push that baby OUT -- I wanted to break that tape as I crossed the finish line!! It was the most profound thing I've ever attempted, the pushing. As the doctors and nurses tried to pull this vital thing out of me, I vomited and peed and yes, I shat. It was ...excruciating -- the embarrassment.
Writing *is* pulling something vital from the deepest part of you with all the attendant gore -- there's sweat and blood and urine and feces and vomit and placenta and (finally) tiny, helpless, perfect (even in "imperfection") HUMAN. A whole.other.person.
Writing is swarming in all sorts of life-force vibrancy. It's also a mash of disgusting explicitness. It's... if it is anything *real*-- like LIFE itself. Life is full of dark places that we don't want to go... much less show anyone else because -- God forbid! -- they'd know we were HUMAN. And frail. And disgusting. And struggling. And noble -- sometimes. And ...worth every effort.
*THAT'S* how I see writing. It's, like my friend Robin says, really very easy. But it's also the hardest thing to make yourself do, every day -- day in and day out.
But like birthing a human... it's worth every effort.
I'm still reading this marvelous, humble little book called "Page after Page" and I'm in the home stretch but I've reached the absolute end of my inter-library loan abuse. The marker has been called, and I've got to return it today. So close! (Ah, well, the copy I ordered should be in the mail sometime this week.)
The last section is some good stuff, brother. I just had to come and post -- nay, I was compelled to post!
My thoughts, let me show you them.
God! Heather Sellers is so... good. That tells you nothing! -- let me dig deeper and get into some of my compost, tell you how I really feel. I have to quote from the book, directly. (Disclaimer Ahead!!) These are Ms. Sellers words, not mine:
Some writers, who work very hard, every day, make money off of their writing. Most, like painters and puppeteers and pianists, have other sources of income: lessons, shows, community performances. Most writers are less master and more jack-of-all-trades. It can be frustrating, but I think we like it that way. Most writers aren't terribly obnoxious or stuck-up or greedy for chic sunglasses and fancy cars. They like nice paper. Beautiful pencils. Maybe a particularly fine desk lamp or a gift certificate from a locally owned bookstore. I might be wrong, but I think most writers are going to do the work, anyway, for some other reason than fame or fortune. We are people of letters, as Janet Burroway says. We have to record what we see and what we know, in our towns and on our streets, in our families and in our daily lives. In this way, we are the opposite of fame and fortune.
The thing is, for me, writing is like giving birth. I've only ever attempted it once (hah! birth, not writing) -- despite having two children (first one a scheduled C-Section, the second one an emergency C-Section after being in labor for 24 hours) -- but I remember it vividly. It was hard. And it hurt like the fires of Hell. And it made me SICK and so, so tired. But I didn't even once imagine quitting. I wanted to push that baby OUT -- I wanted to break that tape as I crossed the finish line!! It was the most profound thing I've ever attempted, the pushing. As the doctors and nurses tried to pull this vital thing out of me, I vomited and peed and yes, I shat. It was ...excruciating -- the embarrassment.
Writing *is* pulling something vital from the deepest part of you with all the attendant gore -- there's sweat and blood and urine and feces and vomit and placenta and (finally) tiny, helpless, perfect (even in "imperfection") HUMAN. A whole.other.person.
Writing is swarming in all sorts of life-force vibrancy. It's also a mash of disgusting explicitness. It's... if it is anything *real*-- like LIFE itself. Life is full of dark places that we don't want to go... much less show anyone else because -- God forbid! -- they'd know we were HUMAN. And frail. And disgusting. And struggling. And noble -- sometimes. And ...worth every effort.
*THAT'S* how I see writing. It's, like my friend Robin says, really very easy. But it's also the hardest thing to make yourself do, every day -- day in and day out.
But like birthing a human... it's worth every effort.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Cheri Block Sabraw - Notes from Around the Block: Father Knows Best
This beautiful 'Happy Birthday' to her father is bittersweet, lovely and exactly how I feel about our current political climate. Take a moment, if you are stopping by here, and read this lovely, heartfelt post.
Cheri Block Sabraw - Notes from Around the Block: Father Knows Best
Cheri Block Sabraw - Notes from Around the Block: Father Knows Best
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