Tra-la, tra-la! I’m back inside computer cases for a little bit while I pretend I know how to set up a network between three computers because the overall cost at some point is cheaper than buying a new modem just as a quick fix. I already know that the setup is called an infrastructure because two PCs will be wired and one will be wireless.
If I’m offline for a month, you’ll know I screwed up.
I must admit, some children’s restaurant habits do annoy me. Scrambling over who has more, and only then of what they like. Pushing orts of this and that less tasty thing around and off the tray, like broccoli perhaps, and wonder if it really helps to call them “trees?”
Is it by color or by size they learn to sort what is presented? As I watch it seems as if there is a pattern well established at the start. Is taste acquired by watching mom and dad who surreptitiously avoid, but never fling their food?
Is there really inhibition of creative individuality in forcing children to remain at the table till the meal is done? Settling but a moment to grab a morsel to select, they fly off here and there to play, digesting what they’ve chosen to return to find another of the same alone.
Messy too, there ends up more beneath the tray and table than inside their little tummies; it would behoove them, and me as waitress, to simply sit and eat what’s offered at the time. Perhaps it is indeed the fare they’re given, and I shall, I think, add in more sunflower seeds, since that seems to be a favorite of the cardinals at least.
It has begun. The writing that I have avoided or been too lazy to attempt has finally been uncovered in the pile. The reading is as well a thing with deadlines. Dedication was never a problem with me–that instead suited well my centered focus. Priority, aye, there’s the rub; me was never at the forefront except through acts not altruistic nor completely selfless, for every act we do for someone else feeds ego just as well. And too, lack of ambition is easily excused by sinking into ruts of despair as much as comfort. Unless I die tomorrow I must rise and face the day. Unless I be enfeebled I must act. The days go by so quickly that there are now seven missing from an estimate ten thousand at the most–much less I’m sure, and even so, twenty thousand have gone by already with naught to show. What if there are only a few dozen? What have I to leave but words behind?
Antsy with the rain to see the sun again. Mood so weathered by the weather now rebels. Growth is calling to be cut: hedges trimmed, bushes pruned, branches sawn. Weeds need pulling too, but I am in the noisy mood of the mechanical, and I’ve never yet heard an ouch of protest from a patch of even the most defiant crabgrass.
He wants to come with me tomorrow early morning, to trim the hedges where the poison ivy plays. To mow the edges, whack the weeds with plastic strings that sting your ankles if you forgot to wear your socks. Reminding me that I have cut two heavy duty extension cords and an antenna wire, so focused on the rounding of a yew. A finger once with pruning sheers on twigs of lilac trees.
He wants to help, he says, but I know better. My lovely little Black & Decker electric chainsaw is on my mind, and his.
Reading #1:
a) The story was okay to good.
b) The story was great
c) The story really sucked
Because of time restrictions, if (a) is the initial reaction, move along. If (b) or (c) is reached, proceed to Reading #2 to find out why.
I’ve been putting a very small dent in my reading load, and I find the easiest way to do even that is by going first through some of the anthologies of contemporary short stories and poetry. Obviously, the above formula for reading cannot be followed entirely with novels, but in that case, reading must be done with both purposes in mind, keeping the analytical mind open and picking away simultaneously with the section of the brain that reads strictly for pleasure or information.
This story in the Fall/Winter No. 84/85 issue of Confrontation intrigued me, and I instantly knew why after the first reading. Without regard for other elements of writing or story arc, etc., except to say that it was well written and interesting, the aspect that struck me while and after reading was the amazing interweaving of time and space, worlds of place in past, present and future, not in actual timeline sequencing, but their value and meaning to both the story and the characters involved. The story is “Good Guys, Bad Guys,” by William D. Schaefer (p. 217).
In “Good Guys, Bad Guys,” Margaret and Charles are a couple comfortably married for thirty-five years, now planning their vacations which will for the first time be taken separately this year. Thus, we have already been exposed to their past, present, and future. Another interplay of time is the difference in their ages, she seeking adventure at 57, he “an increasingly cranky 67.” Here we get the first indication of eras in time as well as one character moving toward the future, one towards the past in their vacation choices (she, Peru, he, Germany) which will be set, of course, in their simultaneous future. Agreeably, they embark from the central point of JFK airport, and from there they travel in separate spaces of time and place.
For a future heroine perhaps, who shall someday grace a page within a novel:
1. White vinegar helps the itchies of poison ivy.
2. When the rash appears along the length of both arms, you have most likely hugged an infected person.
3. No matter how retro 60s it may be, nor how deeply set a habit, when afflicted,
wear a nightgown to bed, or better still, jammies with long sleeves and feet.
4. Remember that although the rash appears on your right hand, it is the left one that performs the scratchies and therefore responsible for the spreading.
5. Do not hug your mate unless you are currently at odds with him
As often happens (more and more these days, it seems), my mind is filled with focusing in on one idea in the early morning, but then as hours go by I’ve picked up more ideas. Those that are unrelated I can either discard or write about, but it is those that tie together that preclude the setting down. Tuned to “research” mode, the theories are noted, refuted, grown and refined until, at last acceptable–though far short of brilliant–they formulate themselves into a more compact and interesting line of thought.
Right now, as well as for the past few hours, I am tying in with comments from Denny and Rethabile to a post below called “Writing: Senses”, and have traveled o’er the giant web encircling earth to deeper delve into the topic and the subtopics raised, especially from a post that Rethabile has On English that references an article (and of course, another direction to take) on writing as therapy.
Obviously, my writing has been impacted by personal emotions of the past six months (and more), but I don’t see it as therapy as much as a different way of seeing things–the writing affecting my feelings as much as the other way around; but that is therapy too, I suppose. There is a line from a poem called “Thought Touch” written by Blake Anderson, one of our Narratives members that goes, “Veins of life’s torments attach themselves to my pen”, and bleed my emotions onto paper.” This is the thought I’ve had all morning, that each knife wound to the mind flows puddles of black text as blood.
But the mind must take its time to sort it out, and so it will be a little while yet until I come to some conclusions, or at the very least, a reasonable question.
Goodness, just when I was getting the hang of it–or so I thought; Alan at Fresh Bilge has posted and pointed us to an example of mixed, scrambled, and overbaked metaphor in journalism.
I have always preferred, as does Alan, the straightforward approach to writing, even in fiction and poetry, but what metaphor has taught me is to compress an idea into a readily recognizable–and therefore, feelable–mental image. A “cavelike” room is more to the point than “dark, small, rough, musty, and inhibiting.”
But again we must, I think, play with words to try them out, approaching an idea with all the senses alert and ready to reveal before we share. While metaphor can serve the purpose of presenting a clearer picture, I find myself using it more lately to instead hide within its use of language. Feelings that could much more easily be stated as “I feel sad, I’m hurting,” are cloaked with images that separate a writier from the words and give a sense of security against a vulnerability that he may want to shout out loud, yet needs some protective cover that he finds in metaphor. It’s all about the perception and the reality that makes it real or not.
Via Chasing Daisy, this at Blogliners:
“Was Snow White’s long sleep just a passive-aggressive expression of hostility? Did Prince Charming’s attraction to the comatose maiden reveal unresolved mother-issues resulting in necro-fetishism? Deconstruct your favorite fairytale character.”
We have touched upon fables and fairy tales in literature courses, but these questions based on Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs seem to force the issue of looking deeper into even the simplest of narrative for message or meaning. While I may have questioned the tale in other aspects, I had never thought of these particular themes, and I find it just as fascinating to come up with the questions as I would with any consideration of answers.
Perception, again, is the key. I really must spend some time looking at things from different angles and explore as many of the areas a story offers as I can.
For months she’d felt the weight of life upon her body, bearing down to bow a head and slope bare shoulders once held straight and proud. Her heavy mind felt like a ball of granite, knowing only one way to exist and be, allowing nothing but the very worst of blows to chip its grainy surface, sparkled here and there with the occasional light of laughter. Blending with the rain to darken, staining just a while and drying up again.
Last night she’d held the weight of life close to her body. The child of only three months old was an extension of another life she’d lost that week. Quiet, sleeping baby, happy to be held; she held him close. She rocked and crooned to him, though he was deep in dreams of milk and primary colors. He felt the cradling arms beneath him and felt secure. She felt the weight within her arms and came to life. Her head of granite slowly melted by the heat of nature, beaten by the forces that can change a solid stone to pulsing heart again.
The morning started with the yellowish taupey grey skies of a moving storm of clouds that washed the earth in sprinkling rain throughout the night to flashing lights and loud applause. Left behind were wisps of creamy gossamer that even morning sun could not erase but blended it as tulle atop a fine lady’s ballgown of brilliant blue.
Late morning now, and all that is alive is singing in the sunbright light as if the heat bubbled and darkened earth to coffee brown, and leaves and lawn to delicate but heady liquor like the syrupy Chartreuse.
But I am not in tune with all the forward thrust of day that goes before, around and through me, and today I must wear black to blend with ashes in the night.
In today’s New York Times, the article, “Could Your Voice Betray You?” by Douglas Heingartner covers the aspects of lie-detector testing and its value in measuring voice stress to analyze whether a person may be telling the truth, particularly used in criminal investigations.
With the constant innovations in technology, this application, sans wires attached to a physical body, is being studied for its use in other areas. Software is being produced that enables the recording and evaluation via telephone, and expands its application to “telemarketing and matchmaking” to improve marketing and sales pitch, I assume, by points of tension of hostility or willingness to listen on the part of the pitchee. Fraud detection is another valuable use that has already been implemented by the insurance industry.
This is nothing new, but what intrigued me into writing this posting is its relationship to the voice writers attempt to establish particularly in fiction. What do we tell from the tone and pace of a writing? How much does it reveal of the author, and how far can he go in manipulating it to create a first person narrator that is totally unlike himself? Does an author’s voice become so constant that it comes through each successive story, despite his efforts to separate himself from the narrative? This is a very interesting—and long-pondered—element of writing that I am still a novice in comprehending.
The sun burns a hole in the wall of maple leaves to the east, and I half expect an open wound to be left behind as it inches up from the horizon to reach full freedom at the tippity-top of the tree line.
Strange whirling dervishes of wind seem to select certain tall trees here and there, like mini tornados to tussle the leaves and rummage through branching shelves in search of something…what?
The low lying birches and tall sturdy pines watch but hold steady with barely a quiver of reaction to their neighbors’ agitation. But pride comes before the fall as always, and with the hard winds of storm, these are the ones who will bend but a bit before breaking. They have not the experience to have learned it best to be resilient to the day.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology