As I mentioned once before, sometimes all you have is a title:
“Somebody’s Eating Uncle Andy”
I have a vague idea where I could take this, but there are so many directions if I choose to follow it up. Psychological character study would be neat; you know, stemming from the saying, “it’s eating away at me.” Could also go sci-fi or bizarre. Hmmmm.
I am in anapestic shock–somebody call a doctor! (Or an English Professor!)
My recent frustration with some contemporary poetry–reading, which leads to writing–was in the seeming lack of form or recognizable structure as well as the metaphor that is either so skillfully done or unskillfully done so as to either be evident of amazing genius and imagination or just plain bullshit. The latter problem I will study more thoroughly because it really does warrant either understanding of the language or be open to interpretation and left at that. As you can see from this entire paragraph, the whole issue seems to be an either/or situation.
But for now, structure and form is not. One who is wiser than I (Ersinghaus, again) has suggested I go back to the roots of poetry to discover the basis upon which the evolution of today’s form is based. Wise, indeed. Even the human form has a basic skeleton upon which variations of layers of muscle, fat, skin is applied to become similar but extremely individual finished products. It’s the subtleties of amount, placement, tone, etc. that provide the diversion of each basic element. Interesting, no?
So getting back to basics, I am reacquainting myself with meter, feet, syllabic stress and break, etc. I have taken out two of the many poems I wrote this month that I thought were maybe halfway decent and am analyzing them critically to see if I am following any sort of pattern learned from reading good poetics. Nope. So far, the stress marks and meter lengths don’t seem to be in any code that’s easy to crack.
Why the high interest in poetry lately? I’m not sure. I’ve never been heavy into poetry, never bothered writing or thinking it until taking several courses at the college in the past couple years. But it is extremely useful to me, it seems, in several ways. Poetics better expresses thoughts while in a depressive state of mind; somehow it makes them more tolerable by adding a touch of beauty, although this is debatable I suppose, because the drama and romance of dark thoughts can almost enhance them and make them desirable–look at Plath, and many, too many others.
The truth though, is that while I enjoy reading and writing poetry now–more than I even imagined I would–it is starting to show up in my writing of fictional short story, my true love and second best maybe to novels.
There is as much to be learned, it seems, from reading poetry–and most likely other forms, such as journalism for accuracy and compactness, etc.–as there is from reading the form of narrative in which you choose to tell your thoughts and feelings.
Learning every day.
Just pointing the finger to a very interesting article called “Goodbye, All That: How Left Idiocies Drove Me to Flee” by Ron Rosenbaum. (via The Forager)
(RINA – This one’s for you!)
From God of the Machine, this has to be one of the best mission statements about blogging I’ve seen, and one that I aspire to follow:
“Culling my readers to a select few since June, 2002”
After spending a good part of the last three days attempting to redesign Talespinning, I think—am not quite sure, yet—I may have almost gotten something accomplished.
It was terribly frustrating. I simply wanted to change colors and add a new banner. It just wasn’t working. No matter what I tried, the banner (which I redesigned several times thinking somehow that was the problem) wouldn’t show up on the site, nor would the color change. I ended up creating and destroying a half dozen templates, same thing with e-mails to myself that contained the code of stylesheets and main index templates of my other weblogs to provide easier comparison and to avoid losing the wrong one. Somewhere along the way I actually did delete the one template set that somehow still remained as the one showing on the internet. Nothing I did could change it. Although I was able to change little things like content on the site that showed—by changing content on the templates it wasn’t using!
This morning I woke up at four a.m. with the vague thought in mind that it had worked out—then realized that having focused on it so long I was even dreaming about it!
This may be one of those rare instances where the dream is in fact a reality instead of the usual “I musta dreamed it.” Somehow, somewhere, I did something and it fell into place. Wish I knew how. I’m going to leave it alone for now, even though it’s not exactly what I want as far as color. Why tempt fate by messing with the unknown?
There are so many wonderful weblogs to keep up with, and so many amazing people who write them. They run the gamut from politics to culture to recipes and ruminations, but all, without real exception, contain the personality of the writer, openly or hidden within the words. I’ve often pointed my own little band of readers in the direction of someone’s weblog, but usually in reference to a specific entry. And, of course, there’s my list of Verrry Interesting which is my own usual daily read.
But now and then I’d like to make special note of some of these weblogs and the people behind them. Several entries ago I posted about Blogshares and its relative valuation of weblogs, noting that the links you put up on your website end up divvying up the value of the incoming links. Ben of The Life and Times of Neutrino Man clarified the issue, then I accused him of buying up a large chunk of the “stock” of Spinning to drive the price out of my purchasing power. It’s a fun thing, a game, and we all take it as such, I’m sure.
Come to find out, Ben did buy up some shares, and then gifted them back to me. Thanks, guy.
I have really come to enjoy reading Ben’s weblog, because aside from the fact that I really love his writing style, I’m grateful for what Ben lets us know about himself, curious about what he doesn’t, and intrigued by what he may consider hidden but is there within his words. He’s a good guy, that I know. His writing is interesting, honest, and eloquently amusing. He seems like the kind of son I would have liked to have, and the young man I would have liked to have known when I was his age.
Maybe one of the most important benefits of blogging is that, in this day and age of isolation from physical social contact because of the internet, we gain enough to make up for it in connections on often a more meaningful level…thanks to internet.
Well the plumber came today
and he was hell to pay…
For the third time this month, we have had to get a plumber in to fix a leak. Thankfully it happened on a Friday rather than its usual weekend thing. Wrote another check, didn’t think about it (although I could have fixed it myself if I had investigated it further), until today. This time it cost $167.00 for new toilet fittings and under an hour’s work.
About two years ago I sliced open the side of my calf pretty badly on a piece of glass I foolishly stepped against. I tried to fix that myself, but it looked like it needed more than a couple butterfly bandaids. It took an emergency room visit (this was rather romantic, my husband raced home, swooped me up and carried me to the car), two hours, twelve stitches through three layers (epidermis, fat and muscle–shut your eyes for a second if you’re squeamish; I found greasy streaks along with blood on the glass later), three ER interns and the head of ER to confer, a couple of shots, and a return visit to get the stitches out.
That bill? $167.00 total.
It is so much harder, I think, to walk the edge of someone else’s life.
Can’t resist sharing a few lyrics from Waylon’s beautiful CD for kids, “Cowboys, Sisters, Rascals & Dirt.” I gave a copy to my niece for a drive back home from Connecticut to Virginia, alone with four-year old Zoee. it drove her nuts because Zoee wouldn’t let her play anything else for what, seven hours? But listen to this:
I’m Little
Sometimes I look up at my dad
And he looks a hundred feet tall
So if I hadn’t learned to yell real loud
He might never see me at all.‘Cause I’m little, I’m little
I’m little, so what can I say?
I’m little, I’m little
But I’m gonna grow up some day.
Or this, from “Dirt”:
Dirt is quiet, it don’t make noise
It’s fun to play with, especially for boys
Girls don’t much like it, but that’s okay
Boys don’t like girls much anyway.
It hurts just a little if it gets in your eyes
You can put it in water and make mud pies
Babies will eat it, but babies are dumb
They wet their diapers and suck on their thumbs.
The songs are lovely, catchy melodies. And a bonus, a story Waylon tells about “Useless (The Little Horse That Didn’t Grow)”. If you have kids, or just want to remember the kid in you, think of picking up this CD.
That’s de-helling. Like Pharoah relented before Moses, I have come around to the good side of Christian thinking–doing good for its own sake. Well, except for the benefit of that do-good feeling. We don’t do anything totally without thought of getting something in return, do we?
But my earlier thoughts were diirected towards–not Hitler, Saddam nor some low-life child molester, for those few repulse me, but I would not wish retribution upon them of such finality. There are many reasons why these people do what they do. Who I couldn’t tolerate this morning were custom picture framers who knew better, but cheated their customers by using non-acid free mount and matboard, and horror of horrors! — cellophane tape and non-acid free glue directly on artwork. You can’t fool me; I know the look of LePage’s even thirty years after it has been applied. Without going further into this, it does ruin both the piece and its value. It upsets me to see this. And, they overcharge their customers for this.
Oddly enough, while I’m writing this (I’ve learned to think and type and sing along mentally to the stereo simultaneously) the song playing is from the “Old Dogs” CD and sung by Waylon Jennings, Mel Tillis, Bobby Bare and Jerry Reed. It’s called, and sung to a Polka beat: “(You’re) Still Gonna Die”. Great tune.
Realizing that I have indeed stated here clearly my doubt in the existence of a Hell, let me just say that I would probably LIKE to believe in one right now, and if I did, I have already prepared a list of potential candidates for entry.
I am busy in the frameshop right now, fielding “When’s it gonna be ready?” questions from clients, but hope to produce some finished pieces by mid-day (based on hour-to-hour who screams loudest) and get a bit of time to publish my thoughts on Hell and the Proper Methods of Archival Framing shortly after.
I’m sure you’re just dying to read my list, huh? Use the time to think up your own.
(In truth, there’s no one I actually could condemn to burn in a hell forever, so this is just a momentary relapse back to my Christian upbringing. That said, even though this is wishful thinking, politicians and bosses are not to be included on any lists. Hell, we don’t want to go through eternity with them again, do we?)
Perfect timing: Crawford Killian at Writing Fiction has just posted an entry about critiquing on a personal level, and from the author’s point of view. Crof is a teacher and experienced writer on both the art of writing and of fiction, so it gives us a closer view of the art and of its value to a writer. And now, hhhhhere’s Crawford!
Thanks to Anne at Fishbucket, and as she implies, this is one site to be envious of, in design as well as content. Check it out, and click on parts of the black thingie on the top left, especially the little TV:
Most certainly an award-winning site if there ever was one.
(NOTE: According to my posted goals for today, this post is in keeping with being politically incorrect by suggesting that awards be given to someone who did something outstanding. PC would demand we give everyone recognition of some sort, and take the big guy’s award away.)
…I shall marry a plumber.
Today I am going to make a concentrated effort to be politically incorrect. This shouldn’t be too hard for me, as I am a baby boomer (there, that’s one—or it should be; age discrimination labeling). Since my frameshop is next door to my house, I’m here all day and so I got a chance to say good morning to the garbagemen today (I think this could count as two in one). My neighbor is retired, and we sometimes get bored with being housewives and like to “do lunch”, which is I suppose, a typical woman thing to do. Maybe I’ll get a chance to run out to the supermarket, since even though as the woman of the house that’s been my job, I did forget to buy something for tonight’s main course—oh, silly me!, But what did you expect from a blonde? Jim already called and asked if I have had the oil changed in Greenie—that’s my Honda, and boy, he’s a great car, especially when I keep up with the maintenance, and sometimes I forget about the mechanical stuff—that’s a guy thing. Oh well, maybe I’ll take more interest in this stuff when I’m a blue-hair.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology