LITERATURE: The War Poets of England

Amazing what you can stumble across when traversing the internet. I came across this website of War Poets when following a Google search to my site for Wilfrid Gibson’s The Stone, which I had posted back in October because it is one of my favorites—if only out of nostalgia.

The site identifies a stone memorial unveiled in the Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey in 1985 honoring sixteen of England’s poets of the first World War, many of whom were killed in action at a quite young age, and surprisingly one, Rupert Brooke, was eulogized by Churchill although this was thought to be more of a political showing (as what is not?) than of Brooke’s record as soldier or poet.

It’s quite interesting though, and brings one into a mood of patriotism rare to us today. Sadly, I feel as if the most sincere if misguided passions of war demonstrated of late is that of the terrorists of September 11th. Admirable and inspiring of course, are the young men and women in our military who believe that it is their duty to serve and protect against the slaughter of innocent people based upon such a difference of opinion, and the injustice of man’s inhumanity to man.

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REALITY?: Monday Morning Routine

Great visit with my Dad today. I pronounced two digital clocks dead after tinkering with them for a bit, but siphoned the gas out of the snowblower with a turkey baster so that I could remix it with the proper engine oil since it’s a two-stroke engine. Then I had to fight with him to put it back into the snowblower because he didn’t think he’d need it anymore this winter. Strange how time changes things. Now I’m doing some of the mechanical repairs and in the meantime, after lunch my father brought out a cheesecake he’d just baked.

Good thing though that I wasn’t stressed out. Didn’t dare light a cigarette on the 45-minute drive home, worried that I’d blow myself up because my hands still stink of gasoline. But I feel good.

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BLOGGING: The Why’s Revisited

Last night, in a particularly gloomy mood, I halfway decided to put a 6-month limit on my weblogging adventures, at the very least, to look things over and reassess the situation and value of it versus the time I put into it. It just seemed crazy to keep it up, try to come up with new thoughts or try to avoid posting useless thoughts that nobody cares about, or start repeating myself—which I’ve done, and believe me, this sends up flags that could very well stop me in my tracks after having dealt so closely with my mother’s Alzheimer’s—just for a handful of readers and thousands of poor unsuspecting college kids trying to do honest research through Google and ending up in my lap instead. But then something happens that puts you back on track.

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INTERACTIVE FICTION: Lost Again

Here’s a category I haven’t posted to in a long while–Interactive Fiction. It’s another of those things I WANT to get back into, but along with the pile of unread books, has been woefully neglected.

Luckily, one of our writers in the Narratives is really into it, and has, by learning the process through John Timmons, written a piece that I eagerly tried out this morning. It look great so far–I’ve already gotten hopelessly lost and my very important mission briefing has turned into dust before I thought to read it.

I intend to bravely enter Christopher Coonce-Ewing’s Early American Anomalies later this afternoon, armed with pencil and notebook to chart my course and have some fun along the way.

Hope I don’t get ripped to shreds by dogs, shot by mysterious enemies, locked in rooms I can’t fly my way out of, or any of the other myriad traps and pitfalls I’m sure he’s worked into the piece.

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SELF ANALYSIS: The Old Woman in The Mirror

I haven’t had the time to take a week or month or however long it takes to have a midlife crisis, but every now and then it hits me, so I’ve been doing it in dribs and drabs. Perhaps it should just be entered on my to-do list, and then I’d get around to and over it.

This weekend I’ve been a little testy, to say the least. If I look in the mirror, it only makes matters worse. I’m not in there, or at least I’d like to deny that she is me. Looks never bothered me, except to not appear bedraggled or downright ugly—and I’ve had some pretty ugly days even when youth was on my side.

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CURRENT AFFAIRS: Daytona 500

Cripes, why did I even go into the living room? J’s sitting there eagerly awaiting the start of the Nascar Daytona 500, and I wander in when I heard the President’s voice. I watched through the blessing, and then I wanted to see an all-grown-up Lee Ann Rimes sing the national anthem. Here’s where the tears that had started welling up in my eyes at the Americanism of it all turned into that sore throat feeling and blurry vision when you’re holding it back. The Stealth flying over did me in. J just laughed at me as I ran for a tissue.

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LITERATURE & WRITING: Children’s Market

Does anybody out there know if the children’s market is as open right now as they seem to claim it is?

Not that I need another path opened up to me right now, but it is something I’ve had on the back burner for a little while now, and wonder if I should pursue it. A friend of mine is an excellent artist, specializing in pastels, but also quite capable with oils and other mediums. About six months ago she handed me an idea along with some sketches for a children’s book, and I’ve been dragging my feet on it. Mainly this is because of time, but also, in the back of my mind I’m not sure I know how to gear my writing for kids. Obviously I’d have to drop the black humor and sarcasm that I just love to hide within my words. Kids just wouldn’t really take kindly to my killing off of Spot just to ensure the happy ending for Fluffy. Nor, I suppose, would their parents.

But attempting a different form of writing, exploring the possibilities of thinking like a child to reach a child, that’s an interesting proposition. And, seeking happy endings might be a nice change for me.

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PEOPLE: M. C. Escher

Hmmm. May have to start up a new category after stumbling upon The Mathematical Art of M. C. Escher. Escher’s work came into prominence just as I was getting interested in art, and his style was exceptionally well accepted in the 60s and 70s for its similarities to imagery induced by mind-expanding drugs. No drug known to man, however, can come up with the precision and fascinating geometrical and mathematical calculations present in Escher’s art. While his work is beautiful, each piece need be examined closely for the truths it presents and questions it both asks and answers. I was always fascinated by the intricacy of detail and amazed by the meticulousness of Escher’s work, and am even more intrigued by it now.

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WRITING: Rewriting

Rewriting is an odd exercise indeed. Reading your own work critically, analyzing it with an eye towards clarity, function, flow, story arc, imagery, etc. You’ll read a sentence and eventually it comes to you naturally–a better way of saying it. It’s difficult to attack a piece with all the elements of mind, or even to focus on one sole purpose while ignoring all the rest, and yet it can not be read as a flowing story, because if you allow that to happen, you’re either not paying attention to the details, or you are finished and have a polished work of art. Most likely, it is the former; you’re not paying attention and have gotten lazy.

Lowering your standards on your own written work is self-defeating, even while being a temporary high. “I’m good!” is necessary to continue the practice of writing. “I’m not good enough,” is necessary to produce a good story.

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REALITY?: Susie Homemaker

Yes, today I put on my Susie Homemaker Hat, and bake cookies. Usually I bake loads of Christmas cookies after Christmas, because as a retailer, do not have any time to do so prior to the holidays. Somehow I managed to fritter January away without a cookie or candy to my name. We’re not big on sweets in our house, but there are certain things that we look forward to at least once a year. I make a great peanut brittle, rum balls, English toffee brittle covered in dark chocolate and walnuts, and a fudge that’s not teeth-hurtingly sweet.

Our Writers Group is meeting for the first time this Wednesday night, and it’s a perfect opportunity for me to place “bake cookies” on my to-do list. As we get older, it seems that we have less and less time to do the things we want to do, and yet, maybe because it’s the way we were raised, will always fulfill commitments made. Thus, even a “fun” thing, once placed on my to-do list, gets done.

J laughs at my list, because it seems to contain the most grandiose of planning, as if a day were made up of 48 hours, a week of 14 days. Shortly after we were married, I found an item on my list that looked suspiciously like his printing: “love husband.” That was a task easily done.

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REALITY?: Happy Valentine’s Day

Bah, humbug.

It’s just another day like any other. My husband did go to the Polish Deli and brought me back wonderful imported chocolates–dark with Grand Marnier filling, Dark chocolate covered gingerbread cookies, and some kind of fancy airy wafer rolls covered in coconut that come six to a box. No roses today, because I get one every Friday night; a single long stemmed-red rose that he’s brought me every Friday night since even before we were married. In our small town, he’s know as The Rose Man, and I’m known as the luckiest woman in town. Several times when he’s worked late and hasn’t made it to the florist before they closed, I’ve answered the doorbell to have one of the shop’s ladies deliver the rose to me because they couldn’t wait for him.

We decided not to waste five or six dollars on cards. Actually, he tried slipping me cards from previous years once he knew I saved them. I appreciated his frugality. Little things mean a lot.

What did I get this seemingly perfect man? Nothing. He doesn’t like candy, plus the sugar’s not good for him. I promised him I’d make a super dinner, but he had a buddy coming over so he wanted kielbasi and sauerkraut fresh from the Polish market. I suppose I could promise sexual favors for later this evening, but honestly now, after sauerkraut?

No, I guess with at least four kisses and hugs a day, and weekly roses, and special dinners cooked five nights out of seven, Valentine’s Day is no more special than any other.

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BLOGGING: Typelist Additions

Over the past few weeks I’ve added several weblogs to my listing, especially under the daily reading category of Verrry Interesting. This one in particular I want to point out, and especially today’s post because it touches on something near and dear to the backside of my heart, Political Correctness.

Do visit Gene Expression, and go through the archives as well. There’s some really interesting stuff in the closet.

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REALITY?: Aging

I’ve found it. From CTNOW.com, check this article on one lady’s solution to her problems:

‘One-Grandma Crime Wave’ Includes State
February 12, 2004
By JAMES PRICHARD, Associated Press

GRAND RAPIDS, Mich. — A 58-year-old grandmother with no prior criminal history faces up to 40 years in prison after pleading guilty Wednesday in federal court to robbing two Michigan banks and admitting to 10 other robberies in Connecticut and Massachusetts.

And then see an entry I made here on Spinning last year…

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REALITY?: Action Ideas – An Update

Well, I tried my damnedest to get into some kind of trouble yesterday, but even with my brain setting at INTENSE, I seem to have lost my touch.

I hate to think that life has mellowed me beyond the seeking of the edge where I may step with both drive and hesitation, clutching the practical in one hand balanced out against the other gripping discovery. Wisdom rides the center line, but clouded by folly allowed to linger until the successful sun of knowledge shines through.

Meanwhile, while I meandered through the day with caution, another of my generation has moved ahead with my brilliant life plan. A few words about her later—as soon as I can locate on the web the evidence I need to prove our point.

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WRITING: Formula

Rewriting teaches you so much in the process.

Imagery of poetry + factual accounting of journalism = narrative.

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