You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August, 2007.
They are small, white and pink, and vaguely shaped by purpose or happenstance to resemble a pharmaceutical. I can’t help but be happy when I see a handful of Good and Plenty candies. Perhaps it is the nostalgic memory of drive-in theatre cabaret dances that mimics the steam driven pistons of a locomotive. (For those that remember this you have my sympathy and do your bones ache too?) Maybe it is the lost innocence of candy that does not shout to get my attention, that pulls me towards something simpler, quieter, more refined. Either way it is one of my secret indulgences.
A friend saw me pop one the other day and questioned in a particular welcome to the club way. “Anti-depressant?”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a half dozen more and slid those into my mouth as well. “Oh yeah,” My retort mingled with a false air of conspiracy “want some?”
NOTE: Did you know that Licorice is a natural (homeopathic) remedy for stress. Although G&P contain less than 2% licorice extract I wonder if there is a connection?
Those who “can” do it. Those who “can’t” teach. This is my second year teaching at NIC. (I teach Illustration). It is just one class (two sections) and I can not tell you how much time it takes to compose lessons, dream up assignments, mentor and monitor students, and keep up to speed.
I love teaching, but like most things, I hate the administration behind the scenes.
I can “do” and teach right? I would hate to be fooling myself in this.
I should write something about this, something poignant and moving.
Or maybe I will just watch the last of the summer reruns and reality shows. Its not like they will be around forever.
Creativity is a cloak I wear that has a mantle of brilliance and a yoke of insanity. Without one or the other it is just another pile of fabric. It hangs in my closet. I am afraid to wear it most of the times. Afraid of one or the other, the expectation of brilliance the incrimination of insanity. Not that I am able to control it. Because more often than not I will slip it on hoping for brilliance and instead wear the purchased scribblings of madness; the embarrassing, pointless wanderings born of chaos and bled to bedlam.
Not that chaos is bad. I love chaos. It is comforting, like a pallet of mixed paint. Potential unlimited by technique or time. Unsaid and thus unspent, a vault of banked, horded latent genius.
Of course, if I long for the comfort of chaos, I get brilliance and all the presumptive completeness that kills chaos and organizes it into the palatable. The praise of all those chewing bites, the ingested, digested, and excreted bits of applause that seek to support the tickling idea in the back of my head that I have made a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. A funny fact that presumes that a silk purse is better — just don’t ask the sow.
So it hangs in my closet, and most times I push it aside and put on the t-shirt of mediocrity. It has a clever saying silk screened to the front. It’s not brilliant, nor madness, it’s just comfortable in its well worn nondescript way.
In the sound track of my life I change moods according to the cues given to me by a tone deaf music director.
The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do. — Thomas Jefferson
A man who uses a great many words to express his meaning is like a bad marksman who instead of aiming a single stone at an object takes up a handful and throws at it in hopes he may hit. — Samuel Johnson
Yeah … I know, I am the human shotgun of literary composition.
As writers it seems that we are constantly deluged by eager converts of electronic mayhem who want nothing more than for us to join their ranks. Computers, software, and the internet have reached inside our comfortable toolbox and swapped out our trusted typewriters for keyboards, and our number 2 pencils for flashing hypnotic cursers. For the most part this transition, although difficult for many, has left us as a group better equipped to create, and in some cases, better writers. Lately, however, I have felt the electronic robed devotees trying to pry into that ultimate sanctum sanctorum; my diaries and journals. They of course have a different name for it, they call it blogging or blogs and despite my initial reluctance, I must say that I now count myself as one of the hive-minded zealots. In a similar way that adding a few simple lines to a square can magically create a cube, a blog can move your personal writings, journals, or diaries into a multidimensional, interactive expression that is more than just the sum of its parts.
A blog can be the best of both worlds. Where diaries are normally layers of individual, private, and static content, blogs are typically layers of social, public, and interactive content. What would seem at first glance to be at diametrically opposite spectrums can mystically be merged, however, by the effective use of privacy options. This means that your personal writings can remain personal and your more public writings can be open to a select audience. More importantly your polemic rants and raves can be accessed by the world at large.
A blog is a diary or journal to which you can hand out keys. You can also rescind such privileges and take back the keys you have granted. You can write just for yourself or for a group of friends. it is as discreet or as public as you make it.
With a journal or diary your best laid plans are often foiled when somebody stumbles across its secret location; hidden behind War and Peace on the bookshelf or wrapped in a manilla folder called “Taxes 02.” The power of blogging lies not in its single location (find it once and find it all) but in its inherit ability to remain true to itself, with some writings being open and other writings being private. Because it does not have a physical location inside your home it can also be as accessible on the road in Cancun as it is in your bedroom or den.
Because you can control the content and you control the audience, a blog can be an expression of interest to a very narrow audience on a very narrow subject. To make it even more intriguing there is nothing stopping you from having as many topical blogs as you have whims. A blog for personal thoughts and wanderings, a journal on 18th century beer steins for the public, or a publication of short stories for a writing group.
One of the great advantages of a blog is that it is indexed. Do you need to find a character reference you wrote last year as part of a larger group of research? With a blog, you type in a keyword and the all relevant hits appear without a signal page being turned. You can even search comments made by other people. An even more powerful feature of blogs is the ability to track or link back to another blog or web article. Are you writing about gothic vampires in 17th century New Orleans and have found the perfect historical reference on the subject elsewhere on the web? With a simple link it has now become part of your blog that you, or others, can refer too at will. These “Pings” or “trackbacks”create further dimensional extensions. The work of others now becomes part of your own library of thoughts feelings and connections.
A blog can be a creative workspace that promotes interchange with like minded individuals. It offers validation of great ideas, applause and critiques. Everything you write on a blog that you make public has the option of being commented on. This interactive element creates an atmosphere of collaboration where thoughts can be answered and suggestions or support offered that speak directly to the topic or concern you were writing about.
In a world where the cost of printing and publishing thoughts or creative explorations is almost prohibitively expensive it almost feels like a conspiracy. It is an obstacle that seems set to weed out individual expression to an amalgamated cookie cutter product of what others decide is publicly palatable. A blog on the other hand is the easiest, cheapest way in the world to be self published. You decide what is palatable. and you write to the constraints of your heart not necessarily to a market niche. Truly, within seconds of finishing, your thoughts can be published and people can be reading it. Your audience is only limited by how much access you give to it and how much you promote it.
In fact, blogs are so universally accepted and used by so many people that having a space to write freely in daily or weekly installments has become the new rage in self promotion. Have you written a book or do you have a following of people who read or are interested in what you do? A blog is a great way to keep people informed of what you are creating, how you do it, and what matters in your life. JK Rowling has stated that between books, her blog (website) and others kept the media as well as her friends informed on progress of individual chapters and clues as to what was happening and her feelings about certain events. This “constant presence” in the hearts and minds of her readers has now become the new standard.
Believe it or not what works for giants also works for the unknown. A blog can contain public parts or snippets of your work. You can talk about progress you are making, publications, or upcoming book signings. On password protected pages you can showcase completed but unsold work. You can create a portfolio of published work.
A blog is the power to share collective ideas or keep the secrets of your heart all at the same time. It is a reflection of the many facets of yourself, the public persona and the solitary soul. It is a private place to soliloquize and a public place to sell. if a word processor is a tool of creation, A blog is a tool of expression. Finally a tool I can use.
***
Blogging note:
Not all blogging software is created equal, and there are differences in levels of privacy and complexity. I don’t recommend any specific one, and as a matter of fact I have used (or am using) different blog engines for different reasons. Here are a few links to some popular blogging engines.
Blogger. This is the easy way into the blogging world. It is free. All you need is a google account (like Gmail) and it is simple to set up. It does not have all the privacy features that some might like, but you will be up and writing (blogging) in minutes! This blog you are reading uses a Blogger account!
WordPress. There are two flavors of WordPress. One that is hosted with them on their servers and one that you set up and install yourself (or have somebody do it for you). Word press is a great piece of free software with a lot of power and flexibility. I use it for all my domain specific blogs.
LiveJournal. This is the great grandfather of blogs. It has been sold and is under new management but the core product remains the same. It is a good alternative for quick, set it and forget it blogging and has a large community of users.
iWeb. If you happen to own a Mac, this is a no brainer. You might already have it on your system and not even know it. It is offered as part of the iLife suite if purchased separately and includes iMovie and GarageBand, and iPhoto. Apple is the King of drag and drop, and this software works like it is billed, very intuitive and a breeze to set up. However, you need an .Mac account (or web server access) for it to work.
I’ve decided to continue with my somewhat depressing (love?) story, Kindred Kind. I have tried writing this story before, but as my writing process is to write as I live, or worse yet, live as I write, I have often thought of this action as akin to premeditation. And yet, undaunted, I slide on this particular story like an old unlaundered jumpsuit, pulling up the rusty, mold encrusted zipper with a pair of needle nose pliers, being careful not to get anything on me. Writing it in first person complicates this tricky maneuver.
As I have released my mind to wander down this dark path a thought came to mind; A marriage certificate is the diploma that God gives you for a doctoral thesis you have yet to write. It belongs to my story. I am not sure where but I will piece it together.
When I commit myself to writing, of traveling down a path where most times I have no idea where it will end, I will often find parts strewn along the way. It is as if I am following a wounded creature. A blood trail.
I will walk three steps and pick up a severed toe, another mile or so and a spleen appears. I put these items in my bag and track the prey to the climax. As I collect these seemingly unrelated parts I will assemble them, stitching them together in a mock mirror image of how I believe they should appear. Toward the end, the weight will get burdensome, heavy, oppressive, but ultimately I will reach it.
The head. The point that gives the whole act meaning. If I am lucky there will not be a foot attached to my work where the head should be. I will be careful not to look down at the head. I will pull a burlap sack from the pocket of the bloody reanimation strapped to my back and bag it. I do not want to look at the wide rolling eyes, the twisted face, the matted blood soaked hair. I do not want to recognize the creature.
(Did I look at myself before the darkness of the bag engulfed me?)
I will finish the job, check the hand sewn seams, and hose it off to make it presentable. I will give it a name and set it free. If I have done a good job it will hobble away, perhaps to be seen by others, but most likely not. It is after all just an exercise. Practice. I will watch as it limps and grumbles away into the forest of obscurity and second guess the placement of the toe in his ear. Ultimately I will shrug my shoulders and move on.
If I have done my job poorly, it will writhe in pain, screaming in torment and tears until I mercifully pull out a gun, shoot it, and burry it before anybody else sees the hideous iniquitous incarnation.
This is a story snippet, and unfinished idea, something unusual that I am playing with. Feel free to comment as I may never return to it.
***
I stare towards the horizon. In the pale afternoon sun the shadow of my life grows ever longer over uneven surfaces and broken paths. Neither a reflection of me, nor a complete picture of who I am , the shadow is never the less connected to me. Whether I am turned against its power running towards the light, or curved into its dark embrace afraid to face the glare of truth, the silent silhouette traces the distorted outline of who I am and who I want to be.
My neighbor breaks the fugue as he raises his hand in greeting and smiles. I could have easily been the dog, a lawn jockey, or the cable man. He continues to walk uncommitted and unaware from his car to his home; His hair combed, tie neatly in place, briefcase hanging like a parasitic crab from his left hand. I stare blankly back at him and watch his shadow cheerfully bounce as it glides over the new silver Über sports car, up the impossibly clean driveway, over the deep green carpet of his immaculately kept lawn, and is ultimately swallowed by his womb-like American colonial split level home.
“Did you see that?” I asked quietly, pointing a lethargic finger to the now absent figure. When was the last time you bounced across anything?
My shadow falls over the perpetually shifting, fading, and refreshed oil stain that has set up permanent residence on my driveway. From under my toes he creeps over the tenuous purchase of brown grass, green weeds and sun-baked earth. His pointing finger mocks my outstretched hand as if to say, yeah? So what?
I lower my arm, the scowl on my face fading to a kind of soft capitulation. He retracts his arm. Détente. Our conversations often end this way. He knows the meaning of what I leave unsaid, and I don’t r say the things which are obtusely obvious.
A familiar Volkswagen van, driven by my wife, putters up the street and into view trailing blue smoke from its exhaust. The driver’s window is rolled down as she pulls up into the driveway, (unconsciously but precisely lining up oil stain to vehicle). She breaks suddenly, the car shakes and rattles. She turns the car off. It sputters, chokes, and dies. Her hair hangs in sweaty wind blown strands, punctuating her furrowed brow. She leans slightly from the open window, measures my appearence, and speaks her first words of the day to me.
“You know, we have a shower.” Her voice cuts with honed sarcasm. “And you have clean clothes in your bureau drawer.”
I look down at my current assemble. Blue moo-cow pajama bottoms, A Mariners t-shirt with ketchup stains permanently set in, and a cream (It may have been white at some point?) terry cloth bath robe, with the feathered threadbare letters “Rama” embroidered on the left chest pocket.
“I’m comfortable.”
“Well, you’re the only one.”
She crawls out of the car, slams the door and passes me without looking. Our shadows cross and mingle, knitted intimately together by the sun. I feel part of her for a second, my eyes close, our shared shadows kiss, and then are pulled apart. I open my eyes.
“Did you work today?” It was a hand grenade she threw over her shoulder as she walked towards the house.
“I’ve been very busy.” I replied raising my voice slightly to follow her retreating form.
“Not exactly what I asked, was it?”
This last bit she lobbed with finality, not expecting an answer as she opened, entered, and closed the door to the house.
I look at my watch. 5:36 p.m. I bend over and pick up the morning paper.
My shadow falls over the muted headlines; war, casualties, loss of innocence.
“I’ve been very busy.” I mutter. “I’ve been very busy.”
