Random Bits from Facebook
November 5:
From the Dredge. For the record, the trip in question had included dinner with Dementia's Aunt Donna, and a trip to the Nashville Parthenon. But mostly, it's about one of my favorite pieces of music.
From 2015:
From the road (home again today):
Yesterday morning Dementia looked out the hotel window, and commented that there was a car in the lot with a pair of kayaks on the roof. I replied that I had seen them come in the previous night, and that they were pretty good boats, glass instead of plastic. I said it was a bit late in the year for kayaks, but then, people had done the Northwest Passage in kayaks, so "late in the season" was a REALLY relative concept.
Dementia said nothing to that, just turned to her music machine, which was due to be powered on anyway, and hit a few extra buttons. Bounding Main's version of "Northwest Passage" came flooding into the room. In due course, I picked my heart up off of the floor and got on with my morning...
November 7:
From the Dredge. I kind of need to hear this, today.
From 2019:
My ear worm of the last few days has been "Into the Fire" from "The Scarlett Pimpernel." BEST EARWORM EVER.
/////
Someone has to face the valley;
Rush in, you've got to rally
And win, boys!
When the world is saying not to,
By God! You know you've got to
Press on, boys!
Never hold back your step for a moment;
Never doubt that your courage will grow!
For it's higher and higher and into the fire we go!
//////
Yeah, I can live with this one forever, happily.
November 7:
Watching the most recent "Doctor Who", slightly time-shifted. I just watched a British General, in 1855, threaten the Doctor with a flintlock pistol with the frizzen open. I doubt one person in a hundred will know how wrong that is, but unfortunately, I'm one of them.
November 9:
Regarding Gibberish:
I continue to claw my way through Viola Spolin, and it's rough going. In person, I would have long since been chased out of the class, unless the instructor was actually willing to LISTEN to me when I said that there was something missing in my brain, and when I say, "Can't," I really MEAN, "Can't."
I just finished plowing through a section on the use of gibberish as a means of getting the student to concentrate on intonation and cadence rather than words as a means of expression. It's an interesting idea, but outside my ability. If you ask me to make up just ONE word, I might be able to grind out something in five or ten minutes. But a string of nonsense words at anything like a conversational pace? Just... NO.
It occurs to me that I might have a prayer of completing the exercises if I had a small vocabulary of pseudo-nonsense words to work with, say, the names of musical instruments. I could use them as gibberish, and eliminate that level of creative stress. It might work. Maybe.
Of course, there is the fact that I can't really speak English at normal conversational rates under normal circumstances. When I seem to be doing so, I am usually working off of memorized outlines (I have a LOT of memory...). When I have to express of-the-moment thought, there are these LONG pauses... (If you've had conversations with me, that was what was going on when I did that. I can't think and talk at the same time.)
At this point, I am reasonably certain that I will never find the key to the Creativity Box. But I continue to search...
November 10:
Musical Gibberish:
Continuing the thought of trying to communicate using only the names of musical instruments as nonsense words, I found myself looking for something with four syllables, mostly because there is a certain emphatic and angry four syllable word (which I have never actually used in the real world) that it might seem appropriate to use in such a situation.
My cranial denizens held a brief conference, and came back with, "Stratocaster," and I laughed out loud. Close your eyes and imagine an angry Samuel L. Jackson spitting it out, and you'll get the effect.
November 10:
From the Dredge. Things have changed in the last four years. But then again, they really haven't.
From 2017:
Had an experience last evening that reminded me why I am not a working writer. It involved carpentry, and it came out well enough in the end, but that isn't the point. I got it in my head to get a job done, hit a setback, decided to power through anyway, and hit a wall fairly hard. The details don't matter. The point is that there is a time to trudge ahead blindly, and there is a time to step back and walk away, at least for a while. Knowing when to do which is critical, and you will usually have to make the decision when you are tired, angry, sick, or otherwise impaired.
One of the consistent bits of writing advice that I hear over and over is to write EVERY day. I have experimented with this, and have learned that when I attempt to write by discipline the product makes me want to quit writing forever, or kill myself, or at the very least destroy all trace of the result so that no else reads it and decides that I have to die for the good of humanity. I have learned, in fact, that I really shouldn't try to write fiction until the pressure against the inside of my fingertips gets pretty intense. So I am not, and never will be, a commercial writer.
I do OK with Trudge Mode, usually, as long as I have some kind of goal in sight, and there is no creativity involved. I have lived in that mode for years at a time, actually. But creativity on demand? Nope. Not going to happen.
Novebmer 11:
From the Dredge, for obvious reasons. Currently in Traverse City, MI, visiting 96 year old Aunt Neil. But some things need to be said, anyway.
From 2020:
To all those who have served,
Willingly or not,
Who served briefly or as a career,
Who came home safely, or did not:
Thank you.
November 13:
I just spent about 48 hours in the company of my brother Pete, Wednesday night to Friday night. This included at least 14 hours of one-on-one conversation, and about six hours of conversation with our Aunt Cornelia, who will be 97 next month. It was a very good time.
November 13:
Very minor epiphany: WindyCon is going I as I write this, about an hour away. I am not going to try to attend. Registration closes at 6:00, so timing would force me to ghost, and the con rule is "Masks at all times." And while I believe in masks, I also am inclined to believe that if things are bad enough to require masks, they're bad enough to eliminate casually recreational activities altogether. Such is life.
November 14:
From the Dredge. Posting to make sure I archive it.
From 2016:
Dementia has been listening to a series of podcasts from a site called StoryWork. Today, the episode she listened to (which is a few years old) contained a discussion of the old dichotomy on the distinction between Fantasy and Science Fiction, and came up with the following statement, which, to my mind, after playing with the question for a VERY long time, pretty much ends the question.
"This is the key difference: Fantasy changes the rules of reality in order to engage you emotionally, and Science Fiction changes the rules of reality in order to engage you intellectually."
--Alastair Stephens, StoryWonk
November 14:
From the Dredge. Posting to ensure it is archived. (Also, at least slightly funny.)
From 2016:
Life in my household:
Hyena: There is a place for lyrical prose. I am increasingly suspicious that it is on a bonfire.
Dementia: ::laughter::
November 14:
Finding "Walla":
Conversations with nonagenarian aunts about family history leads to awareness of holes in my knowledge of family history.
Due to deaths and remarriages, my mother had a father, a mother, an adoptive mother, a step-father, and a step-mother. I knew the latter two personally; the first two died before I was born, but I knew their names. The adoptive mother died when I was an infant, and all I really knew about her was her position in the parade and the nickname she went by. She was married three times, had a child with each of her first two husbands, and buried those two husbands. She had four surnames in her life, and I only knew the two most recent ones. There is only one person I know of who might be able to tell me more, and I haven't heard from her in decades.
Last night, with a bit of luck, I learned that "Wala" (correct spelling of the nickname) was Anna W. (surname variable by decade). So now I know her legal first name, and three of her four surnames. I have a dubious clue as to her birth surname, based on her son's peculiar middle name. But the dates don't match. Life goes on.
I guess I need to try to find my Aunt Nancy, who might actually know a few more answers...
(Tagging Tim J Haynie, Pete Haynie, and Bill Plane, all of whom are entitled to more details than I will put on Facebook.)
November 15:
From the Dredge. Dementia and I with the adopted niece Quin, who took her role as "Bride" to a rather unusual (and delightful) place. The scene is the Willowbrook Ballroom, the last place famous ghost Resurrection Mary was seen alive. The building has burned down since the photo, which is a sadness. (Photo of Hyena, Demantia, and Quin.)
From the Dredge. For the record, the trip in question had included dinner with Dementia's Aunt Donna, and a trip to the Nashville Parthenon. But mostly, it's about one of my favorite pieces of music.
From 2015:
From the road (home again today):
Yesterday morning Dementia looked out the hotel window, and commented that there was a car in the lot with a pair of kayaks on the roof. I replied that I had seen them come in the previous night, and that they were pretty good boats, glass instead of plastic. I said it was a bit late in the year for kayaks, but then, people had done the Northwest Passage in kayaks, so "late in the season" was a REALLY relative concept.
Dementia said nothing to that, just turned to her music machine, which was due to be powered on anyway, and hit a few extra buttons. Bounding Main's version of "Northwest Passage" came flooding into the room. In due course, I picked my heart up off of the floor and got on with my morning...
November 7:
From the Dredge. I kind of need to hear this, today.
From 2019:
My ear worm of the last few days has been "Into the Fire" from "The Scarlett Pimpernel." BEST EARWORM EVER.
/////
Someone has to face the valley;
Rush in, you've got to rally
And win, boys!
When the world is saying not to,
By God! You know you've got to
Press on, boys!
Never hold back your step for a moment;
Never doubt that your courage will grow!
For it's higher and higher and into the fire we go!
//////
Yeah, I can live with this one forever, happily.
November 7:
Watching the most recent "Doctor Who", slightly time-shifted. I just watched a British General, in 1855, threaten the Doctor with a flintlock pistol with the frizzen open. I doubt one person in a hundred will know how wrong that is, but unfortunately, I'm one of them.
November 9:
Regarding Gibberish:
I continue to claw my way through Viola Spolin, and it's rough going. In person, I would have long since been chased out of the class, unless the instructor was actually willing to LISTEN to me when I said that there was something missing in my brain, and when I say, "Can't," I really MEAN, "Can't."
I just finished plowing through a section on the use of gibberish as a means of getting the student to concentrate on intonation and cadence rather than words as a means of expression. It's an interesting idea, but outside my ability. If you ask me to make up just ONE word, I might be able to grind out something in five or ten minutes. But a string of nonsense words at anything like a conversational pace? Just... NO.
It occurs to me that I might have a prayer of completing the exercises if I had a small vocabulary of pseudo-nonsense words to work with, say, the names of musical instruments. I could use them as gibberish, and eliminate that level of creative stress. It might work. Maybe.
Of course, there is the fact that I can't really speak English at normal conversational rates under normal circumstances. When I seem to be doing so, I am usually working off of memorized outlines (I have a LOT of memory...). When I have to express of-the-moment thought, there are these LONG pauses... (If you've had conversations with me, that was what was going on when I did that. I can't think and talk at the same time.)
At this point, I am reasonably certain that I will never find the key to the Creativity Box. But I continue to search...
November 10:
Musical Gibberish:
Continuing the thought of trying to communicate using only the names of musical instruments as nonsense words, I found myself looking for something with four syllables, mostly because there is a certain emphatic and angry four syllable word (which I have never actually used in the real world) that it might seem appropriate to use in such a situation.
My cranial denizens held a brief conference, and came back with, "Stratocaster," and I laughed out loud. Close your eyes and imagine an angry Samuel L. Jackson spitting it out, and you'll get the effect.
November 10:
From the Dredge. Things have changed in the last four years. But then again, they really haven't.
From 2017:
Had an experience last evening that reminded me why I am not a working writer. It involved carpentry, and it came out well enough in the end, but that isn't the point. I got it in my head to get a job done, hit a setback, decided to power through anyway, and hit a wall fairly hard. The details don't matter. The point is that there is a time to trudge ahead blindly, and there is a time to step back and walk away, at least for a while. Knowing when to do which is critical, and you will usually have to make the decision when you are tired, angry, sick, or otherwise impaired.
One of the consistent bits of writing advice that I hear over and over is to write EVERY day. I have experimented with this, and have learned that when I attempt to write by discipline the product makes me want to quit writing forever, or kill myself, or at the very least destroy all trace of the result so that no else reads it and decides that I have to die for the good of humanity. I have learned, in fact, that I really shouldn't try to write fiction until the pressure against the inside of my fingertips gets pretty intense. So I am not, and never will be, a commercial writer.
I do OK with Trudge Mode, usually, as long as I have some kind of goal in sight, and there is no creativity involved. I have lived in that mode for years at a time, actually. But creativity on demand? Nope. Not going to happen.
Novebmer 11:
From the Dredge, for obvious reasons. Currently in Traverse City, MI, visiting 96 year old Aunt Neil. But some things need to be said, anyway.
From 2020:
To all those who have served,
Willingly or not,
Who served briefly or as a career,
Who came home safely, or did not:
Thank you.
November 13:
I just spent about 48 hours in the company of my brother Pete, Wednesday night to Friday night. This included at least 14 hours of one-on-one conversation, and about six hours of conversation with our Aunt Cornelia, who will be 97 next month. It was a very good time.
November 13:
Very minor epiphany: WindyCon is going I as I write this, about an hour away. I am not going to try to attend. Registration closes at 6:00, so timing would force me to ghost, and the con rule is "Masks at all times." And while I believe in masks, I also am inclined to believe that if things are bad enough to require masks, they're bad enough to eliminate casually recreational activities altogether. Such is life.
November 14:
From the Dredge. Posting to make sure I archive it.
From 2016:
Dementia has been listening to a series of podcasts from a site called StoryWork. Today, the episode she listened to (which is a few years old) contained a discussion of the old dichotomy on the distinction between Fantasy and Science Fiction, and came up with the following statement, which, to my mind, after playing with the question for a VERY long time, pretty much ends the question.
"This is the key difference: Fantasy changes the rules of reality in order to engage you emotionally, and Science Fiction changes the rules of reality in order to engage you intellectually."
--Alastair Stephens, StoryWonk
November 14:
From the Dredge. Posting to ensure it is archived. (Also, at least slightly funny.)
From 2016:
Life in my household:
Hyena: There is a place for lyrical prose. I am increasingly suspicious that it is on a bonfire.
Dementia: ::laughter::
November 14:
Finding "Walla":
Conversations with nonagenarian aunts about family history leads to awareness of holes in my knowledge of family history.
Due to deaths and remarriages, my mother had a father, a mother, an adoptive mother, a step-father, and a step-mother. I knew the latter two personally; the first two died before I was born, but I knew their names. The adoptive mother died when I was an infant, and all I really knew about her was her position in the parade and the nickname she went by. She was married three times, had a child with each of her first two husbands, and buried those two husbands. She had four surnames in her life, and I only knew the two most recent ones. There is only one person I know of who might be able to tell me more, and I haven't heard from her in decades.
Last night, with a bit of luck, I learned that "Wala" (correct spelling of the nickname) was Anna W. (surname variable by decade). So now I know her legal first name, and three of her four surnames. I have a dubious clue as to her birth surname, based on her son's peculiar middle name. But the dates don't match. Life goes on.
I guess I need to try to find my Aunt Nancy, who might actually know a few more answers...
(Tagging Tim J Haynie, Pete Haynie, and Bill Plane, all of whom are entitled to more details than I will put on Facebook.)
November 15:
From the Dredge. Dementia and I with the adopted niece Quin, who took her role as "Bride" to a rather unusual (and delightful) place. The scene is the Willowbrook Ballroom, the last place famous ghost Resurrection Mary was seen alive. The building has burned down since the photo, which is a sadness. (Photo of Hyena, Demantia, and Quin.)