Comma Splices

What are comma splices? I asked myself numerous times last week, looking furtively over my shoulder and hurrying away from suddenly menacing crowds of people. You never can tell which ones are elitists. Until they start frothing at the mouth.

"Advanced" Composition, English 374 brought out the worst in all of us. I might have been pounding the desk and spraying spittle along with the rest of 'em if I'd just known exactly what comma splices are. I'm a bit of a purist myself. In any event, one thing was clear. This was no trifling matter. I had to find out about comma splices. If looks can kill, then words must slaughter, and the kind of outrage I was witnessing included whole armies of words. And I might've been using comma splices without knowing. For my whole life!

What are comma splices? I asked myself again, as I wrote the opening lines to this post. If I admit anything, somebody'll have my guts for garters. And then a little tungsten filament in a little lightbulb over my head went "fwoosh!" and turned all incandescent. Because Google is your friend. And I'd forgotten about my old friend for a long time.

My friend Google tells me that my fears are mostly unfounded, and that Comma splices are when a comma comes and tries to connect two independent clauses that would be just fine on their own, thank you very much, and really don't want to be associated with each other besides. What they want is a good solid period separating 'em, or at least a real buffer-type word like 'yet', or 'so'.

The thing is, some of us elitists have gotten carried away and let these independent clauses be the bosses of us, 'stead of the other way around. Julius Caesar wrote "I came, I saw, I conquered." And you'll notice nobody told him to watch his comma splices.

Alive

Ahhhh.

I've finished a major speech and a sixteen page annotated bibliography, Ludovico Einaudi is tickling the ivories, and I'm alive.

Alive like gulping breath after breath of fresh, minus-something-degrees air that is one of the delicious ingredients of life. And exhaling it in big whooshes, like throwing hundred dollar bills in the air, because it's absolutely, one hundred percent, without-strings-attached free.

Alive like my cat sitting too close to the fireplace, eyes shut against the heat, enjoying every long second of blissful warmth.

Alive like being reminded of God's love in even the very smallest details of everyday life: the unexpected reminders that we really can trust Him.

Rex Murphy

Journalism and "news" have never been my thing. I read newspapers and magazines more because they're lying around than for any real desire to be reminded about the latest public outrage. If I see the letters "HST" (I apologize, dear reader), I flip the page. The same goes for Gordon Campbell. Letters to the Editor are vaguely interesting, and indicate slightly more intelligence on the part of the writers than say, Youtube comments, but in general, they aren't really worth reading either. There is always that danger of being sucked into the general idiocy yourself. After all, you could be reading Rex Murphy instead.

I don't really know who he is. Well, yes I do. According to the book, he's Canadian. On the downside, he's not a Christian, and he looks like the human incarnation of all the collective grumpiness of the world's old people:

In one sense, Mr. Murphy does the same thing as the papers by getting involved in public outrage at all. His best redeeming quality is more than that we can identify with him (because, secretly, we can't help getting emotionally involved in most arguments). He can write. When I picked up his book Points of View, it was in the same way I tend to pick up the local paper: disinterestedly. I flipped to a random section and started on what turned out to be the most caustic, witheringly sarcastic article I'd ever read. It was called "Air Rage? Nope, Just Another Fool." After a few more articles, I found that Murphy doesn't mince words. He rhetorically annihilates. I quote:

"Let us not prissify the world and life. Let us not confect dainty and trendy terms to 'explain' what does not need explanation. The loudmouth two rows in front of you berating the stewardess (please, not 'cabin attendant' - this is a plane, not a fishing lodge) hasn't got a 'condition.' And the lunatic who nearly side-swiped you is not suffering from 'road rage.' He's a little coward who's convinced that his car and anonymity morphs him into Clint Eastwood on wheels." (page 72)

Right (and often wrong), Murphy is at least clever and entertaining. And his stubborn resistance to political correctness (see section "The Politics of Language" for some great articles) is almost endearing.
I suggest picking up the book and beginning with "Cellphones" and "Is There a Gender Doctor in the House?" "The Blue Box of Paradise" is also worth your time.

The Ferryman

After England’s sunset blossoms orange and smoulders low,

walk softly through the forests where the lamp posts never grow.

Explore the quiet niches where the night flows thick and slow –

far from where the charcoal sky is all too brightly marked,

far from where the glaring moon is sadly white and scarred.

In the deepest pooled, cool dark,

skip a stone and watch it show

the depths of the unknown,

join me on the dock and dip your bravest toe –

we’ll soak our tired feet 

in friendship fully grown.

After England’s sunset blossoms orange and smoulders low,

when last days wilt away and dying, softly glow,

when it’s time to cross the Styx,

then sleep, and I will row.

    

Chapbooks and Poetry Slams

Today was unusually pleasant for a Tuesday. A semi-famous writerly type came and spoke in my English class for a couple hours. I'd heard about him, because he teaches at my university, and a lot of students raved about his excellence as a prof, but I didn't pay much attention until he came to my class. Then I realized the reports were pretty accurate. To make a long story short, he was an great story teller who'd done some interesting things.

My brain, traitorous creature, refuses to compile a witty summary of his exploits. In any case, he probably tells them best. I'll just content myself with latching on to some of the things he said. Apparently, "chapbooks" are becoming popular. As far as I can tell, a chapbook is just a compilation of writing, usually sold off the stage at poetry slams or similar reading events.

Sold off the stage. Madly inspiring or what?

Of course, going to a poetry slam would be hard if you don't like the idea of baring your soul to a bunch of artsy fartsy strangers. On the other hand, it's oddly fascinating. I can't tear my thoughts away from it. Entering a poetry slam has at least two benefits:
1) You meet people. People are interesting, and the connections you form with them can be the basis for your writing. You can hear or read their work, too.
2) You get feedback on your own work. You'll be able to scratch that ever present mental itch that wonders "Is my work good?"

I want to know what people think. I want to write something good. And I want to read what other people write, because it might be good too. I'm not only talking about finished products. The rough, unpolished stuff of notebooks (most writers have one, I think) shows the great diversity in the ways that people think.
How do people categorize the world? What do they choose to communicate? Which words are attractive to us, and why? It's fascinating stuff, especially in its infancy - in notebooks, chap books and poetry slams.

Triumphant Return

The Owl and the Cat were in a stunted evergreen debating the meaning of narcissism when it happened. 

"Nar-cis-sism n. 1. A psychological condition characterized by self-preoccupation, lack of empathy, and unconscious deficits in self esteem." said the Owl. 

"I - " said the Cat, but its reply was obscured by a thunderous fanfare of trumpets and stringed instruments. Unnaturally black clouds roiled overhead and huge drops of rain began smashing to earth. 

The Cat was dumbstruck. The Owl hooted happily. "You're flabbergasted! Ah, let me savour this sweet, sweet moment. Did you know, victory has the most extraordinary taste? No, of course not. Let me tell you about it! It's like ambrosia - liquid bliss with just a hint of something...hmm...how shall I describe it? It's like grapes, only much more powerful. Maybe watermelon..." It gloated in this way for some time. 

The Cat ignored all this and groomed itself in silence. After a few minutes the two creatures noticed it really was quiet. The fanfare had ceased. 

Finally, the Cat said "Perhaps - ", but it was once again interrupted.  The Owl could not contain itself - it did a little shuffling dance. The Cat licked its paw in sublime condescension.

"Behold!" bellowed the interrupting voice from above. "I am Icarus the Mighty, and I have been to the Candle Flame - and lived."

As they looked up, the Moth flapped majestically onto the Owl's branch. For a moth, it had remarkable presence. One wing was tattered and singed black; the other bore mysterious markings that looked as if they might be arcane. Around its body was a swordbelt and a fine cloak, and its eyes were shining. 

"How do you manage to bellow?" the Cat asked after a short pause.

Fall and Autumn.

I've never liked the word Autumn. It sounds pretentious. I can't even think it except in a snobby British accent. The word Fall is better, much earthier, muddy and simple: an outdoors word. You can jump in it like a puddle.
Here's something a little silly, like puddle-jumping; something real, something Fall-ish. There is nothing sweeter than getting successfully from A to B at top speed in rotten weather. I wrote it today (with unusual exuberance).

Warhorse

Toqued, jacketed, coccooned in a construct
(roarings and rattlings, aluminum and rubber tires, immunity to Storm: a Vehicle)
I hurtle through the minor tempests of 8th avenue,
      Sudden Deluges -
the sky -
the Atmosphere
fling themselves at me -
they are dashed to pieces!
roiling clouds of vapor boiling behind juggernaut dump trucks engulf me -
they are repulsed.
Droplets creep through cracks in armor, droplets seep through traitorous vents:
(open
shut
openshutopen
shut.)

In my wake, there is Diaspora, a displacement, a scattering of leaves
(vibrant scraps of orange, yellow tatters, threads, shreds: Tree-garments)
I am Quixote on Rocinante,
we are indomitable, inextinguishable, indelible,
we have triumphed, victory is ours,
we have won the day, we have won!
               -----------------------------
I really should've been working on homework, but I can't focus when I have a good idea.