The lamp is on - the tall one with the fuzzy lampshade. It's a bit redundant because the computer screen is so bright, but there's still something warm and friendly about it. Song for Paris is tugging at nameless emotions in my throat. I don't know if I'm happy or sad. Memories can be like that. Mostly, I'm fighting sleep. There might be a poem up my sleeve, and I'm not ready to wake up at Tomorrow yet.
If I were to sketch the day, what medium would I use? I might use crayons for the morning, which was a refreshing mix of quiet sun and icy wind and cranberry juice with a cheese bagel. Maybe pencil for the scribblings of a mid day essay - 2H for the planning and 3B for the thick font in my book. A watercolor wash for the vague disappointment of winding up far from where I wanted to go. Ballpoint pen for doodling in class and the tight ranks of words that glared up at me from the pages of the text.
But I would save charcoal for right now - for the soft dark which smudges the light so gently on cloudy nights. And I would press hard and make it crumble a bit on the paper, to make the dark so thick you could stick a song in it and the notes would kind of linger like the steam that curls off of hot coffee, which is probably way up there on the list of coziest things. And if I was careful, the whole thing might look a bit like the excellent day that God drew up for me.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Dialogue
I love writing dialogue. It's fun to think about what someone would say in any given situation, and how their conversation partner(s) would respond. Response duration, dropped words, irony - the works. But even at the height of my creative ability, I don't think I could ever come up with a conversation as good as this one.
Ah, I had a unifying paragraph between the above and the next dialogue I'm going to share, but it suffered from a distinct lack of awesomeness. So we'll be skipping it and moving right along to the context. You should know that my eldest sibling is tough as nails. She's great, as far as sisters go, which is why the rest of us enjoy bugging her by outrageously overstating her ferocity and uh... forgetting to mention her good points. Thus:
Sister 1's Boyfriend: "Is she pretty competitive?"
Sister 2: "Well, she did bad at track and field because she was always trying to beat down the other kids."
James: "Yeah. No wonder they don't have javelin throw in track and field anymore. The principal was like, 'Unfortunately, we will not be having the javelin throw this year. Last year, a certain student managed to spear and injure several others."
Sister 1's Boyfriend laughs
Sister 2: "Now you can't injure people anymore!"
Sister 1: "Hey!"
Longish Pause
Sister 1: "...there's still shotput!"
Ah, I had a unifying paragraph between the above and the next dialogue I'm going to share, but it suffered from a distinct lack of awesomeness. So we'll be skipping it and moving right along to the context. You should know that my eldest sibling is tough as nails. She's great, as far as sisters go, which is why the rest of us enjoy bugging her by outrageously overstating her ferocity and uh... forgetting to mention her good points. Thus:
Sister 1's Boyfriend: "Is she pretty competitive?"
Sister 2: "Well, she did bad at track and field because she was always trying to beat down the other kids."
James: "Yeah. No wonder they don't have javelin throw in track and field anymore. The principal was like, 'Unfortunately, we will not be having the javelin throw this year. Last year, a certain student managed to spear and injure several others."
Sister 1's Boyfriend laughs
Sister 2: "Now you can't injure people anymore!"
Sister 1: "Hey!"
Longish Pause
Sister 1: "...there's still shotput!"
Thursday, February 10, 2011
A Smidgen of Story
I'm searching for inspiration right now. Sadly, I haven't been able to find it in my notebooks, my daily activities, or under the cushions on the couch. So while I continue this quest, I offer a smidgen of an old story I wrote.
Nobody could agree about the exact details, but everyone said she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The cook and the King were skeptical.
“She might be a sorceress, or she might not. Anyway, rumors often exaggerate. Even if she is incredibly beautiful, it’s what’s inside that counts.” the cook pointed out. The King nodded.
“I agree completely. Take this, for example. It looks like an ordinary pie. But when the filling explodes onto your taste buds, bursting into tasty Blueberry fireworks, staining the tongue with the tart taste of unabashed culinary excellence, and etching indelible pleasure into sweet memory, it is far more than an ordinary pie!” He wiped his mouth.
“That was poetic,” said the cook.
However, the King and the cook were unable to stifle their curiosity. Eventually, they invited the lady to the castle. She was everything the stories said, and more. Both men fell head over heels in love with her. This had an unfortunate effect on their friendship.
* * *
“Jon! This is incredible! You’ve outdone yourself.” cried the Lady, nibbling a pastry delicately. She was dressed all in white and looked quite stunning. Jon smiled shyly. The King, who was sitting beside him, chewed on a piece of bread with alarming intensity. “Honestly, has the King never told you what a good cook you are?” The King savagely gnawed another chunk off of his breadstick.
“I respect a man who can cook, and you have a rare talent! They must miss you in Torwick!” gushed the Lady.
The cook smiled at the praise. Then he cast a startled glance at the King, who was holding his lip. It was bleeding.
“Bi’ my lip” said the King, and left the room.
* * *
The day of the annual Harvest feast, which was held outdoors in the beautiful royal gardens, the King had his seneschal do all the announcing. While the seneschal was droning out the necessary formalities, he took his place at the head of the table beside Jon and the Lady. Noticing with annoyance that Jon was flirting in a disgusting manner, he cleared his throat and whispered,
“Cook – ah- Jon, I made another pie. Why don’t you try this one? It should be better than my first.”
Jon and the Lady looked pained, but Jon was eager to make amends, and bravely took up a spoon. It was a large wooden ladle, too big for eating with, but it was the first thing that he grabbed. He poked clumsily at the pie. There was an interminable pause. The King began to sweat. It was poisoned. The ladle pierced the crust with a crunch. Jon winced. It was more than a little overdone. The filling was unrecognizable. He dug in, and the pie parted with an ominous schlup. Globs of glistening jelly fell from the spoon. He closed his eyes and slowly opened his mouth.
“What, bit your lip again?” said the Lady to the King. Jon opened his eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked. The King nodded weakly. Before Jon reluctantly returned his attention to the pie, the Lady spoke.
“Jon, Your Majesty, I’m sorry to bring it up now, but I must. I’m afraid I’ve destroyed a friendship. I hope you can understand what I’m going to do.”
Jon was concentrating on a wobbling spoonful of piecrust and jelly. The King twitched. Oblivious, the Lady continued.
“I think it really is time.” She got up and smoothed her dress.
“Jon, you’d better watch too.” Jon looked up, his mouth full of pie. The King’s face was contorted into the oddest expression. The Lady looked solemnly at them, her beautiful brown eyes full of emotion. And then she vanished. Jon choked on his pie and the King made a strangled noise. The King sprang across the table and pounded Jon on the back. Jon was trying to say something but it was unrecognizable through the coughing and wheezing. Finally, he spit out the mouthful. The King seized the remaining pie and hurled it into the garden. Everyone at the feast was staring. Then the Lady reappeared. The King and the cook were speechless.
"I am the stag," she said. And she became the stag, just as the King had seen it the year before. The dumbfounded court gaped for a split second, and she was off in a blur of white.
"After her!" roared the King, and the whole court surged forward, knocking drinking goblets and cutlery in every direction, upending tables and shouting madly for horses and ropes. It was a glorious chase: they pursued her out of the gardens and into the countryside, up and down the wooded hills, through the brush along the river and into the woods again. The hounds bayed uproariously and the hunting horns trumpeted, and they very nearly caught her, but it is one thing to hunt a stag with weapons, and quite another to catch it with nets and ropes. Though the King and the cook turned the whole country upside down in their search, they never did catch the stag. Eventually, however, the lady's absence cured the king of his madness. It is said that the cook generously forgave the king, and they became friends a second time, on the condition that the king would never bake another pie. It is also said that every Harvest Feast after, the cook baked a special pie just for the king. And at every feast, it is remembered that the king always pronounced his first bite "bittersweet".
The End
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Daedalus
I thought I'd share a humorous comic that my friend discovered (Baartman, 2011). For those of you who know Greek myths, this will probably be hilarious :D (Just click on the comic to enlarge it)
Whoever created this, I take my hat off to you.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Res Miranda
Even when he is late to rise, you could never describe the sun as groggy. He is too bright, too cheerful, (too splendid!) the minute he stretches, clambers out from under the rumpled horizon, strides to the window and hurls wide the brilliant curtainous clouds,
and stands, hands on hips, chest out, and smiles warmly at the shivering morning (who blushes so prettily whenever they meet)
and shouts greetings down to the moon, who is hurrying his way home from the night shift with glad feet,
and ascends the staircase of his apartment in the mountains with confidence
and gulps down a quick breakfast of hastily buttered toast and a half full glass of orange juice, which is full of pulp today, though sometimes he buys it without pulp, even though it doesn't matter, really - he likes it both ways -
and turns out every light when he leaves, as instructed by the Landlord,
but there is a certain sleepy charm to his waking routines that the disgruntled winter grasses fail to appreciate.
"Cold, cold, cold!" they grumble, and "At last the Sun is up."
and stands, hands on hips, chest out, and smiles warmly at the shivering morning (who blushes so prettily whenever they meet)
and shouts greetings down to the moon, who is hurrying his way home from the night shift with glad feet,
and ascends the staircase of his apartment in the mountains with confidence
and gulps down a quick breakfast of hastily buttered toast and a half full glass of orange juice, which is full of pulp today, though sometimes he buys it without pulp, even though it doesn't matter, really - he likes it both ways -
and turns out every light when he leaves, as instructed by the Landlord,
but there is a certain sleepy charm to his waking routines that the disgruntled winter grasses fail to appreciate.
"Cold, cold, cold!" they grumble, and "At last the Sun is up."
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Evening's Sabres
"Soft as the massacre of Suns
By Evening's Sabres slain"
--- Emily Dickinson
Brilliance. I have no words.The best two lines of poetry I have ever read.
By Evening's Sabres slain"
--- Emily Dickinson
Brilliance. I have no words.The best two lines of poetry I have ever read.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Toast Responsibly
I don't know what kind of bread your mom buys or makes, but around this house, we get it from a bakery that delights in colorful packaging and delicious bread. One of the many types of bread sold at this location comes in a red bag. It is labeled "Squirrelly Bread." This label has to do with the extreme brown-ness of the bread. The bakery probably took a variety of nuts, ground 'em up, chucked 'em in the bread maker and crossed their fingers. As a result of such healthy ingredients, your sudden concern for the actual taste of the loaf is understandable. (I consider it a general rule that any time your parents tell you something is healthy, they either mistakenly establish a sort of mental connection with the idea that you will enjoy it, or they are actively trying to bamboozle you. I now regard anything 'healthy' with deep suspicion.)
This bread, however, is surprisingly tasty, even without being toasted. In the latter state, it is worthy of raptures. Of course, you'll understand that all rapture comes with qualifications - even toast-rapture. The perfect toast is an elusive creature. Once it cools, it will become too crunchy, a condition that even the most indifferent consumer of bread detests. It must be devoured before this happens, that is, with gusto at the opportune moment.
To provide context for this didactic little narrative, let us imagine my kitchen as it was this morning. You are expecting, at this point, a table, a counter, some cupboards, and perhaps a loaf of Squirrelly Bread accompanied by condiments and utensils. You are not wrong; they are all there. But sprawled sullenly between them are those most malevolent of manuscripts: textbooks. Selected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson lurks behind a bloated Cross-Talk in Comp Theory, which smothers several binders. Course syllabuses* are scattered about, and Arthurian Romance is belly up nearby. You'll find it a distressing scene, no doubt.
In light of all this, it hardly seemed fair when breakfast turned out to be cold toast.** I crunched through it dutifully, but something snapped inside of me that day. Er, today. I immediately*** composed a threnody to properly convey my feelings. Here it is.
If you, as I
had swift unfurled
all the maps of all the world,
and spraying crumbs
and cursing, hurled
them from the lawn into the lake
this discov'ry you would make:
On our Earth
of all that's heinous
this is most:
a stone dead bread,
a chillèd toast.
As you can see, my grief was so great that I was required to do singular injustice to the English language and poetry itself. The moral is clear. What goes into a toaster must come out. Do not put in more than the family can scarf down in one sitting. Toast responsibly.
*I refuse to write "syllabi." It's a matter of principle.
**If I had risen earlier, I might've been able to prevent the crime. Let that be a lesson!
***This is rather a stretch. I didn't start writing until after three.
This bread, however, is surprisingly tasty, even without being toasted. In the latter state, it is worthy of raptures. Of course, you'll understand that all rapture comes with qualifications - even toast-rapture. The perfect toast is an elusive creature. Once it cools, it will become too crunchy, a condition that even the most indifferent consumer of bread detests. It must be devoured before this happens, that is, with gusto at the opportune moment.
To provide context for this didactic little narrative, let us imagine my kitchen as it was this morning. You are expecting, at this point, a table, a counter, some cupboards, and perhaps a loaf of Squirrelly Bread accompanied by condiments and utensils. You are not wrong; they are all there. But sprawled sullenly between them are those most malevolent of manuscripts: textbooks. Selected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson lurks behind a bloated Cross-Talk in Comp Theory, which smothers several binders. Course syllabuses* are scattered about, and Arthurian Romance is belly up nearby. You'll find it a distressing scene, no doubt.
In light of all this, it hardly seemed fair when breakfast turned out to be cold toast.** I crunched through it dutifully, but something snapped inside of me that day. Er, today. I immediately*** composed a threnody to properly convey my feelings. Here it is.
If you, as I
had swift unfurled
all the maps of all the world,
and spraying crumbs
and cursing, hurled
them from the lawn into the lake
this discov'ry you would make:
On our Earth
of all that's heinous
this is most:
a stone dead bread,
a chillèd toast.
As you can see, my grief was so great that I was required to do singular injustice to the English language and poetry itself. The moral is clear. What goes into a toaster must come out. Do not put in more than the family can scarf down in one sitting. Toast responsibly.
*I refuse to write "syllabi." It's a matter of principle.
**If I had risen earlier, I might've been able to prevent the crime. Let that be a lesson!
***This is rather a stretch. I didn't start writing until after three.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Dahlias
I'm going to let you in on a secret. Today was supposed to be a poem day, but I don't have a poem ready. Poetry rarely comes easily to me. I have to be 110% gung ho for an idea before I can write anything good. And ideas are kinda hard to force. But occasionally, just occasionally, I sit down and force myself to write something good. So this is going to be a bit of an experiment. You get to be in on the creative process. I'll try to show as much of my thinking as I can. Anything could happen!
Step 1. Discard the urge to write a poem about the current weather. There's a window behind the computer, you see, and I stare off into space through it when I'm thinking hard. I've already written plenty of weather poems, anyway.
Step 2. Words, words, words. Consider locating my "Book of Words," a notebook that I write down inspiring words in, along with useful rhymes and their etymologies. So far, it has two words in it: indigo and estival. Not festival. Estival. Briefly consider writing a poem called "Estival Festival." Smile, but scrap idea. "Ode to Toad" comes to mind, but really, this is becoming ridiculous. Moving on.
Step 3. Make tea. Rummage through cupboards looking for something besides "Breathe Easy." Discover "Sleepy Time" and shrug. Put water on to boil.
Step 4. Eureka! Suppose Icarus (my moth character, not the Greek schmuck who plummeted to his death) wrote a lament? Love scorned, and all that...ah, but nah...not really feeling it. Think, think...run to check on kettle. It's boiling, but not whistling yet. Interesting. Bright yellow flowers sit beside it on the counter. They'd be a good subject for a still life painting. Heeeyy...suppose a person wrote a "still life" poem? What would that be like? (And yellow flowers are summery - maybe we could get estival in there after all!)
Step 5. Brainstorm a personality for the poem. Delicate? Abrupt? Outrageous? Google "yellow flowers." Turns out they're dahlias. Grab a pen and scribble some experimental lines.
Sock it to him, right in the retinas.
We're yeller, boys, an' we're gonna put some colour in that face.
Rise and shine!
Shudder. Drink some tea and grab a granola bar. Food will help.
These dahlias are cut:
they are still lifes in real life,
sunset photographs which never quite live up to splendour
like the genuine article did.
(in the making of those four lines, the dahlias were originally one dahlia, and everything was singular. "genuine article" evolved from "real thing", because I already have "real life", which is cliche enough.)
Rework the last two lines: sunset photographs that never quite lived up to the splendor/ of the genuine article. Change "genuine article" to the prototype flower. Delete 'flower'. Change first part of the second last line again: sunset photographs that never quite bloom/ to match the splendour of the prototype.
We now have:
These flowers are cut: (changed 'dahlias' to 'flowers' in order to save the more specific word for the title)
They are still lifes in real life, ('lifes' seems more suitable than 'lives', so we're keeping that)
sunset photographs which never quite bloom
to match the splendour of the prototype.
Add more lines.
still,
life in the kitchen,
in their corner by the kettle,
is nearly estival.
In the winter, I brew tea
and they brew memory in me.
Now we have a rough sort of poem! Huzzah!
Step 7. Add a fictional author (because guys aren't supposed to be emotionally affected by flowers.)
Example: "by Isabelle Castille, author of critically acclaimed Plante's Inferno and Chlorophyllis and Chlorophilip."
Step 1. Discard the urge to write a poem about the current weather. There's a window behind the computer, you see, and I stare off into space through it when I'm thinking hard. I've already written plenty of weather poems, anyway.
Step 2. Words, words, words. Consider locating my "Book of Words," a notebook that I write down inspiring words in, along with useful rhymes and their etymologies. So far, it has two words in it: indigo and estival. Not festival. Estival. Briefly consider writing a poem called "Estival Festival." Smile, but scrap idea. "Ode to Toad" comes to mind, but really, this is becoming ridiculous. Moving on.
Step 3. Make tea. Rummage through cupboards looking for something besides "Breathe Easy." Discover "Sleepy Time" and shrug. Put water on to boil.
Step 4. Eureka! Suppose Icarus (my moth character, not the Greek schmuck who plummeted to his death) wrote a lament? Love scorned, and all that...ah, but nah...not really feeling it. Think, think...run to check on kettle. It's boiling, but not whistling yet. Interesting. Bright yellow flowers sit beside it on the counter. They'd be a good subject for a still life painting. Heeeyy...suppose a person wrote a "still life" poem? What would that be like? (And yellow flowers are summery - maybe we could get estival in there after all!)
Step 5. Brainstorm a personality for the poem. Delicate? Abrupt? Outrageous? Google "yellow flowers." Turns out they're dahlias. Grab a pen and scribble some experimental lines.
Sock it to him, right in the retinas.
We're yeller, boys, an' we're gonna put some colour in that face.
Rise and shine!
Shudder. Drink some tea and grab a granola bar. Food will help.
These dahlias are cut:
they are still lifes in real life,
sunset photographs which never quite live up to splendour
like the genuine article did.
(in the making of those four lines, the dahlias were originally one dahlia, and everything was singular. "genuine article" evolved from "real thing", because I already have "real life", which is cliche enough.)
Rework the last two lines: sunset photographs that never quite lived up to the splendor/ of the genuine article. Change "genuine article" to the prototype flower. Delete 'flower'. Change first part of the second last line again: sunset photographs that never quite bloom/ to match the splendour of the prototype.
We now have:
These flowers are cut: (changed 'dahlias' to 'flowers' in order to save the more specific word for the title)
They are still lifes in real life, ('lifes' seems more suitable than 'lives', so we're keeping that)
sunset photographs which never quite bloom
to match the splendour of the prototype.
Add more lines.
still,
life in the kitchen,
in their corner by the kettle,
is nearly estival.
In the winter, I brew tea
and they brew memory in me.
Now we have a rough sort of poem! Huzzah!
Step 6. Remove all capitals to appear avant garde and voila:
Dahlias
these flowers are cut:
they are still lifes in real life,
sunset photographs which never quite bloom to match the splendour of the prototype.
still
life in the kitchen,
in their corner by the kettle,
is nearly estival.
in the winter, i brew tea,
and they brew memory in me.
these flowers are cut:
they are still lifes in real life,
sunset photographs which never quite bloom to match the splendour of the prototype.
still
life in the kitchen,
in their corner by the kettle,
is nearly estival.
in the winter, i brew tea,
and they brew memory in me.
Example: "by Isabelle Castille, author of critically acclaimed Plante's Inferno and Chlorophyllis and Chlorophilip."
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Big White
In a far away land, there is a collection of buildings called Kelowna. A little farther yet, there is a happy and magical place called Big White Ski Resort. With seven friends, I journeyed there. It was like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, except that my friends aren't dwarves and I'm not Snow White. Since the similarity of the two tales is obviously so striking, I won't trouble you with all the details, but there are some that might excite interest. This conversation, for example:
This conversation was also rather interesting. I believe it immediately followed some uproarious singing along with Taylor Swift in the car on the way home. Note that Friend #2 is severely addicted to Tim Hortons' Iced Cappuchinos.
James: "Hey, feeling better now?"
Friend #2: "I am actually! I can't believe that singing Taylor Swift made me feel better and didn't make me want to puke."
Friend #3: "You just didn't have enough icecaps, that's all."
James: "Haha, true. He probably has icecap instead of blood."
Friend #2: "I had too much blood in my icecap system."
Funny conversations aside, the mountain was the best part. Conditions were a mite foggy, but the snowboarding was supremely fun, and some of us went night skiing. I was busy eating and sleeping, but by all accounts it was extremely fun. I gather there was more fighting with ski poles than actual skiing.
Useful contraptions, ski poles. If you don't have at least one, consider purchasing. They are very handy for such activities as fishing Coronas and Powerades out of the snow on your deck without freezing to death. Not freezing to death allows a much greater appreciation of the incredible scenery in these places: stunted trees bowed by huge clumps of snow (some so bent over that they form arches), the snow covered village center, and happy boarders and skiiers traversing the snow covered streets.
Conclusion: This trip was grand. We haven't hit Happily Ever After yet, but I prefer this story to Snow White and the Seven Dwarves - even though the two tales are so very similar. See?
Friend #1: "Ask me what I'm wearing."
Friend #2 looks confused and suspicious. Friend #1 is obviously barefoot and shirtless.
Friend # 2: "Okaay...what are you wearing?"
Friend #1 (to the tune of Just Dance, by Lady Gaga): "Just pants! Doodoodoodoo doo doodoo! Just pants!"
Friend #2 shakes his head.
Friend #1: "Hahaha! I've been waiting to do that all day!"
This conversation was also rather interesting. I believe it immediately followed some uproarious singing along with Taylor Swift in the car on the way home. Note that Friend #2 is severely addicted to Tim Hortons' Iced Cappuchinos.
James: "Hey, feeling better now?"
Friend #2: "I am actually! I can't believe that singing Taylor Swift made me feel better and didn't make me want to puke."
Friend #3: "You just didn't have enough icecaps, that's all."
James: "Haha, true. He probably has icecap instead of blood."
Friend #2: "I had too much blood in my icecap system."
Funny conversations aside, the mountain was the best part. Conditions were a mite foggy, but the snowboarding was supremely fun, and some of us went night skiing. I was busy eating and sleeping, but by all accounts it was extremely fun. I gather there was more fighting with ski poles than actual skiing.
Useful contraptions, ski poles. If you don't have at least one, consider purchasing. They are very handy for such activities as fishing Coronas and Powerades out of the snow on your deck without freezing to death. Not freezing to death allows a much greater appreciation of the incredible scenery in these places: stunted trees bowed by huge clumps of snow (some so bent over that they form arches), the snow covered village center, and happy boarders and skiiers traversing the snow covered streets.
Conclusion: This trip was grand. We haven't hit Happily Ever After yet, but I prefer this story to Snow White and the Seven Dwarves - even though the two tales are so very similar. See?
- A cornucopia of delicious food > Poisoned apples
- Eight charming fellows > One Prince Charming.
- Singing Dire Straits > Singing "High Ho, High Ho, It's Off to Work We Go"
- Zero wicked queens > One wicked queen
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
On Apples
Though some apples, I confess, are supremely delicious, it is my opinion that very few of them ever achieve such a state of perfection. They always seem to suffer some sort of imperfection that negatively affects their taste, whether it be sourness, watery innards, too thick a peel, or soft, over ripe mushiness (which your mother claims is "still good" when what she really means is that it is already bad and it would a waste to throw it out.) Let us bypass entirely the topic of worms.
My grudge against apples is particularly reinforced by a unique category of said fruit which, as well as being subject to all the aforementioned faults, is best described as "too appley". In apples, balance is paramount. Just as a watery apple is gross, an overly appley apple is disgusting. I was recently ambushed by one (dastardly blackguard!), and it ruined several subsequent glasses of milk. You see, appley apples linger. They cling to the tastebuds and interfere horribly with other tastes. Milk is, by nature of its exquisite beauty, rather delicate and therefore susceptible to their pernicious influence. If you can, stay well away from them.
- Four and Twenty Rooks in a Pie: The Essential Fairy Tale Cookbook by Jon Cook, Kitchen master and Chef-Marshall to the King
PS For those who were expecting even the slightest digression on "Gala apples", I must say only that the sternest remonstrances are reserved for you.
My grudge against apples is particularly reinforced by a unique category of said fruit which, as well as being subject to all the aforementioned faults, is best described as "too appley". In apples, balance is paramount. Just as a watery apple is gross, an overly appley apple is disgusting. I was recently ambushed by one (dastardly blackguard!), and it ruined several subsequent glasses of milk. You see, appley apples linger. They cling to the tastebuds and interfere horribly with other tastes. Milk is, by nature of its exquisite beauty, rather delicate and therefore susceptible to their pernicious influence. If you can, stay well away from them.
- Four and Twenty Rooks in a Pie: The Essential Fairy Tale Cookbook by Jon Cook, Kitchen master and Chef-Marshall to the King
PS For those who were expecting even the slightest digression on "Gala apples", I must say only that the sternest remonstrances are reserved for you.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Meet Stygian
"There is no sun in Sodden.
'Ware the murk,
the dank dark earth,
the odd and awful fog -
where men have trod, and sank, and screeched
and each has frantic, thrashed and clawed
the sucking, treacherous, murderous muck!
but none has ever 'scaped the bog.
There is no sun in Sodden."
- A fragment on an ancient waystone marking the end of the marchlands between the King's country and the region of Meer.
The Cat sat motionless in the open. A light but depressing and steady drizzle was soaking its fur, but it paid no attention. It simply sat there and waited. This unusual display of resilience to wet did not go unnoticed. All areas of the Meer are watchful, even those left to themselves for centuries. And their guardians have very long memories.
Eventually, the Cat discovered that there was a figure resting against a stunted tree just on the edge of the surrounding gloom. He was wearing a burgundy coat two sizes too big for him which was patched in several places and missing buttons. A widebrimmed hat covered most of his face, but it was obviously reptilian. Scaly blue skin and grimy teeth are always a dead give away. He looked rather unpleasant. The Cat regarded him curiously for a long moment. Finally it said,
"Stygian."
The lizard-man grunted. "That's me."
"You haven't changed a bit."
"What're you doing in Bristlemeer?"
"A bit of a favor for a friend, actually. What do you say to a trip to Sodden?"
"Why did you come here? Sodden is in the other direction."
The lizard-man got up and turned to leave, but the Cat had somehow got in his way and he tripped and fell. It brushed against him and purred amiably at his cursing.
"Really? All right, it was a silly question. Sodden's a rotten place anyway. Not that I would know, of course. But there's something else I was going to ask you: what are you going to do about Candle Flame? Icarus has gone to find it, you know."
There was a pause.
"By Icarus, you mean the moth?"
"Exactly. It's a bit of a sticky business if the wrong person finds it. I'm sure you know what I mean."
Stygian scowled. "He's headed for Sodden right now, isn't he?"
The Cat grinned.
'Ware the murk,
the dank dark earth,
the odd and awful fog -
where men have trod, and sank, and screeched
and each has frantic, thrashed and clawed
the sucking, treacherous, murderous muck!
but none has ever 'scaped the bog.
There is no sun in Sodden."
- A fragment on an ancient waystone marking the end of the marchlands between the King's country and the region of Meer.
The Cat sat motionless in the open. A light but depressing and steady drizzle was soaking its fur, but it paid no attention. It simply sat there and waited. This unusual display of resilience to wet did not go unnoticed. All areas of the Meer are watchful, even those left to themselves for centuries. And their guardians have very long memories.
Eventually, the Cat discovered that there was a figure resting against a stunted tree just on the edge of the surrounding gloom. He was wearing a burgundy coat two sizes too big for him which was patched in several places and missing buttons. A widebrimmed hat covered most of his face, but it was obviously reptilian. Scaly blue skin and grimy teeth are always a dead give away. He looked rather unpleasant. The Cat regarded him curiously for a long moment. Finally it said,
"Stygian."
The lizard-man grunted. "That's me."
"You haven't changed a bit."
"What're you doing in Bristlemeer?"
"A bit of a favor for a friend, actually. What do you say to a trip to Sodden?"
"Why did you come here? Sodden is in the other direction."
The lizard-man got up and turned to leave, but the Cat had somehow got in his way and he tripped and fell. It brushed against him and purred amiably at his cursing.
"Really? All right, it was a silly question. Sodden's a rotten place anyway. Not that I would know, of course. But there's something else I was going to ask you: what are you going to do about Candle Flame? Icarus has gone to find it, you know."
There was a pause.
"By Icarus, you mean the moth?"
"Exactly. It's a bit of a sticky business if the wrong person finds it. I'm sure you know what I mean."
Stygian scowled. "He's headed for Sodden right now, isn't he?"
The Cat grinned.
Monday, December 20, 2010
To Smithereens!
Writer's block is a common enough topic for discussion. I apologize in advance for anything of a cliche nature. I wish to draw attention to something often missed.
Let us examine the phrase. I think the first word is straight forward enough. The writers in question are always tragically heroic, sometimes brilliant, and never given to exaggeration. The second word, on the other hand, is unfortunately chosen. What is a block?
A) a fair to middling rectangular prism of some substance
B) a rather ineffectual synonym for "parry"
C) a french-canadian political party with a k attached. Alas, even the k cannot mask its true nature. But that is another story.
Obviously, none of these meanings are quite adequate to describe the deadly serious nature of writer's "block". They ignore the impenetrable fog of dense jungle, the frightening emptiness of vast and uncrossable deserts, the frigid isolation of deep space, all of which approximate the yawning chasm between pen and paper. I propose a rather stronger word:
Blockade.
Definition: a concerted effort to isolate a certain group of people from something of value to them.
Friends, we are talking about acts of war. We are talking about all out seige. We are talking about nations. Doesn't it feel like myriad forces are conspiring against you? Like some superpower's navy has crammed the ports - the essential harbours for Ideas - so full of cannons that even doughty ol' Inspiration runs up the white flag? I am sure you will agree that "blockade" is a better term than "block". Even its greater length suggests less frequent usage: deliberation is exercised before employing so weighty a word.
This new word's connotations also provide us with a mindset useful for returning us to our natural state of industrious scribbling. This is war. In the case of a rectangular prism, one might approach writer's block as a trivial nuisance to be hefted idly or turned over and over dispassionately. But passion is the key. Don't just escape writer's "block" - break the blockade! Burst free! Prime the guns! Blast 'em to smithereens! The longer you're trapped, the harder it is.
PS I suggest a healthy dose of "The Medallion Calls" by Klaus Badelt for the extra-beleaguered.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Family Breakfast
Here. Have a salutation, and let's get on with life. Today, because it suits me, I am the Story Teller. I'm in the mood to describe a breakfast scene. Some elements you will be familiar with; others may shock you. Perhaps you will find you care very little, in which case, you have my respect. It is not so easy to be perfectly apathetic. At any rate, I've gotten this far, so let us observe.
It is 7:15am. Good - nay, glorious! smells are wafting about, bouyed upwards by unusually lively conversation. The speakers are a family gathered around a home-made table. Golden, syrup drenched waffles grace every plate and there are large scraps of patterned paper scattered between cold glasses of milk and the occasional cup of orange juice. The next-to-youngest, fourth-from-oldest (but fifteen - already!) has forgotten her waffle, and the oldest, the boy (he prefers 'guy', and doesn't know what to make of 'man') is eyeing it and wondering how she got her priorities scrambled so. The mother eyes the oldest, in case he makes a move for the waffle.
Next-to-youngest eyes no one and tears hunks of paper from a box crammed with potential, not bothering to keep the wrapping intact. The crunching, scrunching, crinkling sound is to be reveled in - after all, this is a Birthday - but the voices soon overpower it. There is guessing to be done.
"It's gumboots. I know it... Yesss, I love these! Thanks Mom!"
"They weren't cheap. Guard them with your life."
"Open another one."
Next-to-youngest is handed another gift.
"Betcha that one's gumboots too."
A necessary part of the guessing game is to throw the opener off the scent. But Next-to-youngest is no fool.
"Yeah, looks like it could be the right size...if you were a mouse. Idiot."
Next-to-oldest says drily "Maybe it's a goat fetus. And you can grow it or something."
There is a brief silence. Everyone looks incredulously her way. And then hilarity breaks out. Next-to-youngest does indeed love goats. Luckily for all present, the wrapping falls away to reveal a christmas mug instead. Next-to-youngest celebrates, and the family is pleased that this is a good day for her.
Alone on the counter, on a vantage point at once near and far, the Story Teller chafes in impatience. There is food uneaten! And I want it. What is there to do but add to the noise? I meow urgently. I yowl a bit. I jump down from my perch and rub up against their legs and purr, to show how happy I am that they have finally noticed me starving to death, and that I will probably forgive them once they hand over the scraps. Ah, I can almost taste them - and oldest has lifted me up, up, towards the heady smell of syrup! and wait, no, we are moving away! Thumpthumpthump. We galumph down the stairs three steps at a time and I am hurled out the door mercilessly.
And that is life, is it not? True apathy is impossible. Love is a risk. Necessary, yes, but who can you trust? All for one...and that is all.
- Cat
It is 7:15am. Good - nay, glorious! smells are wafting about, bouyed upwards by unusually lively conversation. The speakers are a family gathered around a home-made table. Golden, syrup drenched waffles grace every plate and there are large scraps of patterned paper scattered between cold glasses of milk and the occasional cup of orange juice. The next-to-youngest, fourth-from-oldest (but fifteen - already!) has forgotten her waffle, and the oldest, the boy (he prefers 'guy', and doesn't know what to make of 'man') is eyeing it and wondering how she got her priorities scrambled so. The mother eyes the oldest, in case he makes a move for the waffle.
Next-to-youngest eyes no one and tears hunks of paper from a box crammed with potential, not bothering to keep the wrapping intact. The crunching, scrunching, crinkling sound is to be reveled in - after all, this is a Birthday - but the voices soon overpower it. There is guessing to be done.
"It's gumboots. I know it... Yesss, I love these! Thanks Mom!"
"They weren't cheap. Guard them with your life."
"Open another one."
Next-to-youngest is handed another gift.
"Betcha that one's gumboots too."
A necessary part of the guessing game is to throw the opener off the scent. But Next-to-youngest is no fool.
"Yeah, looks like it could be the right size...if you were a mouse. Idiot."
Next-to-oldest says drily "Maybe it's a goat fetus. And you can grow it or something."
There is a brief silence. Everyone looks incredulously her way. And then hilarity breaks out. Next-to-youngest does indeed love goats. Luckily for all present, the wrapping falls away to reveal a christmas mug instead. Next-to-youngest celebrates, and the family is pleased that this is a good day for her.
Alone on the counter, on a vantage point at once near and far, the Story Teller chafes in impatience. There is food uneaten! And I want it. What is there to do but add to the noise? I meow urgently. I yowl a bit. I jump down from my perch and rub up against their legs and purr, to show how happy I am that they have finally noticed me starving to death, and that I will probably forgive them once they hand over the scraps. Ah, I can almost taste them - and oldest has lifted me up, up, towards the heady smell of syrup! and wait, no, we are moving away! Thumpthumpthump. We galumph down the stairs three steps at a time and I am hurled out the door mercilessly.
And that is life, is it not? True apathy is impossible. Love is a risk. Necessary, yes, but who can you trust? All for one...and that is all.
- Cat
Monday, December 6, 2010
Here be Monsters: What makes a Good Book?
I read an excellent story a few days ago. It's called Young Unicorns and written by Madeleine L'engle. It has nothing whatever to do with unicorns. I'm a bit puzzled about that actually, but it doesn't matter. This book stands out from the rest of L'engle's work, as far as I'm concerned. Something that defies description makes this a good book. Something about the unusual relationships between characters - about the odd but joyful family, about the importance of music and literature to them, about the unobtrusive and yet central disability (blindness) of one of the protagonists - made the flaws in the plot almost irrelevant. The ending was too convenient and almost hurried, and yet I loved the book. That hasn't happened to me for a long time. It's tempting to be flippant and say it comes from reading too many research papers and of course I'm bound to like something escapist after that much academese, but it's not that at all.
What I want to know is: what is it exactly that attracts me to this book so much? And if I can pin it down, how can I use it in my own writing?
Today, I was re-reading an essay by J.R.R Tolkien on the nature of faerie stories, and realized Tolkien was searching for the very same thing that I am, only he was concerned with Faerie, and not the Primary World, as he calls every day "reality". Tolkien's essay shows that he really understands that elusive quality of the genuine faerie tale - of a story that doesn't require the willing suspension of disbelief (that would imply the need for a conscious decision!), but actually creates a secondary reality, something that demands description and at the same time resists it, by nature of its Otherness. I am explaining it badly, so if you haven't already, you'd better read the essay to see where I've mucked things up. It's called "On Faerie Stories".
Now, I want more than ever to create a true faery tale. I fear for the Owl, the Moth and the Cat - they do not quite fit into true faery tales, not on their own. But they might be minor characters in legends or motifs in ancient snatches of half-forgotten songs which provide a depth to the deliberate vagueness of faerie tale history and setting. The beauty of Faerie seems to be in its ability to elude definition. We never know the whole story: Tolkien's elaborate world was never completely finished, and I don't think it ever would be. I think he was driven to create more and more (read his essay and you'll understand more why I use that word) precisely because of the simultaneously frustrating and enticing gaps in his world. The gaps make it infinite - and we need something infinite in any good faerie story. Some assurance that there is more, that this is not all there is, that we have not yet explored the entire world.
This makes me think of cartography. Maps were so much more exciting before everything was explored. "Here be Monsters" must have been scrawled with a kind of savage delight that cannot be found in familiar, printed place names, like "Aldergrove, BC." I certainly read ancient and modern maps with different levels of excitement. Luckily, unlike cartography, in writing the activity of exploring a world does not make it finite (providing it is done correctly.) And Tolkien nailed it in his stories.
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
"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.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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.
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.
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