Saturday, May 7, 2011
Good Books, Anyone?
Well, it's summer now, which hopefully means more time for reading. But I went to Chapters the other day and couldn't decide what to buy. I ended up with two books: War and Peace and What Ho! The Best of P.G. Wodehouse. (Haven't started W&P but the Wodehouse anthology is hilarious and worth the read, if you like bumbling British aristocrats and competent butlers.) Anyone have any other good books that they'd recommend?
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Hang an intro. Here's my thesis: The Best Part of Work is being around birds.
Part of my summer job includes taking care of roughly forty chickens. In other words, there are thirty-seven Harry Houdinis at work (thirty-nine if you count the cows that keep busting out of their fences, but that's another story). Chains are as straw to them. High walls are as spacious arches. They could find their way out of Daedalus' labyrinth blindfolded and hobbled with leg irons. It's incredible. I attempt to keep them in an aging chicken coop with three layers of chicken wire, rotten netting and numerous baler twine patches. Somehow, one or two chickens always manage to get out. And of course, they instantly lose their heads and can't find their way back in. If they don't make it back before night time, they become hors d'oeuvres for the coyotes. It is a constant struggle for survival. They try to get themselves killed, and I try to save them.
I'm not terribly fond of chickens, but they are funny to watch. I resolved to write this post when I was collecting eggs today. Here is the situation: I am moving from left to right. I collect eggs from vacant nesting box 1. I move on to nesting box 2 just as Chicken A hops on to the ledge of the same nesting box. We have an awkward moment, and Chicken A, no doubt embarassed to be caught shirking her egg-sitting responsibilities, shuffles sideways to move in front of nesting box 3. I collect the eggs from nesting box 2. Chicken A has now figured out that something is wrong. She is not in front of the right nesting box, and she can't go back to brooding on her eggs. But when she sees me finishing up, she hastily dives into nesting box 3. Chicken A then discovers that nesting box 3 is already occupied by Chicken B. Chicken B makes a strangled noise - in pain, I think. Chicken A is now perched on top of her, anxiously checking to see if maybe it is Chicken B who has made the mistake and got in her nesting box accidentally and sat on her eggs. Chicken B's head is squashed down into her feathers. There are more strangled noises. Chicken A emerges when she realizes that no, it is definitely the wrong box, and I collect the eggs from under Chicken B. Chicken B is highly disgusted by the whole thing.
As I see it now, the above paragraph is a big chunk of text with too many As, Bs, Chickens and 1, 2, 3s in it, but it can't be helped. I was leading up to the sparrows, you see. They hang around the chicken coop because of the feed, but they spend most of their time chasing sweethearts or else in hot debate. Blows are frequently exchanged. But I don't want to spend much time on them, because there are swallows around too, you know. They fly like F-16s and poop like horses. When you think about how many insects they would have to eat to produce the messes they make on barn floors everywhere, it's kind of sickening...
Ah, and there are ungainly herons and nesting eagles and even pileated woodpeckers - and I could probably write volumes about the mallards that waddle around with their babies stumbling along behind them. Red-winged blackbirds and Canada geese come visiting too. And some birds I've never seen before (spotted towhees, I think, but it's hard to say.)
Conclusion: Birds are awesome.
If you wrote a book in which a bird was a character, what kind of bird would it be, and why?
Part of my summer job includes taking care of roughly forty chickens. In other words, there are thirty-seven Harry Houdinis at work (thirty-nine if you count the cows that keep busting out of their fences, but that's another story). Chains are as straw to them. High walls are as spacious arches. They could find their way out of Daedalus' labyrinth blindfolded and hobbled with leg irons. It's incredible. I attempt to keep them in an aging chicken coop with three layers of chicken wire, rotten netting and numerous baler twine patches. Somehow, one or two chickens always manage to get out. And of course, they instantly lose their heads and can't find their way back in. If they don't make it back before night time, they become hors d'oeuvres for the coyotes. It is a constant struggle for survival. They try to get themselves killed, and I try to save them.
I'm not terribly fond of chickens, but they are funny to watch. I resolved to write this post when I was collecting eggs today. Here is the situation: I am moving from left to right. I collect eggs from vacant nesting box 1. I move on to nesting box 2 just as Chicken A hops on to the ledge of the same nesting box. We have an awkward moment, and Chicken A, no doubt embarassed to be caught shirking her egg-sitting responsibilities, shuffles sideways to move in front of nesting box 3. I collect the eggs from nesting box 2. Chicken A has now figured out that something is wrong. She is not in front of the right nesting box, and she can't go back to brooding on her eggs. But when she sees me finishing up, she hastily dives into nesting box 3. Chicken A then discovers that nesting box 3 is already occupied by Chicken B. Chicken B makes a strangled noise - in pain, I think. Chicken A is now perched on top of her, anxiously checking to see if maybe it is Chicken B who has made the mistake and got in her nesting box accidentally and sat on her eggs. Chicken B's head is squashed down into her feathers. There are more strangled noises. Chicken A emerges when she realizes that no, it is definitely the wrong box, and I collect the eggs from under Chicken B. Chicken B is highly disgusted by the whole thing.
As I see it now, the above paragraph is a big chunk of text with too many As, Bs, Chickens and 1, 2, 3s in it, but it can't be helped. I was leading up to the sparrows, you see. They hang around the chicken coop because of the feed, but they spend most of their time chasing sweethearts or else in hot debate. Blows are frequently exchanged. But I don't want to spend much time on them, because there are swallows around too, you know. They fly like F-16s and poop like horses. When you think about how many insects they would have to eat to produce the messes they make on barn floors everywhere, it's kind of sickening...
Ah, and there are ungainly herons and nesting eagles and even pileated woodpeckers - and I could probably write volumes about the mallards that waddle around with their babies stumbling along behind them. Red-winged blackbirds and Canada geese come visiting too. And some birds I've never seen before (spotted towhees, I think, but it's hard to say.)
Conclusion: Birds are awesome.
If you wrote a book in which a bird was a character, what kind of bird would it be, and why?
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Experience and Knowing: Why do we Believe?
I probably should have gone through this stage already... we all know the commonplace "The more you know, the less you know." Anyway, even if it's all old hat, it is probably useful to review, because it relates to how we talk about God and Christianity and the big things we believe. The short answer to the title question is that we just do. The long answer is below.
Our idea of knowing - it's kind of problematic. Some people had this idea (I think it was Locke that really picked up on this) that what we know for certain is only what we experience with our senses. Some other people worried that we can't actually know anything for certain because our sense mediate reality - so somewhere in the process of perceiving, we're transforming reality into something else. Still other people retorted that if we can't truly get at reality, then reality is our perceptions.
I'm going to go with Locke for now, because in the western world, we seem to have gone with him, and we value hard facts. We want evidence, right? Rational thought and reason are important too. We discover/develop a system (with heavy influence from Aristotle) that we call logic/reason, and we use it to sort and analyze our experience - the information that we get directly from our senses. So, assuming we use logic/reason correctly, and assuming that the system we've worked out is a good one, we can do a pretty good job of figuring out the world, right?
Maybe. The amount of sensory information you can take in during your lifetime is a drop in the bucket compared to the sensory information that is out there waiting to be perceived. We can't apply our reasoning to everything, because we don't have all the available information. So we have to rely on others for a sorted version of that information. Did they sort it correctly? We hope so. Sometimes, we don't think so. We develop a system that allows us to transfer more information and to get a rough estimate of how qualified people are to sort and analyze certain types of experience. A doctorate degree in botany means people are likely to trust the doctor's sorting/analyzing skills in all things plant-related.
But remember that our ultimate standard still seems to be one that highlights personal experience. Reading words on a page, even if they represent well sorted and accurately analyzed information, is not the same thing as directly experiencing the raw sensory info that went into the ideas, which were transformed into words and put on paper by someone else. We're at least at two or three removes from the actual experience. When we begin to rely on evidence that has been filtered through generations of experiencers, we are removed even further from the experience. This is not surprising: as I mentioned before, there are serious limits to what we can phsyically experience. And the proper sorting of some experiences requires prior knowledge that we just don't have time to gain independently. However, it is probably a good thing to examine the degree to which this second or third or fifth or tenth hand information is true.
What about experts who disagree? They invariably do (especially in composition theory). How do we know which expert is right? Is it true that the most well informed experts are always right, or can we only say that they are usually right? Think about online interactions for a second: Most internet forums involve some sort of debate. One thing that is noticeable is that appeals to experts are rarely, if ever, effective in silencing the opposing side.
I think this is because we are always removed from the actual relevant experience that would validate our claims, and sometimes at an incredible distance. When it comes to hearing some biker tell us about biking based on experiences he/she has had, there is usually a high probability that we can accept their sorting of experience as valid. In most cases, we can trust that they're being accurate. It isn't too specialized, and we can compare to our own experiences or the experiences of others we trust. We don't have to worry too much about testing this type of information. But when it comes to academia, we have to rely on all sorts of specialized people, who have in turn relied on other specialized people, who have...and so forth, to produce a very specific type of sorted experience.
All this requires a lot of trust, and when we read about things like the theory behind writing pedagogy, we hope that everyone has got it right, even though we argue all the time about experience, about truth, and about how things are, which means that somebody has got something wrong. Usually, somebody does mess up. Someone or a few someones sort experience incorrectly. In fact, most people do at some point. Think of the distortion a bad worldview (a medium through which experience is filtered) can cause.
Admittedly, I don't see an alternative to this system. We can hardly rely on personal experience for even a tenth of what (we think) we know. And yet when we try to apply our knowledge to certain things, like the truth of the Bible, or the truth of Creation, we ultimately fall back to relying on the experience of others, and we run into problems. To fully support the Bible with facts, you'd have to be an expert in a ridiculous number of fields. No one can know all the relevant information through personal experience at once.
And people don't trust that many removes from actual experience, because they know that somewhere along the line, somebody screwed up and sorted their information badly. There is also the possibility that we will never have all of the necessary information we need to get everyone to agree. So our own system defeats us. The scientific method is useful, but it can't account for the loss or distortion of knowledge through hundreds or resorting and reanalyzing attempts.
I think this explains why I'm not satisfied by writers like Lee Strobel who try to convince others about the truth of Christianity through scientific facts. By emphasizing facts, he's appealing to a system that generates uncertainty. To his credit, he tries for personal experience. He works to test his facts and minimize uncertainty. And we're partially at fault for his approach, because we demand facts. But I keep thinking It isn't enough. The Bible is too big - it involves too many fields. There will always be people who question Expert X's opinion, and they will always have some grounds to do it. Strobel just can't dig that deep. He'll only live to 125 or less. He doesn't have time, and neither do we. It's not even guaranteed that we've found all the necessary information to verify the facts.
At bottom, we believe things on faith. If some of us believe in the goodness and rightness of our system of logic and reason (if it has flaws, they probably originate in us as imperfect users), we believe it on faith. And if some of us believe the Bible, we believe it on faith. Scientific facts, to me, seem a lot more like probabilities than we're letting on. When we appeal to facts, we do it because of our faith in the system that we have for organizing and packaging reality. Believing in the Bible and being a Christian is not crazy if believing in the goodness and rightness of our system of reason isn't crazy. I don't think we should rely on facts to show it.
Our idea of knowing - it's kind of problematic. Some people had this idea (I think it was Locke that really picked up on this) that what we know for certain is only what we experience with our senses. Some other people worried that we can't actually know anything for certain because our sense mediate reality - so somewhere in the process of perceiving, we're transforming reality into something else. Still other people retorted that if we can't truly get at reality, then reality is our perceptions.
I'm going to go with Locke for now, because in the western world, we seem to have gone with him, and we value hard facts. We want evidence, right? Rational thought and reason are important too. We discover/develop a system (with heavy influence from Aristotle) that we call logic/reason, and we use it to sort and analyze our experience - the information that we get directly from our senses. So, assuming we use logic/reason correctly, and assuming that the system we've worked out is a good one, we can do a pretty good job of figuring out the world, right?
Maybe. The amount of sensory information you can take in during your lifetime is a drop in the bucket compared to the sensory information that is out there waiting to be perceived. We can't apply our reasoning to everything, because we don't have all the available information. So we have to rely on others for a sorted version of that information. Did they sort it correctly? We hope so. Sometimes, we don't think so. We develop a system that allows us to transfer more information and to get a rough estimate of how qualified people are to sort and analyze certain types of experience. A doctorate degree in botany means people are likely to trust the doctor's sorting/analyzing skills in all things plant-related.
But remember that our ultimate standard still seems to be one that highlights personal experience. Reading words on a page, even if they represent well sorted and accurately analyzed information, is not the same thing as directly experiencing the raw sensory info that went into the ideas, which were transformed into words and put on paper by someone else. We're at least at two or three removes from the actual experience. When we begin to rely on evidence that has been filtered through generations of experiencers, we are removed even further from the experience. This is not surprising: as I mentioned before, there are serious limits to what we can phsyically experience. And the proper sorting of some experiences requires prior knowledge that we just don't have time to gain independently. However, it is probably a good thing to examine the degree to which this second or third or fifth or tenth hand information is true.
What about experts who disagree? They invariably do (especially in composition theory). How do we know which expert is right? Is it true that the most well informed experts are always right, or can we only say that they are usually right? Think about online interactions for a second: Most internet forums involve some sort of debate. One thing that is noticeable is that appeals to experts are rarely, if ever, effective in silencing the opposing side.
I think this is because we are always removed from the actual relevant experience that would validate our claims, and sometimes at an incredible distance. When it comes to hearing some biker tell us about biking based on experiences he/she has had, there is usually a high probability that we can accept their sorting of experience as valid. In most cases, we can trust that they're being accurate. It isn't too specialized, and we can compare to our own experiences or the experiences of others we trust. We don't have to worry too much about testing this type of information. But when it comes to academia, we have to rely on all sorts of specialized people, who have in turn relied on other specialized people, who have...and so forth, to produce a very specific type of sorted experience.
All this requires a lot of trust, and when we read about things like the theory behind writing pedagogy, we hope that everyone has got it right, even though we argue all the time about experience, about truth, and about how things are, which means that somebody has got something wrong. Usually, somebody does mess up. Someone or a few someones sort experience incorrectly. In fact, most people do at some point. Think of the distortion a bad worldview (a medium through which experience is filtered) can cause.
Admittedly, I don't see an alternative to this system. We can hardly rely on personal experience for even a tenth of what (we think) we know. And yet when we try to apply our knowledge to certain things, like the truth of the Bible, or the truth of Creation, we ultimately fall back to relying on the experience of others, and we run into problems. To fully support the Bible with facts, you'd have to be an expert in a ridiculous number of fields. No one can know all the relevant information through personal experience at once.
And people don't trust that many removes from actual experience, because they know that somewhere along the line, somebody screwed up and sorted their information badly. There is also the possibility that we will never have all of the necessary information we need to get everyone to agree. So our own system defeats us. The scientific method is useful, but it can't account for the loss or distortion of knowledge through hundreds or resorting and reanalyzing attempts.
I think this explains why I'm not satisfied by writers like Lee Strobel who try to convince others about the truth of Christianity through scientific facts. By emphasizing facts, he's appealing to a system that generates uncertainty. To his credit, he tries for personal experience. He works to test his facts and minimize uncertainty. And we're partially at fault for his approach, because we demand facts. But I keep thinking It isn't enough. The Bible is too big - it involves too many fields. There will always be people who question Expert X's opinion, and they will always have some grounds to do it. Strobel just can't dig that deep. He'll only live to 125 or less. He doesn't have time, and neither do we. It's not even guaranteed that we've found all the necessary information to verify the facts.
At bottom, we believe things on faith. If some of us believe in the goodness and rightness of our system of logic and reason (if it has flaws, they probably originate in us as imperfect users), we believe it on faith. And if some of us believe the Bible, we believe it on faith. Scientific facts, to me, seem a lot more like probabilities than we're letting on. When we appeal to facts, we do it because of our faith in the system that we have for organizing and packaging reality. Believing in the Bible and being a Christian is not crazy if believing in the goodness and rightness of our system of reason isn't crazy. I don't think we should rely on facts to show it.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Joy
The best trumpet solos rise from the gathering dark
with the welling crescendo of certainty that brims,
overflows
and grows into bursting awe
in the reverence of after sunset.
From the quiet, they sing the Maker
And all the distant suns burn fierce
and unextinguished.
with the welling crescendo of certainty that brims,
overflows
and grows into bursting awe
in the reverence of after sunset.
From the quiet, they sing the Maker
And all the distant suns burn fierce
and unextinguished.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Romanticism in Real Life
I was chugging slowly uphill through a school zone on the way to class today and I took a moment to look to the right. The unfortunate building responsible for the whole slow chugging situation sat primly behind a chain link fence and looked disapprovingly back at me. Fine, I thought, and looked to the left instead.
The view on the left was tremendous. In a tiny, tiny field of exuberant grass on top of the hill were four llamas: three adults and one baby. Framed by the blue mountains that scrape the sky, they cast long shadows to the west; they struck gloriously pastoral poses in the morning sun. The light was warm and friendly on their wild fur. Five minutes later, I said to myself, "Behold! Llamas," and was immensely pleased.
The view on the left was tremendous. In a tiny, tiny field of exuberant grass on top of the hill were four llamas: three adults and one baby. Framed by the blue mountains that scrape the sky, they cast long shadows to the west; they struck gloriously pastoral poses in the morning sun. The light was warm and friendly on their wild fur. Five minutes later, I said to myself, "Behold! Llamas," and was immensely pleased.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Inarticulate
I like words. They have a bumbling earnesty - a serious and well intentioned commitment to sharing meaning, to dividing it into chunks and sorting and delivering it, but they fail us when it comes to feeling. And they frown and mutter and group and regroup when we rail at them to do work that was never meant for them to do alone.
Still, they try, though we demand nothing less than alchemy, and they come up with good hearted inadequacies like "I'm sorry" or "I love you."
"Incompetents!" we grumble with flaming cheeks, and we marshall more of them: bigger, stronger, longer, older and wiser words, and we assign them ranks and roles and arrange them in squadrons. But when they march out (and so often stumble), don't we always look at the listener - at the Eyes, who have been laughing all along? In one glance: telepathy.
Still, they try, though we demand nothing less than alchemy, and they come up with good hearted inadequacies like "I'm sorry" or "I love you."
"Incompetents!" we grumble with flaming cheeks, and we marshall more of them: bigger, stronger, longer, older and wiser words, and we assign them ranks and roles and arrange them in squadrons. But when they march out (and so often stumble), don't we always look at the listener - at the Eyes, who have been laughing all along? In one glance: telepathy.
Monday, March 28, 2011
A Toast to Litotes
There is a neat little rhetorical device known as litotes. (It is pronounced "lie-TOTE-eez.") In a pinch, you could call it hypobole. Remember my favorite moment in Mort D'arthur? If, for example, Sir Lancelot had succeeded in splattering himself on the ground below the lofty castle window, and if, in the awkward silence immediately following, Sir Gawain had ventured to look down and say something like: "Goodness. That wasn't the wisest decision," or "Oh dear. He wasn't the cleverest person, was he?" or even "My stars. A flesh-wound." that would be litotes. File this information for later, if you will.
So. We come to toast. You might remember an earlier post on toast. It was a bit negative, due to the evanescent properties of perfect toast, and the traitorous traits of toasters. Today, I found myself reflecting on this theme again. I put two breads* in the toaster. I moved the dial to 5. I pushed the knobthing down. Then I remembered that my sister owed me money. This was The First Mistake.
Murphy's law was in effect, of course, and I didn't have the right change for a twenty. I was scrounging around for toonies when I remembered my toast. I bellowed (with some degree of fear) and charged up the stairs to the toaster. Sure enough, the toasts were burnt. My sister demanded what the big deal was. I tried to explain that toasters are betrayers - they get you where it hurts most: right in the toast - and thus I made The Second Mistake.
Articulating raw emotions and making lunch are activities that require intense concentration, and never the twain shall meet. Flustered, I put chocolate spread instead of butter on my burnt raisin toast. Think boiled raisins, scorched spelt and sticky brown mess. I bit into it and thought, "This tastes bad." And I invented 'litoastes' on the spot. This was Deus Ex Machina, and it pretty much redeemed a terrible situation.
Hence, I present: Litoastes n. A rhetorically magnificent subcategory of litotes that deals exclusively with toast, toasting and bad toast-related puns.
*Slices. Since we're talking rhetorical devices, we might as well use synecdoche.
So. We come to toast. You might remember an earlier post on toast. It was a bit negative, due to the evanescent properties of perfect toast, and the traitorous traits of toasters. Today, I found myself reflecting on this theme again. I put two breads* in the toaster. I moved the dial to 5. I pushed the knobthing down. Then I remembered that my sister owed me money. This was The First Mistake.
Murphy's law was in effect, of course, and I didn't have the right change for a twenty. I was scrounging around for toonies when I remembered my toast. I bellowed (with some degree of fear) and charged up the stairs to the toaster. Sure enough, the toasts were burnt. My sister demanded what the big deal was. I tried to explain that toasters are betrayers - they get you where it hurts most: right in the toast - and thus I made The Second Mistake.
Articulating raw emotions and making lunch are activities that require intense concentration, and never the twain shall meet. Flustered, I put chocolate spread instead of butter on my burnt raisin toast. Think boiled raisins, scorched spelt and sticky brown mess. I bit into it and thought, "This tastes bad." And I invented 'litoastes' on the spot. This was Deus Ex Machina, and it pretty much redeemed a terrible situation.
Hence, I present: Litoastes n. A rhetorically magnificent subcategory of litotes that deals exclusively with toast, toasting and bad toast-related puns.
*Slices. Since we're talking rhetorical devices, we might as well use synecdoche.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Finity Problem
Yesterday, I was thinking about infinity - specifically, how God always has been and always will be. The 'always has been' part boggles my mind. After death, we'll have eternal life, which is infinite in the sense that it never ends. But it has a beginning. I just couldn't imagine not having a beginning. It's more than infinity, if that makes sense. If beginning at year 1 and counting upwards forever is infinity, then to have always been counting upwards must encompass more time... I think...
Then I started thinking spatially - what about the universe? If it is infinite, we are frighteningly small. In fact, if you think about a version of Google Maps that just keeps on zooming out and zooming out, we would vanish completely, except not really - we would just keep dwindling in size forever. Imagine looking for Earth on this cosmic map with the Hubble telescope and not being able to find even the Milky Way. And that's understatement when it comes to infinity. Again, it's mind boggling.
But then I thought: how can it not be infinite? In a hypothetical situation where people could instantly travel as far as they wanted to, can you imagine coming up against some kind of blank "edge of the map"? (like in RTS games.) Mind = blown. I can't imagine it. I just can't picture a limited universe - I mean, automatically, I would think "what is outside the boundaries of the universe?"
But a universe can't have spatial boundaries, can it? Can the laws of physics just stop at some point?
Maybe they could if there were other universes with different laws of physics crowded in around us - but then we would have to quibble about the definition of the word, and at the end of the day, whatever word we chose to mean "everything that exists" would replace our definition of universe, and we would still have the boundaries problem.
Bah. Infinity, you are vindicated. Finity, you are in a league of your own. People who are still reading, you almost rate a league of your own too, but if I said that, then we'd have another problem...
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
It's not only Monty Python that's funny
You know how you can love old writing and dislike it at the same time? I'm talking about that contrast between "Ooh, it's good because it's a classic" and "Why would you ever write a sentence like that?"
Arthurian legend in Thomas Malory is like that. 'And' sometimes means 'if', 'or' means 'before', and 'maugre' means 'notwithstanding'. 'Passing' is sometimes an adverb meaning 'very', oddly enough. The syntax takes some getting used to, even if you've been broken in to inversion by the Anglo-Genevan Psalter.
Chretien de Troyes is odd too, if you use the English translated version. Somehow the niceties of twelfth century medieval French poetry have failed to make it into English prose. Take this example from the Penguin Classics edition: "The fact that his lady had been consoled, and this was the news that the lady brought him, made him suddenly very happy. The king himself was happy about it; he had been very joyful before, but now his joy was even greater." The way it's put, I just can't help being skeptical about this supremely happy king's happiness.
On the other hand, the plots are fascinating once you start understanding the cultural context. Though they are sometimes hilariously implausible (In Malory for example, Sir Tristram, the famous french flower of chivalry and knightly pwnage, poses as Sir Tramtrist when he wants to hide his true identity. Obviously, he was a master of the subtle art of disguise.) they almost always provide interesting insights into human nature and the culture of the time.
There's a great scene in Chretien's Lancelot story where Lancelot and Gawain are at the window in a castle. The window has a nice view of the nearby meadow, and it so happens that Queen Guenevere passes right by. Lancelot is immediately infatuated at the sight of her. At this point, Gawain barely knows Lancelot, so he's completely unprepared for Lancelot's abrupt decision to defenestrate himself. The queen had kept right on passing till she was out of our hero's line of vision, you see, and this was very upsetting to him.
Nevertheless, Gawain's years of experience with saving those in distress serve him well. Lancelot is only half way out of the window before Gawain hauls him back inside. I think he then says something to the effect of, "Are you mad? Don't ever do that again." Probably an understandable reaction.
Anyway, the image of Gawain grabbing Lancelot (who would have been struggling mightily to dash himself to pieces) bodily around the waist and dragging him back inside is uproariously funny to me. The melodramatics are wonderful. Arthurian lit in general is just so good. Read it if you get the chance!
Arthurian legend in Thomas Malory is like that. 'And' sometimes means 'if', 'or' means 'before', and 'maugre' means 'notwithstanding'. 'Passing' is sometimes an adverb meaning 'very', oddly enough. The syntax takes some getting used to, even if you've been broken in to inversion by the Anglo-Genevan Psalter.
Chretien de Troyes is odd too, if you use the English translated version. Somehow the niceties of twelfth century medieval French poetry have failed to make it into English prose. Take this example from the Penguin Classics edition: "The fact that his lady had been consoled, and this was the news that the lady brought him, made him suddenly very happy. The king himself was happy about it; he had been very joyful before, but now his joy was even greater." The way it's put, I just can't help being skeptical about this supremely happy king's happiness.
On the other hand, the plots are fascinating once you start understanding the cultural context. Though they are sometimes hilariously implausible (In Malory for example, Sir Tristram, the famous french flower of chivalry and knightly pwnage, poses as Sir Tramtrist when he wants to hide his true identity. Obviously, he was a master of the subtle art of disguise.) they almost always provide interesting insights into human nature and the culture of the time.
There's a great scene in Chretien's Lancelot story where Lancelot and Gawain are at the window in a castle. The window has a nice view of the nearby meadow, and it so happens that Queen Guenevere passes right by. Lancelot is immediately infatuated at the sight of her. At this point, Gawain barely knows Lancelot, so he's completely unprepared for Lancelot's abrupt decision to defenestrate himself. The queen had kept right on passing till she was out of our hero's line of vision, you see, and this was very upsetting to him.
Nevertheless, Gawain's years of experience with saving those in distress serve him well. Lancelot is only half way out of the window before Gawain hauls him back inside. I think he then says something to the effect of, "Are you mad? Don't ever do that again." Probably an understandable reaction.
Anyway, the image of Gawain grabbing Lancelot (who would have been struggling mightily to dash himself to pieces) bodily around the waist and dragging him back inside is uproariously funny to me. The melodramatics are wonderful. Arthurian lit in general is just so good. Read it if you get the chance!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Sorry, Another One About Night
Aldergrove:
a bright light cluster at night,
a modest solar system tucked between Galaxies,
a western constellation visible with the naked eye
from a certain gas station on Fraser Highway.
As I fuel there,
the stink of gas and the winter air
do not damp my answering glow.
I love this evening orbit
around my incandescent home.
------------
I'm not sure why I organized it like this. It looked interesting. Thoughts?
a bright light cluster at night,
a modest solar system tucked between Galaxies,
a western constellation visible with the naked eye
from a certain gas station on Fraser Highway.
As I fuel there,
the stink of gas and the winter air
do not damp my answering glow.
I love this evening orbit
around my incandescent home.
------------
I'm not sure why I organized it like this. It looked interesting. Thoughts?
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Geography Profs Are Usually Excellent
While I was reading an inspiring post on my friend Heidi's blog, I was struck by an interesting pattern in good teachers. My sample population is pretty small and in no way useful for a research study, but I've found that Geography professors are usually excellent. There is no doubt about it. Two out of three of my Geography experiences have been inspiring, thanks largely to the influence (and estimable character) of the professors involved. The other experience, I feel, is only limited by virtue of its internet setting - online classes are the worst. But that is another rant story.
In case anyone does want to undertake a research project regarding the whys and wherefores of this claim, I have drawn up a few hypotheses to help you apply for grants:
Geography professors are usually excellent because:
1. They study everything. Geography is the broadest discipline that ever was. It covers everything from mushrooms to skyscrapers. It is a discipline which provides scope for a healthy thirst for knowledge.
2. They're a perfect mix of Arts and Sciences. They're not always entrenched in their labs with beakers of nitroglycerin and scribbling chalkboard sized equations, nor are they always torturing the written word in order to wrench grand abstractions from it. What follows is an obviously logical syllogism: well balanced people are usually excellent, and geographers are always well balanced people. Therefore, geographers are usually excellent.
3.They often do field work. Literally. Maybe it's just because I'm an English major, but there must be something strongly bucolic about digging holes for soil samples in the grassy wilderness, with the animals frolicking around you and the smell of honest dirt. If you prefer the city, fear not. As per hypothesis number one, geographers work in the city as well, right in the middle of the bustling, hustling, rustling crowds.They know the world from first hand experience, and that's where the good stories in class come from.
4. A handful of weather geographers do tornado chasing. I think the outright coolness of this is self-explanatory.
Note that these hypotheses may be interconnected factors in the usual excellence of Geography professors. In the course of your research, you may also find that I have been exaggerating shamelessly all along, but there are a few grains of truth sprinkled here and there. In the meantime, happy researching!
In case anyone does want to undertake a research project regarding the whys and wherefores of this claim, I have drawn up a few hypotheses to help you apply for grants:
Geography professors are usually excellent because:
1. They study everything. Geography is the broadest discipline that ever was. It covers everything from mushrooms to skyscrapers. It is a discipline which provides scope for a healthy thirst for knowledge.
2. They're a perfect mix of Arts and Sciences. They're not always entrenched in their labs with beakers of nitroglycerin and scribbling chalkboard sized equations, nor are they always torturing the written word in order to wrench grand abstractions from it. What follows is an obviously logical syllogism: well balanced people are usually excellent, and geographers are always well balanced people. Therefore, geographers are usually excellent.
3.They often do field work. Literally. Maybe it's just because I'm an English major, but there must be something strongly bucolic about digging holes for soil samples in the grassy wilderness, with the animals frolicking around you and the smell of honest dirt. If you prefer the city, fear not. As per hypothesis number one, geographers work in the city as well, right in the middle of the bustling, hustling, rustling crowds.They know the world from first hand experience, and that's where the good stories in class come from.
4. A handful of weather geographers do tornado chasing. I think the outright coolness of this is self-explanatory.
Note that these hypotheses may be interconnected factors in the usual excellence of Geography professors. In the course of your research, you may also find that I have been exaggerating shamelessly all along, but there are a few grains of truth sprinkled here and there. In the meantime, happy researching!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Sleepy
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.
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.
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."
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