art is not a handicraft

"Art is not a handicraft, it is the transmission of feeling the artist has experienced." -Leo Tolstoy

I tried something new recently: I am applying to have an art exhibition. My CV is sadly lacking in what art exhibition folks look for --things like training and prior experience. I have had training --lots of it --but I never went to art school for reasons I've explored prior to now. My prior experience is called life and fiddling around with whatever I could in the spare moments not filled with all of the other things I was expected to do.

There was a period of time that I won't go into where I didn't get out much --an understatement, but I don't like to think about it and  people prefer uplifting redemption stories to stories about why the redemption was needed. The point is, I didn't get out much and my personal world was limited to the left side of a couch, occasionally venturing into the kitchen or going for walks.

During that time, I found things I could do in very small spaces. One of those things was papier-mâché because it cost nothing and I could use things around the house. I made my son's mask for his Halloween costume. Another thing I did was papercutting. Part of an old egg carton could be turned easily into a bird puppet.

And one more thing I did was sew.

I discovered tivaevae, beautiful quilts from the Cook Islands that women grow up learning to make, and tried to emulate it (poorly) by myself. I made a giant floor pillow out of an old curtain, sewn by hand (my fingers still hurt thinking about pushing that needle through that thick canvas). And I made the letters up above for a project inspired by my work at school with literacy and those old magnet letters that people use on refrigerators.

With all apologies to Tolstoy, sometimes art is a handicraft and handicraft is art. Traditionally, that has been the avenue left open to women to express themselves. And there's plenty of feeling there. 

why poetry? (end of 2017 edition)

• Feelings still matter.
• Memories like to be taken out & dusted off.
• Our thoughts are still our own.
• That time we laughed with a friend about nothing in particular.
• The little mew of the neighbor cat means I'm not alone.
• When we read a poem, we watch acrobats tumble & fly.
• Bigger is not always better.
• Words can be a heartbeat, and a heartbeat is what keeps you alive.
• There's linear, but then there's the rest of us ...
• There is nothing so political as seeing beauty in the everyday.

a bunch of old bs

Heads up: everything in the next section I am about to write is bullshit. Don't know why you'd read after that glowing endorsement, but maybe a few of you have a little Pandora in you and want to know what's in that box labeled 'Bullshit' ...

________

The world is for the young. If you're of a certain age and you haven't already established your reputation, you didn't really want it enough, did you? If you're of a certain age and you need or want to start over, you're only embarrassing yourself. You're set in your ways. You can't learn anything new. What could you possibly have to say that's interesting? You're old.

_________

If you are young (we'll define 'young' for our purposes as under the age of 27 --sounds like a nice even number) and think any of the above, then you are setting yourself up for a great big load of disappointment in your later life, guaranteed. You think you know, but you have no idea.

If you are old (28 and up) and think any of that, then stop it. Seriously. Stop. I'm talking as much to myself here as to any of you. 

The world (another term we need to define --I'm in the US, and as everyone knows, we're the center of the universe in our own minds, so what the hell, we'll go with that) prefers the young. We love the precocious. We love prodigies. We loved Coreys Haim & Feldman until they grew up. We do not love messes or baggage or anything other than unbridled enthusiasm on shining faces. If there is a mess, it had better be young and hot and cute because ew.

That doesn't mean the world is right. It means the world likes things wrapped up in neat little packages.

__________

Fuck neat little packages --seriously, fuck them. They're just fancy boxes, aren't they? And fuck the world if it can't handle a mess without calling for it to be taken away.

___________

Despite the angry tone to all of that, I am actually feeling pretty hopeful. 

I've written before about coming late to art and expressing myself. Extensively. Seriously, that sums up about 1/3 of my blog posts, you're welcome --no need to read now. In my explorations into what to do with what I've figured out about my creativity, I've looked up "okay, now what?" and have been greeted with a gaggle of young faces (or faces that may look like mine, but with a long list of credits tattooed on them). It can get discouraging. Baggage weighs me down.

I can't put the baggage down. It's like a scar --I've earned it. It's my baggage. I can carry it smarter, though. I'm all about ergonomic solutions at this stage.

____________

What people aged 28-108 can contribute to the world and to the arts:

• Breadth --life experience is, in fact, experience, and we have more of it
• Perseverance --think Keith Richards (we are all Keith Richards)
• Leadership --a lot of us have had kids, so we've had to learn to lead
• Patience --again, we've had kids
• The Ability to Spot and Call Bullshit --speaks for itself
• Resources --we get jobs while trying to figure stuff out, and we're cantankerous enough to work and create (yes, at the same time)

________________

Do not preemptively assume that you have nothing to contribute to the arts. You have a lot to contribute --what that is may remain to be seen, but you have a lot to contribute. Use your well-earned patience. Persevere, because you know you can do that (Keith Richards lives!). Spot the bullshit, both what the world lays on you and what you lay on yourself. Now is the time. It wasn't before, and that's okay, because you were learning to get to where you are now.

Don't buy the old bullshit. You're not old, you're mature. Now go make whatever the hell you want.

And Happy 2018, when it comes.

shaking it

Experimenting tonight since today was a heavy day. I'm going to write a poem using random words and phrases from music I'm listening to tonight. This technique is apparently called found poetry. Just call me Lady Dada. 

Nothing heavy allowed, of course, because I don't feel like it. Only  songs that encourage movement and pleasant feelings. I'll try not to violate anyone's copyright --in fact, I'll list the songs and encourage you to seek out the originals from the artists! Here we go ...

I gotta live it down.
It bears repeating --
Lots of work to be done.
I get my kicks 
(Shake it shake it)
Standing up against the wall.
Quelle vibration!
All I know, 
I was hit by something last night --
So indelicate.
(Poor little greenie,
Take me by the hand.)
Out of control!
I don't mind 'cause I'm that kind of
Leute.


Lonely Boy -Black Keys
Fell In Love With A Girl -The White Stripes
Whip It -Devo
Electric Avenue -Eddy Grant
One Night In Bangkok -Murray Head
Ça Plane Pour Moi -Plastic Bertrand
You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) -Dead Or Alive
Hey Ya! -OutKast
That's Not My Name -The Ting Tings
Dead Man's Party -Oingo Boingo
Why Can't I be You? -The Cure
The Jean Genie -David Bowie
Mickey -Toni Basil
Private Idaho -The B-52s
Sweatshop -DeStaat
99 Luftballons -Nena

a silly little rhyme

here's a silly little rhyme,
for I haven't got the time
to write a rhyme sublime,
and I think I've found that I'm 
not at all inclined to mime
or commit a petty crime
or go bathe myself in slime
or wait for silent bells to chime
or go digging in the grime
or spend another stinking dime --
no, the moment now is prime
for a silly little rhyme,
so ...

[repeat ad infinitum and have a good day!]

thoughts for a rainy monday night in the middle of nanowrimo

A little warm up for post-work NaNoWriMo writing. I've come in from the blustery rain and cold and dark, both metaphorically and literally (hello, Seattle in November!), and I'm getting ready to put words on screen. Besides these words, I mean --NaNoWriMo words.

At this point, from what I can see on Twitter, many of the writerly types are into the hard slog portion of the exercise. Second week exhaustion? Is that a thing? It seems to be a thing even if it doesn't have a name.

I am there, too, but I'm an odd sort. I'm used to writing being hard slog --the up side to having written a gazillion reports over the past 15 years when I haven't felt like it and I would rather have been [insert any activity that is even remotely enjoyable here]. I am thankful that my day job involves so much writing and thinking. It's been excellent training.

Keep going. The truth is, this stuff always gets done if you keep at it. Again, 15 years of experience, and I know this to be fact. Keep going. There is room in the exercise to enjoy this, even if it is a sort of masochistic joy. You are creating something from nothing, and it can be whatever you want. Whatever. You. Want. Keep going.

And good luck.

nanowrimo update: day 7

If
only
we
could
count
lines
instead
of
words,
I
would
write
my
novel
like
this
and
be
done
more
quickly.

Except
that's
not
the
point.

The
point
is
not
the
speed --
or
it
shouldn't
be.
It's
the
story.

And
that's
all
that
matters.

under the apple tree

I started a story. I could go on and on with it, but I'll stop and leave it unfinished, as it is, and call it a blog post.


Once upon a time, there was a great big apple tree --a fruitful thing that had enough apples for everyone. 

The people lived beneath the apple tree, as that was their source of nourishment. They lived in two groups: the group that lived in the grass directly under the apple tree; and the group that lived in pits that had been dug out of the way of the roots.

Some of the group who lived in the grass above set about climbing the tree to collect the apples. They were industrious. They grew thick calluses on their hands and feet from scaling the trunk, and when they shook the branches, apples rained down from above. Some of the apples rolled into the pits, but most of the apples landed in the grass and stayed there until a grass-dweller happened to feel peckish and leaned down to pick it up.

One day, a pit-dweller named Sam, who had gone hungry for quite enough time, called up. "Can someone please throw down an apple? I'm starving down here!"

What was this noise from below? wondered the grass-dwellers. And why was it demanding apples?

"If you would like an apple, why don't you climb the tree like everyone else?" snapped a grass-dweller named George (who hadn't, in fact, climbed the tree himself but had certainly broken a sweat watching those who had).

"We've been down here trying to climb out of the pits!" called up another pit-dweller named Lucy. "We'd gladly climb the tree --our hands are strong now, from trying to grapple with the dirt, but whenever we dig in, the dirt gives way, and we tumble back down again."

"Fine. Here. Have an apple." George tossed down the core of the apple he had been happily gnawing away at before the complaining began. It's not like he could enjoy it anymore with all of that racket going on below. They didn't have enough energy to climb the apple tree --where did they get all of this energy to complain so loudly?

"That was generous of you," a grass-dweller named Maude complimented George. "Too generous. You don't want to encourage their sloth! And they're devious, too. Do you know, just the other day, I was reaching down to pick up an apple, and one of those pit-dwellers grabbed my ankle and pulled me over and stole my apple! You're much more generous that I would be. They don't deserve it."

"Oh, I know. It was just to get some peace and quiet. I was done with it, anyway."

"Still, it'll only encourage them to be loud again."

"We can hear you, you know," Lucy called up.

"See what I mean?"



It was just an idea that came to mind when I woke up one day this week. I stopped where humanity looks pretty bleak, but it doesn't have to end that way. Any ideas for how the two groups can come together?

And some questions about what's already there:

• What do you think of the pit-dweller who stole the apple?
• Do you think it makes sense for only some of the grass-dwellers to climb the apple tree? Why or why not?
• How did the grass-dwellers and the pit-dwellers end up in such different circumstances in the first place (with the pit-dwellers obviously placed at a disadvantage)?

i love words

How do I love words? Let me count the ways ...

I love the sounds in words (alternately, I love that I don't love the sounds in words and that makes me wrinkle my nose up at them).

I love the meanings of words, especially the slippery ones that change depending on who says them and where and in what tone of voice.

I love the intent of words --particularly the words that let us know we are not alone in the world and someone else may share an understanding.

I love that there is a word (silence) that signifies the absence of words. How clever is that?

I love the ingenuity of words, and someday, I will take Noam Chomsky up on his 'Colorless green ideas sleep furiously' challenge.

I love the history of words. Words evolve along with people. Words appear and disappear and change.

I love the variety of words. Some days, I may feel like I drag; other days, I may walk; and still others, I may prance. What a gift we have in choices!

I love the comedy and drama of words --put words together, and they tell a story. 

I love that I can use words to express my love of words, and I love that words --sometimes, when they are feeling awfully kind --love me back.

work in progress

I never took Art classes in school.

I was always friends with the people who took Art classes but never took classes myself.

For some reason, as a child and later as a young adult, I thought that Art classes were a waste of time. "Art isn't practical. Art won't help you get a job," my younger mind thought (somewhat strangely for a young mind who did not have this kind of pressure from my parents). I signed up for classes that would be practical or that I had to have to graduate --Spanish, German, Biology. Practical subjects. Art was self-indulgent, and school wasn't about self-indulgence. School was about preparing for Life. 

This thought process continued on into college. With Art classes costing more than other classes, it made no sense to sign up for them. I was still hanging out with the artists, but I was studying things like Psychology, Economics, and Linguistics. You know, practical subjects.

I no longer feel the way I did. Enough of life has passed that I realize, there's more to life than practical. Those friends who were artists managed to find jobs or make a living. So did I, but I felt like something was missing. Part of that something was Art.  

Fast forward to now, and I'm still learning.

I've been participating in Inktober this year. For those of you unfamiliar with Inktober, it is during the month of October (see what they did there?) and is all about drawing using ink.

I've discovered I really enjoy drawing with ink. I feel more comfortable with it now than I did a few years ago. Part of Art, I think, is figuring out what works for you and what you are comfortable with. I still don't have a style --I'm all over the map --but I've done more things that I'm pleased with. I still compare myself with other people, and find myself in awe of what they can do, but I'm okay with what I'm doing, too. It'll come.

I'm finding I like to use black & white. I like watering down ink like watercolor (interestingly, watercolor scares me because I just can't wrap my head around color) to use for shading. I like keeping things minimal, even though I love to look at texture.

I'm including a couple of things I've done for Inktober because I am proud of them --not so much proud of myself, but I really like the way they turned out. I hope that I can continue to make things that I am proud of and that I enjoy looking at. Are they perfect? No. But like Art and like Life, it's all work in progress.

Based on the Sistine Chapel (turn it sideways) -prompt word: underwater

Based on a photo of Flannery O'Connor -prompt word: crooked

Do what you need to do in your life, but remember to enjoy the impractical. 

file under 'will never be published' (no. 12)

File under 'Will Never Be Published' (no. 12): To Noam Chomsky, With The Clever Eyes

Background: Yet another contest entry that went nowhere. That appears to be a theme in my writing.

Ideas are hard. I use contests as inspiration for both form (no longer than 500 words, a sonnet, a 1-2 character full-length play, etc.) and content (write about this painting, write something beginning with this sentence, etc.). In this way, even if I have no ideas, someone else has provided one to me. Then, I write.

In this instance, the result cracked me up --in a good way. The idea of writing a love poem to Noam Chomsky (I know him more from his linguistics than his politics, to be honest), who is old enough to be my grandfather, makes me chuckle. I submitted it for a contest that asked for poems written to revolutionaries. I never heard back. This does not surprise me. There's something to be said for writing for one's own enjoyment, but I wouldn't have responded to me, either.

It is written as a sonnet, and it involved some research (since, as I mentioned, I don't know much about Mr. Chomsky's politics). Is it great? Nope. Is it fun? I'll let you judge. I chuckled rereading it.

There's no "wrong" place to find your inspiration, and you are not required to be creative in a vacuum. Enjoy the process, and don't be afraid to be silly!

Why it will never be published: 1) it is a love sonnet to Noam Chomsky; 2) it is a sonnet; and 3) I'm never submitting it again!

To Noam Chomsky, With The Clever Eyes

To Noam, with the clever eyes:

You’re my anarcho-love ideal.

I really must apologize

For telling you the way I feel

(Although I’m practicing free speech,

A cause I know that you support.

I just don’t want to overreach --

It’s not like I’m the Supreme Court).

My feelings are not only lust --

You’ll have to take me at my word

And grant me some degree of trust,

Despite the fact I sound absurd.

I reject most authority,

But my heart says that you’re for me.

collecting the scatterings

It always starts with good intentions, doesn't it?

An idea! And sometimes, that idea leads to another and another, in a direct line. That's how writing starts.

I have issues with attention and focus. I tend to think in twenty different directions at once, which is not helped by the nature of modern life. 

Additionally, I have issues with memory. If I don't do something straightaway, I have a tendency to forget about it. 

Additionally additionally, I have issues with executive functioning. For someone who has issues with attention, focus, and memory, there are certain ways to compensate for these issues, which I seem not to do because this time I'll remember, and ooh, what's that shiny thing over there ...!

I had an idea last week (I think it was last week --memory and all that ...) that I think is a good one. Last week, I also came across a publisher seeking experimental poetry written in classic forms. I thought I would try to combine the two.

Every idea has a form of writing that will work to enhance what it is. I had a great experience with this over the summer when an idea I had coincided with a request for 1-2 character plays. Let's just say, this new idea does not interact well with experimental poetry written in classic forms. I tried it. It doesn't --not at all.

So this blog post is to collect the scatterings of that idea in prose. Maybe it was only meant to be an outline? Maybe I'll do something with it later. Maybe I won't.

The idea was this: it centers around the lamassus in what is now Iraq, but was Assyrian when they were created. They are enormous figures with the head of a bearded man and the body of either a bull or lion and a bird of some sort.

I read an article in the Smithsonian magazine on an archaeologist in Mosul and lamassus played a part in the article. This is what inspired the idea in the first place. Prior to that, I had no idea what these things were called.

Back around the turn of the 19th/20th Century, archaeologists from Europe were busy excavating historical artifacts in the area, the most famous of whom was Max Mallowan (Mr. Agatha Christie, who also spent time here). They performed their excavations and shipped their discoveries off to Europe, ostensibly for safe keeping from the locals or perhaps from the elements or anyhow from people who didn't appreciate them in exactly the right way. You can now see the lamassus in museums like the Louvre and the British Museum --where I saw them many years ago, but I didn't realize what they were. 

One interesting piece of trivia about these lamassus is that their original purpose was to protect the area (specifically the palace,  I believe, but I'm no expert). So European archaeologists removed them and sent them to Europe. If one were superstitious, one would wonder whether the protection of the lamassus was removed along with them ...

Flash forward to now and the article about the Iraqi archaeologist in Mosul. The area was captured by ISIS for a period of time and has now been recaptured but just. The lamassus that were still located in the area were targeted by ISIS during their occupation in the same way the Buddha in Afghanistan had been by Al-Qaeda, and for the same reason.

My idea, which I still can't fully wrap my head around, is this: did the original archaeologists do the area a disservice by removing the statues in the first place, thus leaving the area unprotected; or did their actions end up saving the ones that were removed preemptively; or ...? The area did end up overrun by people who did not appreciate the lamassus, to put it mildly. However, the removal of the lamassus in the first place was cultural imperialism ("You couldn't possibly know how to take care of these the right way. Here, let us get that for you. There, there ..."), and it is an Iraqi who is risking her life to account for the remaining artifacts and protect them as best she can. The lamassus make excellent representative symbols of a lot of questions I have about the world.

And when you throw in me, an American woman, writing about the whole thing in a Western poetic form (cultural appropriation, anyone?), it gets very confusing. And bad --trust me, the poem was bad.

So I'll just leave it as a blog post about the idea that got away. Writers don't use all of their ideas --or they shouldn't, at least not all at once, I don't think. Maybe I'll find the right form at some point to ponder the questions I have. Maybe I won't. At least now my scatterings are collected somewhere, and I can look at them again if and when the time comes.

Good luck with your writing, too. Good luck collecting your scatterings that don't quite add up, and good luck with maybe finding their proper form in the future. They can't all be winners, but it doesn't mean they're bad.

magic trick

Ladies and gentlemen, people of all ages, I am about to attempt magic!

I got this idea last night when I couldn't sleep --always the birthplace of excellent ideas, no? 

My idea: to turn water into wine.

I know what you're thinking: it's been done. True. But has it ever been done on a blog by me? I think not. For those of you who were thinking, "Can I drink it when you're done?" No. All mine. Make your own. I can't get it through the Internets without electrocuting myself anyway --been there, done that ...

So here we go *cracks knuckles" ...

WATER

WAITER

WRITER

WRITE

RITE

SITE

SINE

WINE

Bonus that it even ended up goblet-shaped!

The point of this was not sacrilege. Miracles may happen, but you cannot determine when and where they will happen --we cannot control these things. We may not always be capable of miracles ourselves, but what we are capable of is thinking outside of the (wine) box. The above is an old game you play by starting with one word and changing it into another by adding, changing or eliminating one letter. In this case, I turned water into wine.

(Incidentally, nature also turns water into wine regularly, when rain- and groundwater gets into grapevine roots, travels up to the grapes, etc. But nature is not a person, so I don't know if that counts.)

Try things. Don't be afraid to be creative --you never know where solutions (not necessarily miracles or magic) will lie.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go buy a bottle of something to celebrate. Have a lovely rest of your day.

how we spend our moments

Have you ever thought to yourself when reading a blog (like this one), "Hmm, I wonder how long it took to write that post ..." 

Most people don't, I don't think --they just read the content. Maybe it's an informative blog, or maybe it's a humorous blog, or maybe it's a blog about deep thinky thoughts. People gravitate toward the topics covered, and sometimes, the writing style.

There is a concept from economics called opportunity cost. My friend, Mr. Google, tells me opportunity cost is a noun meaning "the loss of potential gain from other alternatives when one alternative is chosen." Our life is full of alternatives. We fill our time with alternatives.

Reading a blog is one alternative use of time. Writing a blog is another use of time. Both of them occur on computers.

Have you ever thought to yourself when reading a blog (like this one), "Hmm, I wonder how long it took to write that post ...and what else could they have been doing instead with that time?"

Have you ever thought to yourself when reading a blog (like this one), "Hmm, I wonder what's going on around me, beyond the screen ..."

I am beginning to wonder what is going on around me. When writing this blog post, and thinking about other blog posts I have written, I wonder, "What could I notice beyond what's in my head?"

I have been in my head a lot recently. In terms of opportunity cost, what was chosen was the thoughts in my head. Creative endeavors, particularly those that are not group projects, are fundamentally selfish acts, & that's what I chose --creative endeavors. But at what cost?

What did I miss while I was in my head?

It turns out, I missed a lot. My life will be changing soon --is changing now --because of what I missed. That is neither here nor there.

I used to pride myself on having a day job while also writing. It meant I would not be boring and overly writerly --that I would have something unique to share that only come from experiences outside my head (and fundamentally, writers inhabit their heads --there's a lot of ego in writing). I still do think that is a good way to be --having a job outside of writing professionally, but I am seeing that I need to apply this to the rest of my life, too.

I need to look around more. I need to accept and process what is going on around me. It may make my writing better (you know, less boring and overly writerly), but I am certain it will make my life better. I will continue to write to communicate what I notice because that's the way I think about things. 

I know how long it took to write this blog post --while I was doing it, my son requested a glass of milk to counteract wasabi seaweed and is now playing on his iPad. How else could I have spent this time?

Impostor Syndrome ...

Or is that Imposter Syndrome? I'm not sure about the spelling ...

Wait.

How can you not know how to spell that? You're a writer? Really? Really? Are you sure about that?

The honest truth (redundant) is I'm not sure, and from what I've seen, there are a lot of people who feel the same way about themselves. This happens in all artistic pursuits. Am I musician if I don't get paid for making music? Am I an artist if I've never learned about all of the technical aspects of the visual arts? Am I a poet if no one reads my poems?

There are ways of handling this, though --at least, I hope there are. I am going to walk you through what I did this morning in the hopes that at least one other person can use it. It's working for me, and I hate the thought that someone would go through the feeling alone. Incidentally, this syndrome is a chronic condition, and there is no cure --only medicine to help deal with the symptoms.

______________________

To set the scene: I finished writing the first draft of a play last night. I read some plays by Tom Stoppard this morning. 

I've never written a play before. I read Tom Stoppard.

Flash forward to now: I am not curled up in the fetal position. I have, however, recently experienced an unhealthy dose of, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I am not Tom Stoppard.

I am also not Tony Kushner, Caryl Churchill, Joe Orton, Noel Coward, Eve Ensler, Tennessee Williams, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Beckett, Lillian Hellman, Lorraine Hansberry, or William Shakespeare (although people aren't sure about who Shakespeare really was, so maybe I am).

I am me. 

And I wanted to write a play. Why? Because I saw a notice asking for 1-2 person plays and because the structure fit better for a story I had in my head than prose or poetry. I enjoy writing. Does it matter why? Am I hurting anyone by trying?

If I measure myself against the list of playwrights above, I'm going to suck at playwriting. I am not being mean to myself by saying this --it is fact. The reason: I am comparing myself --little ol' me --to the collected wisdom and talents of those people, all of whom did it for a long time and are widely recognized as experts. Not only that, but I'm also likely comparing what I've written to their best works. Seems unfair.

And rather than feel threatened by the fact that there are other people out there who may do the same thing better than I do, wouldn't it make more sense to look at what they did? It is time tested. What worked? While trying to avoid becoming Tom Stoppard Lite™, I can still take a close look at what worked.




Okay, that's comparing myself taken care of --I'm not Tom Stoppard, but I'm sure as heck going to try and figure out how he does what he does. Now to the big existential question ...





So what happens if I put all of this work into this play and learning how to write plays, and it goes nowhere.

No one reads it. No one sees it.

What if it is the literary equivalent of one hand clapping or the tree falling in the woods?

Was it a waste of my time? Am I pretending to be something I'm not? Under it all, and especially if a person is trying to make a living off of her art, these are biggies. 

Do you know what happens if nothing happens? 

Nothing. 

I don't disappear. I am still here. 

I still feel the same creative impulses. I always learn a lot in the process. I plan on learning more and trying more because I am not dead yet, and have I got anything better to do than try and make sense of the world and maybe communicate to some people in the process? I have a day job, because survival is important in the meantime, but I am not an impostor --or imposter, or however you spell it. 



I am a writer because I write, and I plan to continue doing so for as long as I can. Maybe, at some point along the way, I'll learn to use a dictionary to look up spelling. It's a process ...

it all adds up ...

DISCLAIMER: Do not expect much from this blogpost. It's a Monday night-I feel like writing something but I'm not sure what-stream of consciousness type blogpost. If you want to stick with me, that's lovely, but if you want to beg off now, I understand. 


I fear math.

Actually, that's not true. I don't really fear math. I'm not scared of it. I will attempt any calculation put in front of me. I suppose it would be more accurate to say math should fear me.  

Math is one of those things that I'm not awful at, but I'm pretty sure it's one of those situations where I don't know what I don't know, which leaves me knowing just enough to be dangerous.

I use math a lot in my life --probably incorrectly, but I should be given an A (i.e., a score between 91-100%) for effort:

I do consumer-type math (e.g., time, money, measurement) at home. 

I use statistics at work --I can explain a Bell Curve like nobody's business! 

And I tend to think about coping with life things and writing, drawing, etc. --life and art often overlap --in terms of percentages and fractions. It's this last use of math that has me jotting down what is promising to be a truly pointless blogpost on absolutely not much tonight. 

When making to-do lists at any given time, I realize that I will get through about half of the activities on the list within the time allotted, or it will take me twice as long as I think it should to get everything done. This is what is occurring with my current writing project, again, so the finding must still be true. I often wonder how other people who are better at planning and maintaining attention do with their to-do lists. I'm thinking their math must be different, as they all seem to be so prolific. In my case, I live the mathematical equivalent of 'her eyes are bigger than her stomach', and I get through it all eventually.

There are also the Golden Section and the Rule of Thirds. I was originally going to write they were the same thing, but the Interweb informs me they are not. 

The Golden Section occurs at 0.62 (out of 1.0) and is largely used to talk about the perfect spot in visual art, like paintings or drawing, and it occurs in music, as well. I'm not a musician, so I cannot explain what this means. I hear Bach used it very well, though, and his work is pretty magnificent for having a simultaneously calming and invigorating effect on me, so that information and $2 will get you a cup of coffee. 

The Rule of Thirds says to think in thirds, so the optimal spot would occur at 0.67 --slightly off from where the Golden Section occurs. I am currently writing a three-act play, so I'm more interested in the Rule of Thirds than the Golden Section at the moment. Incidentally, the Rule of Thirds is different than the Rule of Three --again, I have been schooled by the World Wide Net. Both are used in writing, and I am happy to announce, I use both. Hooray.

 Do you ever think about how you use math in your creative efforts? And what other areas of study seemingly unrelated to the arts do you use when you are being creative?

Also, if you understand math better than I do and I have gotten some of the math wrong, please correct me! I don't want math to be afraid of me --it's very useful.

the writer's lament

Felt like writing, but I'm not quite up to the play I'm working on (made it to the end of Act One --hooray!). A very bad habit of mine that isn't so very bad is writing something else in the meantime.

Last night, it was a newspaper article on interspecies dating (if indeed socks are considered a species). Today, I feel like improvising a rhyming poem. 

Isn't all writing improvisation? Why yes, it is. But I'm going to write without editing too much --just to keep loose. I use formal structures when I want to have a clear beginning and end to what I am doing. Also, the structure helps give me direction so I don't wander too far off.

So, here we go: I'll do a villanelle, since I like them. Trying to find two rhymes that have to continue over that many lines is a challenge I enjoy. It's also one of the first poem types I wrote when I started writing again after a decade or two.

Starting at 11:46 AM PST


The Writer's Lament

It cannot be but better said
Than I can say in poorly verse,
With naught but what's here in my head.

Perhaps I'll hide away in bed?
I might feel better --can't feel worse.
It cannot be but better said!

Calliope wants to be fed --
And here I have an empty purse,
with naught but what's here in my head.

What good is it to be well read
When every word sounds coarse and terse?
It cannot be but better said.

I feel the existential dread
Of drifting through the universe
With naught but what's here in my head.

A mind that's filled with molten lead
And echoes of a common curse:
"It cannot be but better said.
There's naught but what's here in my head."



End at 12:05 PM PST


Follow up: In my haste to finish the poem quickly and get it posted so I couldn't chicken out, I forgot to ask: what do you do to keep writing when you need a break from a longer piece of work?

let's talk about socks, baby: a human interest story

Where Do Lonely Socks Go? 

By AGNES BOOKBINDER  July 25, 2017

Seattle, WA -- Everyone has them: those socks who lose their pairs in the dryer. White cotton socks. Burly wool socks. Those 'tiny nylon socks that don't quite peek over the shoe' socks. Every day, across the United States, socks emerge from the dryer, sad and alone and looking for their mates.

Chester Toefungus (yes, that is his real name, but no, his parents didn't name him that --he just really loves his job) of the Capitol Hill neighborhood in Seattle has developed a way for these foot coverings to feel less alone in the world: Internet dating. His new company, Puppets 'n' People, matches single socks that have lost their pair in the dryer and have been converted into sock puppets  with single people who also have trouble finding mates.

"When the socks come to me, they are very lonely and without purpose. I mean, no one wants to wear only one sock at a time, and mismatched socks just look bad. Here, they are lovingly converted into puppets with personality," Mr. Toefungus explains. "Linda adds little things they might be missing, to make them more puppet-like --button eyes, things like that. And when they're done, we use my special algorithm to match them with their appropriate human mates. Extroverts get matched with pinks with silver stars and rainbows with unicorns, introverts get matched with more understated blues and greys, and so on. So far, so good, & business is up."

Customer satisfaction is said to be near 100%, although this is based on anecdotes Mr. Toefungus and Linda shared over coffee, and it could not be verified. No customers wanted to go on record as being happy with their matches, but Mr. Toefungus reports at least three weddings alone set for this weekend. Only one incident has been reported where a missing pair has found its way back from wherever they go when they get lost and things got awkward --Mr. Toefungus says, in general, both socks and humans alike are satisfied with their new matches.

"Nothing brings me more contentment than knowing two lonely souls have been brought together. Although I feel for the socks who have lost their loved ones to home appliance mishaps, I look forward to continuing to bring joy into sock's and people's lives in the future."