It's time to get back to the gym. I absolutely must refocus on writing. I need to find some sort of gainful employment.
These kinds of thoughts have been zipping through my head the last few weeks. The problem is, I only experience brief moments of inspiration and motivation and then it's gone.
Listen, I know I'm rehashing (for the thousandth time) a problem we all struggle with from time to time, but I just can't seem to get out of my funk. I'm writing, but the writing doesn't satisfy. I want to be doing everything all at once in all places and I just can't get myself to stay still right now, so I'm accomplishing very little.
I have to figure out how to catch those flashes of the good stuff and keep them going. *slaps self* Come on motivation! Stay with me!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Here's to John Updike
Sorry I haven't been around much. I've been pretty busy not motivating myself to blog (but writing other stuff. Yay!) and catching up with old friends.
Anyway, you probably already know that John Updike passed away today. He was so much more than "A&P."
Here's to you Mr. Updike. Thank you for opening wide the art of literary fiction by courageously taking it from the battlefields and riverboats and moving it into the living rooms of your characters. You taught me the importance of character intimacy.
Rest in peace.
Anyway, you probably already know that John Updike passed away today. He was so much more than "A&P."
Here's to you Mr. Updike. Thank you for opening wide the art of literary fiction by courageously taking it from the battlefields and riverboats and moving it into the living rooms of your characters. You taught me the importance of character intimacy.
Rest in peace.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Programming New Rituals
I was putting on some Degree antiperspirant today and I started thinking about all my daily rituals.
Every single day, it goes like this: I get out of bed embarrassingly late, stand over the toilet, swaying back and forth for an eternity, then I walk into the kitchen and I drink a medium-sized glass of water. I go back to my room, find some clothes and take them into the bathroom with me. I turn on the shower, brush my teeth as the water warms up, hop in the shower, wash my hair first, soap down second, shave, rinse, dry, deodorant, dress, done.
Then I wake up my PC, check various Internet thingies, return emails, post messages on various web forums, read some news, and then I start going about my day, whatever it may entail.
Same sequence. Every day. No matter what. Same. Same. Same.
In my mind, every one of those steps is an integral part of my daily start up; each sub-ritual in perfect harmony with the whole. If one single item is missed or performed out of sequence, the whole thing falls apart.
Now that I'm aware of it, I begin to wonder how one might go about hacking into these rituals and rearranging their programming to include something of importance, like say, writing one thousand words of fiction, or maybe, exercising; or both. The problem is, I seem to be logged into my brain under a guest account and I need an Admin password to make any changes to the system.
There must be a work-around, but I haven't had much luck so far.
How about you? Installed anything of importance into your daily rituals lately? How'd you do it?
Every single day, it goes like this: I get out of bed embarrassingly late, stand over the toilet, swaying back and forth for an eternity, then I walk into the kitchen and I drink a medium-sized glass of water. I go back to my room, find some clothes and take them into the bathroom with me. I turn on the shower, brush my teeth as the water warms up, hop in the shower, wash my hair first, soap down second, shave, rinse, dry, deodorant, dress, done.
Then I wake up my PC, check various Internet thingies, return emails, post messages on various web forums, read some news, and then I start going about my day, whatever it may entail.
Same sequence. Every day. No matter what. Same. Same. Same.
In my mind, every one of those steps is an integral part of my daily start up; each sub-ritual in perfect harmony with the whole. If one single item is missed or performed out of sequence, the whole thing falls apart.
Now that I'm aware of it, I begin to wonder how one might go about hacking into these rituals and rearranging their programming to include something of importance, like say, writing one thousand words of fiction, or maybe, exercising; or both. The problem is, I seem to be logged into my brain under a guest account and I need an Admin password to make any changes to the system.
There must be a work-around, but I haven't had much luck so far.
How about you? Installed anything of importance into your daily rituals lately? How'd you do it?
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Honorary Pallbearer for a Stranger
I'll spare you the specifics, but I attended a funeral today. (Don't feel obliged, dear reader, to send me any condolences; I wasn't close with her. In fact, I barely knew her at all.)
You might consider me an extended member of the family for whom I was attending the funeral. They lost an elderly loved one (whom I had met), so I jammed myself into a dress shirt I hadn't worn for a long time and tried to remember how to tie a Half Windsor on the way to a stranger's house to gather with the family before the ceremony.
A man in the shadows, I tell myself as I pull into the drive, preparing for a few hours of hanging in the back, smiling at strangers and shaking hands with warm country people who live in warm country homes, just like this one.
The house has a large inviting circle drive and a sun room overlooking a wintry pasture and a distant green pond. There are ten or twelve cars parked outside. I can hear the murmur of conversation coming from inside, and the scent of homemade bread hangs in the air.
I shake a few hands as I enter, a familiar face here and there, lots of respectful smiles and acknowledging nods. There are some uncomfortably silent teenagers on a couch nearby. A circle of elderly people laugh together quietly--quiet except for one; a big old man with a heavy complexion and knuckles thick with the marks of honest work. He laughs the way I imagine a st. Bernard might. He looks around, probably making sure he isn't getting any sour looks for laughing at a funeral. He's a good man; you can tell just by looking at him.
I talk with the people I know, and they thank me for coming and hug me. They know I'm just trying to do the right thing by being there. They know I was Nobody to the deceased. They smile with sad eyes; tired but grateful.
A middle-aged woman from the family, with whom I had spoken on a handful of occasions, approaches me with a camcorder. She smiles and asks me how I am, and thanks for coming, and I hope you can find something to eat with all this food around here, and so on.
Then: "Can you run the camcorder?" She refers to it with a the in front of it; probably the same way she refers to video games or other devices she hasn't grown comfortable with. He's in there, playing the video game; as if there is only one to go around for the whole community, like a cotton gin.
Who films a funeral? I can't get this thought out of my head as I graciously accept the videotaping responsibilities for the room full of strange faces around me. At least people will shy away from me now. Who wants to be on a funeral video?
Some women look at a clock and remind some men to head to the church early, since the that's what pallbearers do. Men trickle out the door, leaving Styrofoam cups full of Coke-stained ice cubes on the kitchen counters.
"Jed, you need to go with them," one of the women says from across the room. "The pallbearers are supposed to go early." The room is quiet.
"Oh, I'm not, um..."
"The honorary pallbearers are supposed to go now too," she says.
Honorary pallbearer? How did I get on the list of honorary pallbearers? And why? Did they think I would feel left out? No one even knew I was coming.
I fumble with the camcorder as I head for the door. A man in the shadows, I think. Just a man in the shadows.
You might consider me an extended member of the family for whom I was attending the funeral. They lost an elderly loved one (whom I had met), so I jammed myself into a dress shirt I hadn't worn for a long time and tried to remember how to tie a Half Windsor on the way to a stranger's house to gather with the family before the ceremony.
A man in the shadows, I tell myself as I pull into the drive, preparing for a few hours of hanging in the back, smiling at strangers and shaking hands with warm country people who live in warm country homes, just like this one.
The house has a large inviting circle drive and a sun room overlooking a wintry pasture and a distant green pond. There are ten or twelve cars parked outside. I can hear the murmur of conversation coming from inside, and the scent of homemade bread hangs in the air.
I shake a few hands as I enter, a familiar face here and there, lots of respectful smiles and acknowledging nods. There are some uncomfortably silent teenagers on a couch nearby. A circle of elderly people laugh together quietly--quiet except for one; a big old man with a heavy complexion and knuckles thick with the marks of honest work. He laughs the way I imagine a st. Bernard might. He looks around, probably making sure he isn't getting any sour looks for laughing at a funeral. He's a good man; you can tell just by looking at him.
I talk with the people I know, and they thank me for coming and hug me. They know I'm just trying to do the right thing by being there. They know I was Nobody to the deceased. They smile with sad eyes; tired but grateful.
A middle-aged woman from the family, with whom I had spoken on a handful of occasions, approaches me with a camcorder. She smiles and asks me how I am, and thanks for coming, and I hope you can find something to eat with all this food around here, and so on.
Then: "Can you run the camcorder?" She refers to it with a the in front of it; probably the same way she refers to video games or other devices she hasn't grown comfortable with. He's in there, playing the video game; as if there is only one to go around for the whole community, like a cotton gin.
Who films a funeral? I can't get this thought out of my head as I graciously accept the videotaping responsibilities for the room full of strange faces around me. At least people will shy away from me now. Who wants to be on a funeral video?
Some women look at a clock and remind some men to head to the church early, since the that's what pallbearers do. Men trickle out the door, leaving Styrofoam cups full of Coke-stained ice cubes on the kitchen counters.
"Jed, you need to go with them," one of the women says from across the room. "The pallbearers are supposed to go early." The room is quiet.
"Oh, I'm not, um..."
"The honorary pallbearers are supposed to go now too," she says.
Honorary pallbearer? How did I get on the list of honorary pallbearers? And why? Did they think I would feel left out? No one even knew I was coming.
I fumble with the camcorder as I head for the door. A man in the shadows, I think. Just a man in the shadows.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Why I'm Running Away to Join The Circus
I've decided to run away and join the circus.
I'm not exactly sure when the next circus is due in town, but I bet there will be one pretty soon, and when they show up and start hammering away on those giant tent stakes, I'll be there.
I bet the first person I'll see will be The Fabulous Bearded Lady. Hollywood portrays those hirsute beauties all wrong if you ask me. Just because a woman is sporting a Gandalf beard doesn't mean she has to weigh four hundred pounds and sound like Randy Savage when she speaks. I bet there are lots of bearded women out there with delicate features and sultry voices. I bet they're really good listeners too.
I wonder what an entry level job in the circus might be? I assume it maybe involves some elephant poo and constant replacing of pine-scented air fresheners in the clown car.
What if there's a whole fleet of clown cars, all parked underneath a heavily guarded red and white tent? When the head clown decides to go out to dinner or go buy a new set of gigantic shoes, there's a whole cloaked out clown car motorcade racing through the back streets of the city. Clown SUVs loaded with Special Forces clowns, armed to their big red noses with AR-15 assault rifles and boutonniere grenade launchers. Maybe I could work with those guys, you know, after I earn their trust by taking a few dozen pies to the face.
I bet the Christmas parties and company picnics are craaazy. How many parties have you attended where you could overhear someone saying: "Hey, check out what I just taught my lion to do..."? Or "of course my beard is real, silly..."? Well, maybe you've heard that one, but have you heard it spoken in a sultry voice? No. You haven't. You've never been to a party like that and neither have I, but I want to. That's why I'm doing it. That's why I'm running off to the Three Rings.
I bet The Human Octopus could juggle twenty beer bottles at once if someone encouraged him a little, and I would love to see the ass-whoopings The Sword Swallower could hand out during chugging contests. That's memory making right there, folks. That's really living.
So if you don't hear from me for awhile, don't worry; I may have hopped a train to the nearest big top. I'll try to let you know when we'll be coming to town again and, if I can, I'll sneak you in through the back for better seats.
Just watch out for any clowns wearing dark sunglasses and talking into their cufflinks. If they catch you sneaking in, I'm not sure what they'll do.
I'm not exactly sure when the next circus is due in town, but I bet there will be one pretty soon, and when they show up and start hammering away on those giant tent stakes, I'll be there.
I bet the first person I'll see will be The Fabulous Bearded Lady. Hollywood portrays those hirsute beauties all wrong if you ask me. Just because a woman is sporting a Gandalf beard doesn't mean she has to weigh four hundred pounds and sound like Randy Savage when she speaks. I bet there are lots of bearded women out there with delicate features and sultry voices. I bet they're really good listeners too.
I wonder what an entry level job in the circus might be? I assume it maybe involves some elephant poo and constant replacing of pine-scented air fresheners in the clown car.
What if there's a whole fleet of clown cars, all parked underneath a heavily guarded red and white tent? When the head clown decides to go out to dinner or go buy a new set of gigantic shoes, there's a whole cloaked out clown car motorcade racing through the back streets of the city. Clown SUVs loaded with Special Forces clowns, armed to their big red noses with AR-15 assault rifles and boutonniere grenade launchers. Maybe I could work with those guys, you know, after I earn their trust by taking a few dozen pies to the face.
I bet the Christmas parties and company picnics are craaazy. How many parties have you attended where you could overhear someone saying: "Hey, check out what I just taught my lion to do..."? Or "of course my beard is real, silly..."? Well, maybe you've heard that one, but have you heard it spoken in a sultry voice? No. You haven't. You've never been to a party like that and neither have I, but I want to. That's why I'm doing it. That's why I'm running off to the Three Rings.
I bet The Human Octopus could juggle twenty beer bottles at once if someone encouraged him a little, and I would love to see the ass-whoopings The Sword Swallower could hand out during chugging contests. That's memory making right there, folks. That's really living.
So if you don't hear from me for awhile, don't worry; I may have hopped a train to the nearest big top. I'll try to let you know when we'll be coming to town again and, if I can, I'll sneak you in through the back for better seats.
Just watch out for any clowns wearing dark sunglasses and talking into their cufflinks. If they catch you sneaking in, I'm not sure what they'll do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
