He even comes when he's called, which is more than the Corgis do at times...
25 March 2007
Equal Time
The cat complained that he wasn't getting any blog time, that those darn Corgis were sucking it all up. He even agreed to pose for the portrait. This is Anubis, the cat that thinks he's a dog. (The cat-headed dog instead of the dog headed person?)
He even comes when he's called, which is more than the Corgis do at times...
He even comes when he's called, which is more than the Corgis do at times...
21 March 2007
On Negativity and A Writing Life
Since I posed the question on David Anthony Durham's blog, "Why do writers obsess on the negative?", I rummaged around on my bookshelf and pulled out John Gardner's "On Becoming A Novelist". Right in the preface Gardner had some interesting things to say about writers and the negative.
"The whole world seems to conspire against the young novelist. The young man or woman who announces an intention of becoming an M.D. or an electrical engineer or a forest ranger is not immediately bombarded with well meaning explanations of why the ambition is impractical, out of reach, a waste of time and intelligence." I see this everyday in our schools, as they try and remold my teenager into someone else, someone more socially acceptable to them. He wants to be a musician; they discuss the electrician shortage and the opportunity for high paying jobs. Not going to college? Then be a welder. 'Dreams and passion don't pay the rent, or put food on the table,' he was told by one counselor. Maybe not, but they feed the soul instead of choke the life out of it.
In discussing The Writer's Nature, Gardner talks of the influence others have on a writer, both positive and negative. "In my own experience, nothing is harder for the developing writer than overcoming his anxiety that he is fooling himself and cheating or embarrassing his family and friends. To most people, there is something special and vaguely magical about writing, and it is not easy for them to believe someone they know—someone quiet ordinary in many respects—can really do it."
Writing is not a high visibility occupation, or a high paying one. (For most of us.) The implication is that it's almost un-American to write instead of working a high paying job. Everyone else had to give up their dreams, why can't you? What's wrong with you? Grow up.
Gardner explores how well meaning family and friends press social and family obligations on the writer until the writer believes he is a failure if he can't meet everyone's expectations. He is told these other obligations are more important than writing, than the obligation to himself. The subtle negativity is absorbed until the writer believes it and repeats it back. Gardner goes on to talk about how the writer goes through various stages of growth and compensation for the negative, and either become successful by his own standards, or gives up.
The psychology of the writer is of concern to Gardner, and he speaks flippantly of how most happy, well-adjusted children do not become writers, and that novelists "learned to depend on himself" and to "look inward for approval and support".
"One often finds novelists are people who learned in childhood to turn, in times of distress, to their own fantasies or to fiction, the voice of some comforting writer, not to human beings near at hand. This is not to deny that it also helps if a novelist finds himself with one or more loved ones who believe in his gift and work."
So is this true for you? Do you have a support system that helps you overcome the negativity rays and keeps you focused on your goal? Is there a balance between being a writer and outside expectations? How much do friends and family influence our perceptions of self as writer? I've gotten my nickel's worth out of my philosophy degree, now it's your turn.
"The whole world seems to conspire against the young novelist. The young man or woman who announces an intention of becoming an M.D. or an electrical engineer or a forest ranger is not immediately bombarded with well meaning explanations of why the ambition is impractical, out of reach, a waste of time and intelligence." I see this everyday in our schools, as they try and remold my teenager into someone else, someone more socially acceptable to them. He wants to be a musician; they discuss the electrician shortage and the opportunity for high paying jobs. Not going to college? Then be a welder. 'Dreams and passion don't pay the rent, or put food on the table,' he was told by one counselor. Maybe not, but they feed the soul instead of choke the life out of it.
In discussing The Writer's Nature, Gardner talks of the influence others have on a writer, both positive and negative. "In my own experience, nothing is harder for the developing writer than overcoming his anxiety that he is fooling himself and cheating or embarrassing his family and friends. To most people, there is something special and vaguely magical about writing, and it is not easy for them to believe someone they know—someone quiet ordinary in many respects—can really do it."
Writing is not a high visibility occupation, or a high paying one. (For most of us.) The implication is that it's almost un-American to write instead of working a high paying job. Everyone else had to give up their dreams, why can't you? What's wrong with you? Grow up.
Gardner explores how well meaning family and friends press social and family obligations on the writer until the writer believes he is a failure if he can't meet everyone's expectations. He is told these other obligations are more important than writing, than the obligation to himself. The subtle negativity is absorbed until the writer believes it and repeats it back. Gardner goes on to talk about how the writer goes through various stages of growth and compensation for the negative, and either become successful by his own standards, or gives up.
The psychology of the writer is of concern to Gardner, and he speaks flippantly of how most happy, well-adjusted children do not become writers, and that novelists "learned to depend on himself" and to "look inward for approval and support".
"One often finds novelists are people who learned in childhood to turn, in times of distress, to their own fantasies or to fiction, the voice of some comforting writer, not to human beings near at hand. This is not to deny that it also helps if a novelist finds himself with one or more loved ones who believe in his gift and work."
So is this true for you? Do you have a support system that helps you overcome the negativity rays and keeps you focused on your goal? Is there a balance between being a writer and outside expectations? How much do friends and family influence our perceptions of self as writer? I've gotten my nickel's worth out of my philosophy degree, now it's your turn.
18 March 2007
Rollin'
Last week was Training. For this statewide meeting we got to go to exciting Lander. About a 5 hour drive from home, so we had to leave at Oh-Dark-Thirty. Despite the fact we travelled in our lovely, state-issued Ford Taurus, being trapped with coworkers for five hours made the trip feel like we travelled like this at times :
I like the big empty, the high plains deserts of Wyoming. I've done mountains, they don't do as much for me as the wide open spaces. Despite the endless horizan, we saw a lot of antelope, deer, eagles, hawks, and small, unidentified rodents skittering across the roads. Roadkill bingo got boring because of the number of dead rabbits. I think I counted twenty three in a one mile stretch. You know what they say about winters in Wyoming, they must get cold, because all the roads are fur lined...
Appropriate, since we were traveling the same ground taken by pioneers on the Oregon Trail. Fairly desolate - can you imagine being in wagon, or walking along, and these were the only sights you could see looming in the distance?
I like the big empty, the high plains deserts of Wyoming. I've done mountains, they don't do as much for me as the wide open spaces. Despite the endless horizan, we saw a lot of antelope, deer, eagles, hawks, and small, unidentified rodents skittering across the roads. Roadkill bingo got boring because of the number of dead rabbits. I think I counted twenty three in a one mile stretch. You know what they say about winters in Wyoming, they must get cold, because all the roads are fur lined...There might have been rattlesnakes out here in the rocks, I sure as heck didn't go looking. My encounter with one at Devils Tower was enough for me, thank you. No doubt they were out sunning themselves, it was a beautiful drive, in the 60's, with plenty of sunshine, and miles and miles of nothing. Just the way I like it.
11 March 2007
Poem Analysis – Taming the Wild Verse
Faced with a daunting task, you whip out your sword and poke tentatively at the page. The poem rears back like a cobra and strikes, rapping your knuckles and yanking the blade from your numb fingers. Defenseless, you stand and accept the myriad of paper cuts dished out by the sneering paper.
Reading a poem isn’t that bad. Really. You are an adult now and can read a poem for pleasure instead of an English grade. Over-analysis has done more to turn people off poetry than any other educational mechanism. On the other hand, a lot can be gained from taking a look below the surface of a poem. Many poems have multiple layers of meaning that lurk quietly, waiting for your discovery. Polite, they don't shove their deeper meanings in your face, but wait to be asked to reveal themselves to you.
The Quick Method.
1. Look at the title of the poem. Spend a few seconds pondering what it says, and what it might mean. "The Sandbox" may hint at a story about childhood, but "The Day I Spent Digging My Way To China" implies a lot more is going on than idle scooping. Some poets like simple titles, sometimes deceptively simple. "Introduction to Poetry" by Billy Collins. Others use them as flashing red light district signs to lure you in. "An Infinite Number Of Monkeys" by Ronald Koertge. Still others play on words and meaning. "At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border" by William Stafford
2. Read the poem. Don't stop to analyze or look for hidden meanings. Just read it all the way through. Did anything stick in your mind after you finished? Did you find yourself smiling? Frowning? Shaking your head?
3. What were your first impressions of the poem? What was it about? What did you think it was about?
4. If anything stood out, or wasn't understandable, circle it, underline it, highlight it. Read the poem again. Sometimes meaning builds slowly. There are several poems I read numerous times before the lightbulb finally went off. There are a few I never have gotten. I just enjoy them on the level I can, and move on.
5. Is the poem broken into parts (stanzas)? Is there a reason for the breaks? Are the breaks there to give the reader breathing room, or to enhance the appearance of the poem on the page? What kind of structure, if any, does the poem have?
6. Listen to the words as you read them. Look for patterns of words, letters, sounds, and meanings. Short, sharp words convey a different meaning than slow, languid words and sounds. Punctuation. Used or ignored? Same with capital letters. Is the poem in a recognizable form such as a sonnet?
7. What "tone" or "voice" is used in the poem? Public or private, first person narrator or distant third? (Compare Billy Collins to Ron Koertge to William Stafford in this)
8. Are there any allusions, symbols, or myths the poet employs?
9. Lastly, read the poem again, aloud if possible. Do your impressions remain the same, or have they changed over the course of your analysis?
If the poem makes you want to read more by that poet, then there is something going on between you and the poet's words. Put down your sword, hold out your hand, and like a bird, the poem will land in your palm. Often, after it has flown, you're left with warmth and the memory of something beating beneath the surface. Once in a while you're left with something messier. Just wipe your hand on your pants and try again.
Introduction to Poetry
by Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
from The Apple that Astonished Paris, 1996
University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville, Ark.
An Infinite Number Of Monkeys
by Ronald Koertge
After all the Shakespeare, the book
of poems they type is the saddest
in history.
But before they can finish it,
they have to wait for that Someone
who is always
looking to look away. Only then
can they strike the million
keys that spell
humiliation and grief, which are
the great subjects of Monkey
Literature
and not, as some people still
believe, the banana
and the tire.
At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border
by William Stafford
This is the field where the battle did not happen,
where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the field where grass joined hands,
where no monument stands,
and the only heroic thing is the sky.
Birds fly here without any sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killed — or were killed — on this ground
hallowed by neglect and an air so tame
that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.
Reading a poem isn’t that bad. Really. You are an adult now and can read a poem for pleasure instead of an English grade. Over-analysis has done more to turn people off poetry than any other educational mechanism. On the other hand, a lot can be gained from taking a look below the surface of a poem. Many poems have multiple layers of meaning that lurk quietly, waiting for your discovery. Polite, they don't shove their deeper meanings in your face, but wait to be asked to reveal themselves to you.
The Quick Method.
1. Look at the title of the poem. Spend a few seconds pondering what it says, and what it might mean. "The Sandbox" may hint at a story about childhood, but "The Day I Spent Digging My Way To China" implies a lot more is going on than idle scooping. Some poets like simple titles, sometimes deceptively simple. "Introduction to Poetry" by Billy Collins. Others use them as flashing red light district signs to lure you in. "An Infinite Number Of Monkeys" by Ronald Koertge. Still others play on words and meaning. "At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border" by William Stafford
2. Read the poem. Don't stop to analyze or look for hidden meanings. Just read it all the way through. Did anything stick in your mind after you finished? Did you find yourself smiling? Frowning? Shaking your head?
3. What were your first impressions of the poem? What was it about? What did you think it was about?
4. If anything stood out, or wasn't understandable, circle it, underline it, highlight it. Read the poem again. Sometimes meaning builds slowly. There are several poems I read numerous times before the lightbulb finally went off. There are a few I never have gotten. I just enjoy them on the level I can, and move on.
5. Is the poem broken into parts (stanzas)? Is there a reason for the breaks? Are the breaks there to give the reader breathing room, or to enhance the appearance of the poem on the page? What kind of structure, if any, does the poem have?
6. Listen to the words as you read them. Look for patterns of words, letters, sounds, and meanings. Short, sharp words convey a different meaning than slow, languid words and sounds. Punctuation. Used or ignored? Same with capital letters. Is the poem in a recognizable form such as a sonnet?
7. What "tone" or "voice" is used in the poem? Public or private, first person narrator or distant third? (Compare Billy Collins to Ron Koertge to William Stafford in this)
8. Are there any allusions, symbols, or myths the poet employs?
9. Lastly, read the poem again, aloud if possible. Do your impressions remain the same, or have they changed over the course of your analysis?
If the poem makes you want to read more by that poet, then there is something going on between you and the poet's words. Put down your sword, hold out your hand, and like a bird, the poem will land in your palm. Often, after it has flown, you're left with warmth and the memory of something beating beneath the surface. Once in a while you're left with something messier. Just wipe your hand on your pants and try again.
Introduction to Poetry
by Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
from The Apple that Astonished Paris, 1996
University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville, Ark.
An Infinite Number Of Monkeys
by Ronald Koertge
After all the Shakespeare, the book
of poems they type is the saddest
in history.
But before they can finish it,
they have to wait for that Someone
who is always
looking to look away. Only then
can they strike the million
keys that spell
humiliation and grief, which are
the great subjects of Monkey
Literature
and not, as some people still
believe, the banana
and the tire.
At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border
by William Stafford
This is the field where the battle did not happen,
where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the field where grass joined hands,
where no monument stands,
and the only heroic thing is the sky.
Birds fly here without any sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killed — or were killed — on this ground
hallowed by neglect and an air so tame
that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.
07 March 2007
Excerpt from Unnamed Military Science Fiction Novel
Planetside
Hostile Environment Training Complex
First Lieutenant Callum Jaay scanned the terrain with sensor binocs, auto-rifle in hand. Shapes solidified a little over 100 meters away, creeping through an adjacent ravine. “We have movement,” he reported on the platoon comm-net. He spoke sotto voiced into the wire-thin mic attached to the helmet faceplate and pressed against his cracked lips. A flick of his eyes switched the comm channel to command only. "Vaughn?"
“We see it,” Sergeant Vaughn's voice replied in his ear. “You have the flank. Your call, Lieutenant. Try to trap as many as possible.”
“Roger that,” Jaay said. “They have good distance between them. This won't be easy.”
“We can use the mortars to pin down their rear. They should charge and try to roll up a flank.”
"Gee, so that’s why we’ve been lugging those freakin’ mortars around for a week in containment gear?"
"Not everything at HET is to make your life miserable. Just most of it."
“Roger that." Jaay flicked back to the platoon comm-net. "Flankers look sharp on your guns. Mortarmen up!” The mortarmen acted instantly on his order, anxious to do something besides lug their equipment around.
“Mortars are up,” Vaughn responded. “Suggest no more than 4 or 6 rounds. Your call.”
Six mortar rounds between two mortars… maybe two minutes tops? Jaay chewed his lip and watched the enemy approach. That’s an eternity in an ambush. The mortarmen also need time to break down. "Mortars. Flash four. Everyone else. On my zero." Jaay drew down on the soldier nearest him. Fifty meters and closing slowly, wary of an ambush. Smart trooper. Jaay almost regreted having to kill him. Almost. The targeting reticule painted an X on the unlucky soldier's chest. The weapon calculated the lag time between first round, armor response, and penetration round. The reticule blipped green.
Jaay gave a harsh whisper into his mic. “Look alive, people. Five…four…three…two…one…zero!”
Two 50mm mortars, two 50mm grenade launchers, four machine guns, and 18 riflemen opened up simultaneously on the approaching enemy. Jaay fired at his target. The soldier's uniform flashed a brilliant crimson once then settled into a pattern, red, black, red. A kill. The man looked up and made a rude gesture. Weapon inoperative, he dropped to the ground to wait out the action. Smoke canister mortar and grenade rounds landed between Jaay's squad and the enemy soldiers, dulling the uniform flashes of injured troops.
“Action right! Action right!” Vaughn shouted on the comm-net. Troops on the crossbar of the L-shaped ambush shifted right. It left a gap to the immediate right of Jaay—in front of Maxwell’s team.
"Damn!" Jaay assessed the problem in several quick glances, straining to peer through the smoke. “Corporal Maxwell! Fire support for Vaughn! Pepin! Report!”
“Left is clear, sir!” Pepin replied. “We surprised them over here.”
“Fall back towards me. Maxwell, we're on our way. Hold tight.” Jaay said. He stood in the wadi, head below the ridge as Corporal Pepin slid down the crumbling wall to land in a heap next to him. “Pepin, secure the left.” Jaay slapped the shoulder armor of the younger man. "No prisoners!"
"Rog, sir. Secure the left." Pepin's helmet bobbed once before he popped up to fire a laser burst. As suppressive fire it wasn't much but it kept the enemy's heads down.
Jaay raced down the wadi behind his teammates. He slapped Maxwell on the shoulder as he passed. She fired her machine gun, grinning behind the faceplate. Her manic laughter echoed over the comm-net. “Pepin’s coming up," Jaay shouted over her noise. "He’ll replace you. Fall back after me. Support Vaughn on the right!”
“Roger that, sir!” Maxwell flipped him a hand, never taking her eyes from the scene in front of her.
“Mortarmen! Pack up and stand by.” Jaay ran along the wadi without waiting for acknowledgement, trusting Maxwell’s fire team to be on his heels. He slowed as the ravine widened. Two soldiers trotted past, weapons at the ready, the rest of the squad coming up fast.
A discolored line of dirt 100 meters in front of them gave Jaay pause. Before he could focus the sensor binocs in on the anomaly, the soldiers in front of him disintegrated in a shower of blood and body parts. Jaay threw himself sideways, behind a laughably small boulder. Rock shards splintered off as Jaay tried to will himself smaller. The screams of injured troops rang in his ears. "Ambush! Take cover!" he shouted before realization kicked in. This training was now a live fire exercise. His platoon was the target.
Hostile Environment Training Complex
First Lieutenant Callum Jaay scanned the terrain with sensor binocs, auto-rifle in hand. Shapes solidified a little over 100 meters away, creeping through an adjacent ravine. “We have movement,” he reported on the platoon comm-net. He spoke sotto voiced into the wire-thin mic attached to the helmet faceplate and pressed against his cracked lips. A flick of his eyes switched the comm channel to command only. "Vaughn?"
“We see it,” Sergeant Vaughn's voice replied in his ear. “You have the flank. Your call, Lieutenant. Try to trap as many as possible.”
“Roger that,” Jaay said. “They have good distance between them. This won't be easy.”
“We can use the mortars to pin down their rear. They should charge and try to roll up a flank.”
"Gee, so that’s why we’ve been lugging those freakin’ mortars around for a week in containment gear?"
"Not everything at HET is to make your life miserable. Just most of it."
“Roger that." Jaay flicked back to the platoon comm-net. "Flankers look sharp on your guns. Mortarmen up!” The mortarmen acted instantly on his order, anxious to do something besides lug their equipment around.
“Mortars are up,” Vaughn responded. “Suggest no more than 4 or 6 rounds. Your call.”
Six mortar rounds between two mortars… maybe two minutes tops? Jaay chewed his lip and watched the enemy approach. That’s an eternity in an ambush. The mortarmen also need time to break down. "Mortars. Flash four. Everyone else. On my zero." Jaay drew down on the soldier nearest him. Fifty meters and closing slowly, wary of an ambush. Smart trooper. Jaay almost regreted having to kill him. Almost. The targeting reticule painted an X on the unlucky soldier's chest. The weapon calculated the lag time between first round, armor response, and penetration round. The reticule blipped green.
Jaay gave a harsh whisper into his mic. “Look alive, people. Five…four…three…two…one…zero!”
Two 50mm mortars, two 50mm grenade launchers, four machine guns, and 18 riflemen opened up simultaneously on the approaching enemy. Jaay fired at his target. The soldier's uniform flashed a brilliant crimson once then settled into a pattern, red, black, red. A kill. The man looked up and made a rude gesture. Weapon inoperative, he dropped to the ground to wait out the action. Smoke canister mortar and grenade rounds landed between Jaay's squad and the enemy soldiers, dulling the uniform flashes of injured troops.
“Action right! Action right!” Vaughn shouted on the comm-net. Troops on the crossbar of the L-shaped ambush shifted right. It left a gap to the immediate right of Jaay—in front of Maxwell’s team.
"Damn!" Jaay assessed the problem in several quick glances, straining to peer through the smoke. “Corporal Maxwell! Fire support for Vaughn! Pepin! Report!”
“Left is clear, sir!” Pepin replied. “We surprised them over here.”
“Fall back towards me. Maxwell, we're on our way. Hold tight.” Jaay said. He stood in the wadi, head below the ridge as Corporal Pepin slid down the crumbling wall to land in a heap next to him. “Pepin, secure the left.” Jaay slapped the shoulder armor of the younger man. "No prisoners!"
"Rog, sir. Secure the left." Pepin's helmet bobbed once before he popped up to fire a laser burst. As suppressive fire it wasn't much but it kept the enemy's heads down.
Jaay raced down the wadi behind his teammates. He slapped Maxwell on the shoulder as he passed. She fired her machine gun, grinning behind the faceplate. Her manic laughter echoed over the comm-net. “Pepin’s coming up," Jaay shouted over her noise. "He’ll replace you. Fall back after me. Support Vaughn on the right!”
“Roger that, sir!” Maxwell flipped him a hand, never taking her eyes from the scene in front of her.
“Mortarmen! Pack up and stand by.” Jaay ran along the wadi without waiting for acknowledgement, trusting Maxwell’s fire team to be on his heels. He slowed as the ravine widened. Two soldiers trotted past, weapons at the ready, the rest of the squad coming up fast.
A discolored line of dirt 100 meters in front of them gave Jaay pause. Before he could focus the sensor binocs in on the anomaly, the soldiers in front of him disintegrated in a shower of blood and body parts. Jaay threw himself sideways, behind a laughably small boulder. Rock shards splintered off as Jaay tried to will himself smaller. The screams of injured troops rang in his ears. "Ambush! Take cover!" he shouted before realization kicked in. This training was now a live fire exercise. His platoon was the target.
03 March 2007
01 March 2007
They Paint Horses, Don't They?
If they stand still long....
Since I like the three dimensional also, I've played with painting a horse fairly literally. We did a painted ponies charity auction -I didn't feel up to tackling a full size fiberglass horse and getting it painted in time, so I went with a Breyer sized horse. I chose a Clydesdale, so naturally he became... Bravehorse.
Still trying to get the hang of this Corel Painter program. Not as tactile as using a paintbrush, but you can balance that by undoing your mistakes. Which makes me more apt to play with color if I'm not killing a six dollar sheet of paper each time I experiment. Working oil of a horse head.
Since I like the three dimensional also, I've played with painting a horse fairly literally. We did a painted ponies charity auction -I didn't feel up to tackling a full size fiberglass horse and getting it painted in time, so I went with a Breyer sized horse. I chose a Clydesdale, so naturally he became... Bravehorse.
This is Bravehorse, who was auctioned off and went to a good Celtic home.
Trust me, he looked much better before I flashburned him. Next time I won't wait until 10 minutes before I need to turn a project in to photograph it.
I'll even put up pictures of a REAL horse this weekend. I haven't painted him. Yet. He came pre-painted...
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