Looking back through some old notebooks...hmmm. For a generally cheery person, I have explored a lot of dark tunnels. I have not always been as cheerful as I hope to appear now. I would completely blow my cover if I posted any more of it. But it might come in handy for posts in the future when I'm feeling more desperate for material and less scrupulous.

So much work tonight that I'm just writing whatever comes into my head for three minutes now rather than wait until my work is finished, so that I will have kept my promise.

They say that it will rain tomorrow. I try not to hope too much, trying to fool myself that thus I will avoid disappointment when I don't need my umbrella.

On the bright side, I will get some wear out of a long-out-of-fashion outfit (translation: costume) as we are all wearing costumes to work tomorrow. I work in a town that takes Halloween very seriously.

Three minutes is up. Shock! No real inspiration has struck, no deep insight. But I'm happy to be here.

A piece of story, then some musing

  "That's all it ever was to you? A game?" He twisted his wrists trying to squeeze out of the lightweight chain that bound them. The sweat made his skin shine out in the firelight through the rips in his clothes. His face was smudged from being shoved to the ground so many times. At least the cut on his forehead had stopped dripping in his eyes.
  "Didn't you care about her at all? Didn't you care about the country you supposedly represent?" Talking made his mouth hurt. He hardly had the energy to speak at all. He was a long way past caring what he looked like with blood-stained drool leaking out of the sides of his mouth. The world had gone on spinning, but it had left him floating in the dark.
  "Yes. And no." McSpadden didn't look much better. There was a very small satisfaction in that: that they had been so closely matched. But McSpadden had the only gun. He really seemed more bored than triumphant. This was a man who thrived on action and drama. Now that the end seemed clear, he was ready to finish and move on.
  Cardiff blinked to clear away the fuzziness creeping into his vision. He wanted these last minutes to be clearly imprinted on his soul, so that if there turned out to be a life after death after all, he could take this moment with him...and what? Make the bastard pay from beyond the grave?
  He couldn't think of a way that would ever make up for the damage this man had caused, all so that he could be the self-declared shadow king. What would he do next? If you live to conquer, and you've conquered everything, what was left to give meaning to your life? Maybe that's why McSpadden kept pacing and not shooting. Maybe waiting for Cardiff to pull another rabbit out of the hat. A daring escape, a new line of attack. But Cardiff had his feet knocked out from under him in the face of the  truth about this man. This monster. This old friend.
  All the damage McSpadden had caused, the lives he had literally shredded--it was all  and only so he could call himself the winner. And all this time, Cardiff had thought he was fighting for Truth, for Justice, so that mother's could put their children to bed without wondering if they would wake up the next morning.
  He and Cardiff had worked together for years, eaten countless bad meals on the run, dragged each other to hospitals and safe houses. How many times did each trust his life to the other, and all in the  service to the Queen, the land, the people? But it was all an illusion. Any good McSpadden did had been for his own benefit. Every mission had been shaped for the accumulation of secrets and contacts that would make him king.
  The firelight was dying. Wraiths of smoke twisted and danced in the still air. The shadows deepened beyond the fire and seemed to take on lives of their own. Cardiff could have wept at the meaninglessness of it all. He squeezed his eyes shut until the prickling of tears faded. The shadows were deeper when he opened his eyes again. He wondered again why McSpadden didn't just shoot him now. but he knew that soon, no gun would be necessary. Cardiff gave a final tug at the chain with the last of his strength.
  The wall he was leaning against fell away. He was falling, too.
  The darkness erupted into a flashing cacophony.
  "Funny," he thought, "I always thought it would be peaceful. After."
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
 You're right. This story fragment is the equivalent of a long sentence fragment. I wrote the initial draft on a camping trip a few years ago. I don't know who "her" is that McSpadden doesn't care about, I don't know what country or what world this is. I'm pretty sure that the game he's playing is "I win, so everyone else has to lose." Never could figure out where to go from here, and didn't try...it was all too dark. All I know is that Cardiff doesn't die. Complete justice will not be served--McSpadden will never comprehend that there is any error in his ways, will not feel that his treasons and betrayals are actually wrong. All that matters is what he wants. Anybody gets in his way, well they will be removed. Too bad.
  But he will be stopped. Eventually. And Cardiff will be the one who does it.
  He will try to stop McSpadden because of the damage he causes to people and to the realm. He will try not to fight McSpadden just because of his own anger and humiliation.
  I almost wasn't going to post this. I want to actually write new stuff. And this is pretty dark and violent for me. And somehow it feels wrong to write about fictional cruelty when there is so much real cruelty around causing real people pain and grief and anguish. But what is so much fiction about? Dark stuff. Cruel stuff. And one hopes, some kind of triumph of good. Sometimes it seems, though, in real life, some evils just sort of wind down--perpetrators die, angry militants grow into conservatives who value peace because it keeps their bank accounts safer. Populaces don't attempt the suicide of rebellion, they just keep working, (those who survive the random executions, that is), and eventually, a new ruler replaces the old ruler. And maybe things get better, maybe worse. But no grand triumphs for the Right or Good. All people can do sometimes is simply survive, whether they have the heart for it or not.

  I think I need a break from the news. 

Necessary tonight

I'm glad I announced that I was going to lower my standards when necessary because it is necessary tonight...or should I say, this morning? Yes, I should.

It wasn't all work, work, work this evening, though. I went to a book talk by Azar Nafisi in the evening. She was amazing--passionate, erudite, just lovely. And she managed to convince us that it is worth reading and writing fiction in a world so full of human cruelty and natural disasters...how do we solve problems and even consider that our lives could be different without stories?

I am actually falling asleep as I stand here typing. Time to go.

Most deadly night

cruelty owns the streets
good sense and kindness
sleep with the dead

these dark hours
will not be conquered by
                                 sunrise

Blue Wizard!

I finally took some pictures of one of the costumes I've made this fall. Or I would rather say: not a costume; just clothing that doesn't happen to be in style at the moment. And never may be. I made a tunic, pants, and a hat. Over all of this goes a blue hooded cloak that I made a few years ago and altered to go with this new outfit.

The outfit was made for a Middle-Earth themed party. Since I didn't want to feel constrained by what the very talented costumers had already come up with for various Middle-Earth related movies, we decided to make a Blue Wizard outfit. Who knows what they look like, anyway! Even their names are a matter of speculation.


The shirt is a heavy blue linen. The buttons are hand-made pewter buttons from Gryphon Song Gems. Amazing work!

And what is a wizard without a hat? And who says it has to be pointy?

Outside and in:

And when it's all put together with a pair of pants, boots, and no cloak because it was really too hot on the day this picture was taken, which wasn't at the party, it looks a little something like this, though I had nothing to do with the surcoat. The wizard was just trying it on at a booth. (It looked great!)

I'm really happy with how it all turned out. Mainly because it fits, but that's the joy of making tunic-style shirts--they aren't meant to fit snugly. As a result, this shirt will fit most people on the planet. (Not all at once.)

I suppose that if I would focus on just one realm of creativity, I could really accomplish something, but I just can't.

The world is too full of wondrous creative avenues without measure.

Lowering standards, or facing reality?

Completely by accident, I note that I have less than two minutes to maintain my practice of posting something every day when I am in town and have access to a computer. So here I am, keeping a promise to myself. I have had to loosen my requirements for posts to accomplish this, e.g., I wanted to post only creative work, and no autobiographical meanderings.

-----

Well, dang. My computer clock said I had 30 seconds left when I hit the publish button, but blogspot recorded the post as the 26th. So here is another standard altered: a day doesn't end at midnight. It ends when I go to sleep. Which is only fair, since so many nights I work past midnight to file reports needed in the morning.

If I can put in that kind of work for others, I can put it in for myself.

This is not my picture, but it's from my local forest. Thank you, E. You know when this was.

Who, indeed?

So close to midnight...do I dare?

All the windows are dark, and the roads are nearly silent. I press my back against the wall and creep sideways, a crab edging around a tide pool. One great eye stares in the east, partly closed as if in thought, or as if in knowing. 

I am out of my element, beyond any fields I know. And yet, here I creep. Drawn by, drawn by:

A dream of a dream. A want of something I don't know the name of. With every step the calling grows louder. By the time I reach the corner, the roar must become unbearable.

Who will hear but me?

Mergirl

goddess of swim

mist is her hair

reach far arc back

symphony of splash

Thank you, Magnetic Poetry. My imagination went to bed hours ago.

User

Was it you who blew the candle out
the one you said would lead us--
Was it you who told us how to please
until you didn't need us?

Enjoying the creativity of others

Wow wow wow wow wow!!!!

They are finally going to do it!

The next installment of JourneyQuest is written and ready to produce...if only they could get the money.

Want to contribute to making this happen? Go to:

http://renewjourneyquest.zombieorpheus.com/

I cannot wait.

Elves, wizards, bards, and orcses, orcses, orcses...there is nothing NOT to like.

Heart to heart

How different would this world be if we used emotions to communicate the way we use sound and vision? If we could "hear" each others' joy, jealousy, fear, if we could not conceal our gut responses?

More than just body language. Pheromones? Or brain waves going out to be received by brain wave receptors in everybody's brains.

If everyone had this capability, if it were like not being able to conceal the sight of yourself standing across the room, if it were like hearing a conversation in another room, if we could not help but emanate our emotional states any more than we can prevent photons from bouncing off our skin and into the eyeballs of anyone looking our way, how would we be different?

If everyone had this ability it wouldn't seem strange. It would be just another way of communicating. Emotion per se wouldn't be embarrassing, because this would be just another sense that would be taken for granted. Though you might be just as embarrassed to be caught feeling certain ways just as we are here and now.

Could you lie? Could you act? Could you trick people? It seems like it would be a lot harder to fake happiness or love, which would maybe save a lot of broken hearts. Would a people who communicated--who couldn't help communicating--their true feelings be any happier over all? More matter of fact?

Could you still have curmudgeons and really mean people who just didn't care that their general distaste for their fellow humans was on display? Whole classes of criminality would be eliminated...maybe. But humans are creative, and would probably find ways to make use of this sense just as we have of other senses to deceive, to attack, to steal...whatever there is to steal.

Would we be forced to be more honest overall, or would we just find new ways to wall ourselves off? What would the attitude toward privacy be, and what would be considered to be too personal if you couldn't hide anything?

Just wondering. I could go on like this for pages.

__________________________________________
Postscript to any editors out there: Yup, I realize that the first quote mark around "hear" above faces the wrong way. In the editing page, the quotes are all straight. No matter what I do, I can't get the posted version to show both curly quotes facing the same direction. Any quote mark advice out there?

What fall looks like here

no need to argue about whether the rolling hills are golden
or just brown

the sparse green of last spring is shriveled and burned
down to the clay
down to the sand
down to dessicated fuzz that crunches
under feet

and yet we fear the rain
if it finally
if it ever
will blow in too hard, too fast
and slide the hills away

no roots, you see.

I I I I I I

I don't know how long I can keep this up; given my performance over the last year, I would say: not long. But this daily blogging is kind of fun, and is feeling very good and maybe almost starting to be necessary. 

I will be away from computers for the next couple of days, so my new habit may be quickly broken.

I hope not. I suppose that it should be entirely in my control to write a few words each day. I know better, but maybe I'm just being pessimistic.

I. I. I. 

Too much me and too little story. How can I even see the Well, or Tolkien's Tree of Story, if all I ever see is myself? Boooooooorrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!

I'd rather think of the sea.

And move on refreshed.

Not a princess

Funny how any ancient woman buried with a ring or a knife or a horse or two is called Princess when they dig her up. Even when the second paragraph of a report or article explains that actually, she probably isn't a princess. Why is this? I agree that a woman buried with jewelry and weapons must have been Someone to have been buried in state. But why do so many people jump to the conclusion that she was a princess? What do people mean when they call someone a princess? Is it simply shorthand for "woman obviously of high status?" Does calling female remains those of a princess confer special worth and prestige to the find, and therefore to the finder? Is the grave of a woman inherently of less interest than that of a man, so researchers have to promote her status by suggesting that she is of royal descent?

Still, this article about the remains of a woman found in Siberia is fascinating for all that archaeologists were able to learn about her, including the fact that she had cancer and that she had amazing tattoos.

I could be simply misperceiving the frequency of princesses in archaeological finds. Or maybe there is a media tendency to exalt the status of a body to generate more exciting headlines. Has anyone ever done any research to determine the ratio of female remains called princess to the ratio of male remains called prince (or more likely, king) in newspapers/blogs/archaeological reports?

Keeping it real

Whew. The responsibilities of the day are more or less over. Time for dinner and a well-earned glass of wine. 

And really, that's all there is to say. 

I think if I sat here for another half hour or so I could come up with something more artistic, but what I really am is hungry.

Sometimes the truth is very simple.

Laundry

In spite of it all, I actually did write, or re-write, or edit, or write about, my same old story that I love so much off and on all day yesterday. I'm not sure I added anything significant, but I definitely pruned away some deadwood. And brought some old paragraphs up to date according to the thinking and reading that I've done over the last couple of years since I last looked at them. 

The best part was getting to spend time with these imaginary people in their imaginary home that I know so well that I can smell the mist blowing in off the lake and hear the bleating of cooree from up valley. 

I would so love to live there.

Since I spent extra time writing, I did not spend much time working on sewing projects, but I at least pulled out the pattern pieces and narrowed my fabric choices down to three.

Progress of a sort.

And the laundry is all folded and put away. 

 

(I will get over this gif thing sooner or later. But how can I resist a gif of one of the great landscape inspirations for the land in my story?)

It always comes down to this:

I have all day to write! Yay!

But since I have all day, I should probably start some laundry. 

There's nothing in the house for lunch. Or dinner. Better go to the store before I settle in with my keyboard.

Dang. This would be so much easier if I had one of those lap desk thingies to set my computer on so I could curl up on the couch. 

Wait a minute! I DO have one of those lap desk thingies! 

Now...where is it?

Oh yeah, and don't forget that eye doctor appointment on Tuesday. Better write it on the calendar.

Lap desk, lap desk...behind the...YUCK! Spider webs! I have to get rid of them before I can get hold of the desk. I guess I'd better get a towel. 

I'm back with the towel. It only took a few minutes to adjust the tub faucet just so so it would stop leaking. And to straighten all the pictures on the hallway walls on my way to the bathroom and back.

I really need some coffee. What's that buzzing noise? The washing machine is done ALREADY?? Better put in another load.

Coffee is perking along quite steamily. Crap. Where's that lap desk?

Oh yeah, webs. Towel. Back in the corner. There it is!

Ok. Coffee in my favorite cup: Check. Lap desk: Check. Couch curled up upon: Check.

I have about fifteen minutes before it's time to put in the last load of laundry.

Fifteen minutes really isn't enough time to do anything. And my train of thought will be derailed when the buzzer goes off. So maybe this would be a good time to finally figure out how to insert gifs.

 

Looks like I figured it out.

 

Time to move the laundry

Seriously?

No time for creative writing, but I have made some costumes. And I want to post SOMEthing.

And that's all I have time for.

I wasn't kidding.

But what else should I really be doing right now? Nothing! Well, maybe sleeping. But other than that...nothing.

Which is vanishingly unusual!

I actually have been working a little on an old story, trying to get back into that world, get my mind to hover over the well of ideas. I tell myself that the well is not empty, it's only that I've stepped away from it. Could one say that I ran? Or that I was pulled and didn't believe that my beloved story was worth anything so let it go?

But I miss it so much!

If I have time to lament, I have time to write. Right? At least for a few minutes before turning off the light.

Tomorrow is my day off. I know enough not to expect great things, but I shall certainly have at least two hours for writing, and another two hours for starting a new costume piece.

The thing I like about sewing and knitting is that you end up with a tangible piece of work that you can wear or decorate a table with or keep someone you love warm. There is a definite point at which you can say "It's done!" and mean it, and it's usually within a manageable amount of time.

Stories though, stories continue to evolve, and the end just gets shoved further and further away as complications develop. I have an unwieldy mess on my hands and I don't know where to go from here. I don't even know where here is, because I have so many possible paths leading from several different crossroads.

I keep thinking I should drop this story and just move on to one of the several dozen I have started, written a few scenes for, outlined, written poetry for...but then something...my heart?...starts crying. I miss my characters so much! And yet, I don't make time for them because, well, I don't have time to make, but also, they are so complicated. What I feel I should do is just sit with them and listen.

Time, time time.