tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82342875905829880302024-02-06T21:48:59.713-08:00Mad Thinking Capa collection of what began as random thoughts, facts, and ideas, and what is now focusing solely on my magnum opus . . . If I ever finish it!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-76646676197580984092011-08-19T22:15:00.000-07:002011-08-19T23:27:34.255-07:00Watching all the rest of the world from the windowI am being persecuted mercilessly this week.<div>
<br /></div><div>One, I am suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous technology -- this blog seems the only thing that has worked right in several days. I was in the midst of composing a truly witty email to a friend, then Gmail apparently deleted it, to my dismay. Then, my cell phone, having decided that my life is far too easy when its own singular capabilities are accessible and in working order, has decided to pull the plug on its own keypad. I can access nothing, and the screen appears only when I plug or unplug the bally thing. Therefore, I have to shell out however much of my savings to purchase a newer model. Granted, I don't think they even MAKE that model of Blackberry, which is all well and good, since it's the third of its kind I've owned in a year.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>However, all of this particular persecution pales in the blinding light of the TRUE issue at hand. What's really going on with me is this:</div><div>
<br /></div><div>- I am trying to be a writer. Or a novelist, to be more precise.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>- I am consumed by this ardent desire to do nothing but WRITE. I don't want to see people. I don't want to watch TV. I don't even felt like eating much. (MOST unnatural.)</div><div>
<br /></div><div>- Curses! I have to live somehow, so I am forced to do things like . . . work. And run errands. As I am not James Patterson or Rick Riordan or any of these fellows who are capable of living off their writing, I must shuffle through hours of mundane sledge in order to gain so much as a foothold on the glorious process that is becoming the Trilogy.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>When I am working, I know, deep within me, in my heart of hearts, that it is what I MUST be doing. Everything else loses color, and draws away, and it's like I'm caught up in some sort of trance and I HAVE to finish the paragraph -- or segment -- or entire chapter. This must be how Jo of Little Women always felt. I don't closet myself in the attic -- for we haven't an attic that's habitable; not at this time of year, at any rate -- but I do try to cut myself off from those around me. This is not rudeness, I shouldn't think -- it is inspiration! It is the artist's way! As King Julian so aptly puts it, "It's nothing personal; we're just better than you."</div><div>
<br /></div><div>(I'd like to assume we know one another well enough by now to not have to specify this, but I'll go ahead and specify it anyway: that was a joke. Well, partially. The quote at least was a joke. To be honest, it didn't exactly apply, but I just find it so funny I could not resist including it.)</div><div>
<br /></div><div>You will be glad to hear (I hope, anyway) that I have, at last, ironed out the wrinkles in the plot that were giving me so much trouble around the time of my last post. I thought and thought and thought, rather like Winnie-the-Pooh, and ultimately, I had to break a few of my own rules. But! What good are one's own rules if one cannot break them oneself, I ask?! They were actually very necessary transgressions, and the work, even in its unfinished form, has a much healthier glow now. It was like re-opening an improperly-healed wound; now I have cleaned it, and it will heal correctly, and the scar will not be unsightly, but will instead be a beautiful reminder of the painful process in which it had to grow.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I ought to be grateful for all of these ordinary things that keep "getting in my way"; things like family meals, and spending time with friends, and living up to expectations and keeping my word. And I am grateful, to be sure. However, this work is truly devouring me. Fortunately, I work at a job that is relatively mindless and repetitious, so it enables me to appear daydreaming while really I am working out different conversations, or plot twists, or mannerisms a character might have . . . That, at least, is a convenience. I have one foot in fact and one foot in fiction, and I just hope I can be flexible, because combining them feels like a particularly awkward game of Twister. If you know the expression "Lost in his/her own little world," I often have the sensation of being just exactly that. I know some people think I'm slightly dumb; I just hope no one thinks I'm crazy -- for "Dumb" can be disproved.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Anyhow, I have put my shoulder to the plow as I never have before, and I have already reaped enormous benefits. My manuscript is, at present, 296 pages long. I never dreamt I would make it this far! But I have, and I shall continue, and I shall finish. It's all a matter of time and effort.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>"Never, never, never give up," said Winston Churchill -- and I shan't!!</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I give you my word.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-39237189170829134052011-05-24T13:29:00.000-07:002011-05-24T13:35:58.389-07:00EdginessHere is the question of the day:<br /><br />Just how far can I go in descriptions of really quite shocking experiences/events/ideas while attempting to be accurate and true --not only regarding the time period itself, but also the contemporary literature of the time? It is proving difficult, and requires reading a little less George R. R. Martin and a lot more Charles Dickens.<br /><br />This is my current struggle . . . because I have had to succumb to the fact that there are certain things in this story that are NOT easy to write about, and the easier part is practically done. I have started working around the edges, and am finally forcing my way into the heart of The Book -- which is a lot less fun but far, far more important. This is not too enjoyable, but I am writing.<br /><br />THAT is the thing.<br /><br />I am writing.<br /><br />:)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-67563943191951538692011-04-16T15:49:00.000-07:002011-04-16T15:54:19.955-07:00A Great HelpMy dear brother has just helped me more than he will ever know. Isn't that wonderful? Brothers CAN be useful. Every once in a blue moon. XP (Just kidding to two of my favorite dudes!)<div><br /></div><div>A while back, he asked me if I was interested in creating a personal wiki for The Book. At the time, I was wary of such technological-sounding things, and I said, "No," but a few weeks ago I began looking into it and realizing that, in fact, it might just be a good idea. Well, as of today, I have discovered that, not ONLY is it a good idea, it is an even better instrument! I have a TiddlyWiki, which I highly, HIGHLY recommend. It is extraordinarily user-friendly, and I have spent most of the day filling it up with every single NAMED character thus far in The Book. Needless to say, it is rather large -- but it's JUST the thing to help my brain become more organized about this! In my last post, I was bemoaning how sprawling and random what I've written thus far seems . . . This TiddlyWiki is going to help me get organized and get back on track! I am extremely excited. :)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-64718685124546418622011-04-15T13:08:00.000-07:002011-04-15T13:23:13.926-07:00The Unlucky SprawlI am finally realizing what it is I have gotten myself into here.<div><br /></div><div>What it SHOULD be is a gorgeous, terrifying tangle of the mythical and the real, the archaic and the modern, the debased and the sublime.</div><div><br /></div><div>What it IS, is a gangling, half-baked mess that has very little real meat to it -- only random in-depth explanations and descriptive passages. There's some clever dialogue, too, but as it lacks a foundation, it falls pretty flat.</div><div><br /></div><div>My imagination has truly taken me MUCH further than the actual work I've accomplished -- but I am determined not to let it remain that way! It's just that the realization of having miles to go before I sleep -- and the realization of how MANY miles -- brings me a little low. I feel like a great deal of it is premature, but I will attempt to flesh it out and make something actually HAPPEN. I have this blog to whip up interest in something that doesn't quite exist yet -- but it's here to let you know it WILL. Keep your eyes out for the trilogy. Yes, the series has a name, but the individual books don't yet. But let me tell you: when it's done, and it's out there, it will have a blurb on the back using words like "betrayal" and "passion," and, if I'm really fortunate, maybe even "sweeping" or "epic."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Mother! Do you realize what you just SAID?"</div><div>"Of course. I said 'if.'"</div><div>"Oh. IF."</div><div><br /></div><div>-Walt Disney's <i>Cinderella</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-91012430516557507172011-03-25T18:25:00.000-07:002011-03-25T18:29:39.463-07:00Sick dayBeing sick was never NEARLY as useful as it has been since I started The Book. Dang. Now I get to sit here, eating crackers and drinking tea and feeling sorry for myself, AND writing! I've been taking some time to read things aloud, just to double-check and make sure that I don't repeat the same words over and over, as I have the tendency to do.<div><br /></div><div>So, it's a checking, a double-checking, and a triple-checking. I have gone back through and re-written some passages that were in dire need thereof, so though I'm not making much "progress," I am certainly getting a lot done.</div><div><br /></div><div>(As you might infer, jury duty has ended, and it was a great case and I feel completely happy with the verdict we rendered. In no way would I EVER wish to be a lawyer or a court reporter or a judge. DUDE. I would hate that.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So, just a basic update, but things are going, and they're going pretty well. :)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-62888201436661402402011-03-12T18:56:00.000-08:002011-03-12T19:04:40.413-08:00Lately . . .. . . I have been sitting on my butt a great deal, out of reach of all technology except for that to which I lack access . . . In other words, I've been randomly selected to serve on a jury that may last as long as a month. So much for me!<br /><br />Fortunately, I have been using the small incidents of spare time I can snatch from the air to work on The Book. I have also come to several conclusions! See below:<br /><br />1. It is my belief that it will have to be published -- if it ever is, that's a bold assumption -- in at least 2 sections. I prefer 3, naturally -- following the pattern of J. R. R. Tolkien, specifically. The TRUE three-volume novel, of which Miss Prism speaks. It is currently divided into 3 PARTS, as I mentioned previously, but now I'm thinking that each will have to be truly separate, if it is to be at all readable. Nobody would wish to invest time or money in something that, though supposedly fiction, reseambles the condensed version of the Oxford-English Dictionary. Awesome though it may be.<br /><br />2. I have made a great deal of progress on one of the pivotal plot devices! It is rather exciting. My heart rate was increasing as I was writing it! I certainly hope that's a good sign and not a portent of future hospitalization . . .<br /><br />There. Two points, and that's what's up. I hope I'm learning something on jury duty; I'm not sure. At least there are some interesting* people to observe.<br /><br />That's all, folks!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* Aka, quite attractive.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-88264928882600773542011-01-17T21:15:00.000-08:002011-01-17T21:20:22.709-08:00BreatherJust for your information -- I did so much frenetic work on The Book over the holidays, have decided to take a little break. Instead I am enjoying the wonderful gift of Netflix by watching every episode of Veronica Marsm, which, gloriously, is available streaming.<div><br /></div><div>As soon as I have completed my mad break into un-reality, I shall return and do something worth doing: work on The Book! I did actually get a lot done over Christmas and New Year's, and at the conclusion of this breather, I will go back and see what I actually wrote -- because it will probably not be familiar. I read somewhere that authors have -- forgive the phrase -- "built-in BS detectors." And here's hoping I do, cause I've edited out some pretty flamboyantly ridiculous stuff I'm pretty sure qualified for "BS."</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, that's what's up, or down, or sideways. I'll let you know when I complete Veronica Mars. :)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-67148417088491758072010-12-30T19:55:00.001-08:002010-12-30T20:14:53.294-08:00Who is Lady Sevely?I am rather ashamed to come here and admit this, but I have had an impostor suddenly appear in my book. I don't know where she came from; I had promised myself that there would be no more random characters, but I seem to have broken that promise.<div><br /><div>Hallelujah!<div><br /></div><div>Her name is Lady Geneva Sevely, and she has several grown, married daughters and one son named Edward who is useless and insulting, whom is often discussed but who never appears. I am still recovering from the recent (and almost equally sudden) introduction of the superficial ignoramus Miss Adela Frederick, but I have suddenly realized that she would need an equally strong opposing force. I am very glad I did: though Lady Geneva Sevely has suddenly appeared from my noggin, like Athena from the head of Zeus, I have realized that I need her. Here are the reasons I need Lady Sevely:</div><div><div><br /></div><div>1: Kore has no friends in London, and although she and her cousin make a great team, Gabriel is often MIA. Such is the case when one leads a double (practically triple) life! He'll reap what he sows, don't worry about it.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>His mother, however, is an even larger part of the problem: she introduces Kore to all the people she feels her niece ought to know, none of whom are the kind of person to whom Kore can relate. Suffice to say, Kore needs a real friend during her brief spell in town. Lady Sevely, despite or because of their differences in age, shall be that friend. :-)</div></div><div><br /></div><div>2: She is an older woman who says what she thinks and gets away with it because of her wealth and advanced years. Which makes her funny.</div><div><br /></div><div>3: It's too late to get rid of her now. The more I learn of this lady, the more interesting she becomes.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'll let you know if something else interesting happens. I'm only posting this because it's where my brain has been lodged for at least 32 hours.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy New Year's Eve!</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-24073667558330047312010-12-29T11:06:00.000-08:002010-12-29T11:38:24.038-08:00Christmas joysOver holiday, I've been giving a lot of thought to my future as a human being and as an artist. I received Stephen Sondheim's book, <i>Finishing the Hat, </i>as a gift from my beloved parents, and it has induced me to not only write him a letter someday, but also to approach my work from a different perspective.<div><br /></div><div>1: nothing is ever entirely right, which is, of course, the blight man was born for. As a believer, my own imperfections are a firmly-rooted truth, but it has been difficult for me to realize that, whatever I do, The Book -- though I am striving to make it the best it can be -- will never reach that fever pitch of utter "rightness." I used to paint, and still do when I find the time, and my current work is exactly like a canvas covered with an image in oils: I may never truly "finish." It's getting a sheen of realism that gives me the occasional hint that it's done, but I can always build up the blue here, or add contrast in the foreground, or give a shape a better curve and definition. There is always more to do, and so, there is never the perfect place to "stop."</div><div><br /></div><div>2: Sondheim says, "God is in the details." I love this, because it's not just a clever play on the words of a popular platitude: he's absolutely right. (Of course, listening to the detail of his lyrics and his music -- especially his music, which I unashamedly pretty much worship -- both God and the devil make their distinct presences known.) I was overjoyed to read this, and I think we must share a similar thought pattern (his words and music ring very true for me). I love details and I love the little extra touches that make things show up or pop out -- take for instance one of my favorite films, <i>Chariots of Fire</i>. Andy (Lord Lindsey) is at his estate with Sybil, an actress, who is also girlfriend to the runner Harold Abrahams. They are involved in a serious conversation about Harold's obsessive behavior, strolling across the yard, and in the distance appears an old man attempting to ride a bike. After a brief pause for his cigarette, Andy mutters nonchalantly, "Father's . . . never gonna learn how to do that," then turns back to her and continues their conversation with his usual good-natured sincerity. It is utterly charming, and exactly the idea I'm going for.</div><div><br /></div><div>3: you can't fix something up if it doesn't exist. Basically, I HAVE TO ACTUALLY WRITE THE THING BEFORE I CAN TRULY FINISH IT. I don't think any further explanation is required.</div><div><br /></div><div>4: I don't want this to really be such an involved part of my future life, wherever that may lead me. I don't want to wonder about how to phrase Gabriel's conversation, or how to describe Etienne's attitude or Vivian's gown when I'm auditioning for a show, or grocery shopping, or trying to choose high school math curricula for my kids, or whatever it is I'll be doing someday. I'm beginning to get that Pauline sense of being in labor for a really, really long time, and I want to finish it ASAP.</div><div><br /></div><div>CONCLUSION:</div><div>I have been writing A LOT over Christmas break, and I shall continue to do so without fail until it is done. I hope. That's the plan. Whether I like what I write or not, I simply have to write it. Not every sentence has to be clever OR perfectly phrased -- so it's not. So there! But time will tell. I can almost see the book being not entirely rejected by publishers, and that it an excellent sign.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the time being, I've gotten angry with the media, and I'm writing a song about it. Here's a part of a verse:</div><div><br /></div><div><div>"From NYC to Hollywood,</div><div>From Perth to Paris, France,</div><div>We hear ‘their’ music, think it’s good,</div><div>And shimmy to ‘their’ dance.</div><div><br /></div><div>When, pray, did we decide</div><div>That our own tests were inconclusive?</div><div>And when did our own intellects</div><div>Become so damned elusive?"</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Clearly it's a work in progress, but I became rather stifled by my sudden raging opinion and felt that I had to write SOMEthing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy (almost) 2011.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I grow old, I grow old; I shall wear my trousers rolled."</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-59929967288489062712010-10-09T19:46:00.000-07:002010-10-09T20:02:27.877-07:00Lazy Saturday . . ?So, I know I haven't been here in a while.<div><br /></div><div>But that's because I haven't been accomplishing much.</div><div><br /></div><div>HOWEVER -- all that has changed in the past week, you will be glad to hear. I mean, I really shouldn't be telling you what to think or feel, but if you're reading this, like I always say, it must be for SOME applicable reason. You must enjoy some part of my posts, even if it's merely to chuckle to yourself about silly (not-so-very-)old me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway . . . I must report that I have TRULY gotten a lot done on The Book. I repeat, A LOT. Some little niggling details that just weren't working suddenly came into focus, and I've spent most of the day checking things out with different lenses, so to speak, to see what else can be joined together in the same manner.</div><div><br /></div><div>For starters, I finally figured out how Nathaniel got to the middle of the Northern Australia bush without so much as a handkerchief, which certainly made Bilbo Baggins complain, and I discovered what made Kensington truly hate the Fletchers of Fell's Bridge, Wiltshire, England. And it's a real zinger, too. Some people are unbelievably evil!</div><div><br /></div><div>Taunting? Not really. To prove it, I'll post something!</div><div><br /></div><div><div>'He took a deep breath that rattled down his throat into his burning lungs and struggled to lift himself up onto his elbows. Blinking, he turned his head slightly to the left, and saw his rescuer standing about six yards away beside a group of rocks, which were jutting out weirdly from the earth like a cluster of gems on a ring. After a few seconds the man bent slightly, looking at something in his hand, then knelt on one knee and ran his hand over the ground in a smooth, contemplative motion. A cloud of red dust rose from the earth, and he bent closer to gaze intently at something on the ground. The stranger spared no attention for his surroundings, not for the mule that scuffled and snorted at the head of the wagon, not for the overwhelming light and heat, and not for Nathaniel, who took the opportunity to study him.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He was dressed in rough, badly-dyed brown trousers, with an old-fashioned striped red vest thrown carelessly over a loose, stained linen shirt. He wore the sleeves rolled almost to his elbows and a strip of speckled fabric tied around his neck above the open collar. The shirt, which was missing several buttons at the top, gaped open slightly to reveal a muscular chest that, like his face and arms, had become a deep brown by long exposure to the sun. He would scarcely have attracted notice if he walked through Greymantle, but in spite of his attire, he still somehow did not strike Nathaniel as a working man. There was a vague, niggling aspect of his conduct that he could sense but could not quite place, something unnatural or even theatrical. His thoughts swayed and bobbed like empty bottles on the tide, but he managed to form a sketchy impression before easing his head back down toward the packed, dry earth.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He realized what the difference was suddenly: every motion seemed deliberate and calculated, as if he had gone over all possible meanings and interpretations of each gesture before committing himself to it, and expected others to view each one in a certain light. He held himself with a rigidity that could only have been the product of a lifelong study of proper posture, and which implied a constant sensitivity to what others saw and thought when they looked at him. Here is a man, Nathaniel thought, who seems wholly at home in his environment and wholly competent at his task, whatever it is. However, that did not seem right. Despairingly his mind added, I have no idea what he is doing. I have no idea what is happening. Without raising his head he turned to look back toward him, and suddenly the man turned, as if sensing Nathaniel’s gaze. He rose to his full height, which was considerable, and tilted his head slightly, shading his face with one broad hand. Slipping whatever he had been holding back into the pocket of his vest, he strode back to the wagon, ducking underneath with surprising gracefulness to settle on one knee beside Nathaniel.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“How are you?” he inquired, the words clipped, perfunctory. “Better, I hope?”</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yes, thank you. I owe you my life.”</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Obviously.” An uncivil sentiment, but spoken civilly enough; Nathaniel barely noticed. The man’s eyes, which were so dark that the irises were indistinguishable from the black of the pupils, darted over Nathaniel, taking in all the new and lingering bruises and badly-healed seams of his face, his ragged clothing, and the lack of luggage or of anything else – unaccountable for being in the middle of a desert. Nathaniel winced, not from the other man’s blunt comment but from the cold scrutiny in his eyes. He turned his head to look out at the horizon. The impossible brightness that greeted him made his head ache more, so he looked back at his rescuer, who was still gazing squarely at him without a word. He attempted another speech of thanks: “I cannot express my gratitude, sir . . . Had it not been for you, I would be . . . ”</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Quite dead,” the other supplied flatly, tilting his head slightly downward as if impatient, eyes turning shadowy under his brow. “The kites and God knows what else would have made short work of you.”</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“No doubt,” Nathaniel muttered uncomfortably. There was a pause. They continued to look at each other.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Forgive me,” the man said suddenly, and put out his hand. “My name is Kensington. Étienne Kensington.”</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Your servant.” Nathaniel took the offered hand, shook it briefly, and let it go. Its palm was rough with callouses. The two and two of Nathaniel’s arithmetic was not adding up to a sensible four, and his already overwhelmed mind sank further into confusion. Kensington began to speak again, and he struggled to focus on the words.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Please, pardon my intrusion into your personal affairs, but I must ask: who the devil are you? And how does someone – anyone – come to be in the middle of the desert without water, transport, or at the very least, some sort of guide?”</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Nathaniel inhaled deeply before answering, keeping his eyes shut tightly.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“My name is Nathaniel Daire. I came into port a few days ago, at Greymantle, on <i>H.M.S. White Dove</i>. I was mistakenly captured by some – by some disreputable individuals.”</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“And how did you manage to escape?”</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I threw myself over the side of their wagon.”'</div></div><div><br /></div><div>There. I haven't done THAT in a while.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I found a notebook from perhaps six years ago that was filled with half-finished descriptions, character sketches, and even a "chapter" or two of this self-same work. Pretty horrid and embarrassing, for the most part, but there were a few salvageable pieces. It was funny, though, many of the names have since changed, and some of my former choices were RIDICULOUS. Still, like I said -- some usable stuff. I'm happy. See my happy face?</div><div><br /></div><div>:-)</div><div><br /></div><div>Hope you saw that. Anyhow, today was most profitable. I haven't forgotten this blog!!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-68615682512524136132010-09-22T13:23:00.000-07:002010-09-22T13:24:59.155-07:00So, I lied.Welll, I have to re-post and say: if you want a tidbit more, and you know me, just comment here and let me know. I'll send you an example. I've (obviously) deleted what I had after my "YOUR BLOG HAS BEEN DELETED" scare, and also I'm not going to post any more excerpts...None that are too long, anyway. So, my blog is going to become all talk and very little action, I'm afraid. However -- perhaps there SHALL be something to talk about. :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-48425024156754774502010-09-20T18:55:00.000-07:002010-09-20T19:00:47.666-07:00WhassupSo...All 2 of my readers have probably been wondering what I've been up to lately! Just so you know: it is currently 162 pages long, divvied into 3 books ("Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel! I wrote one myself in earlier days."), with a total of 27 chapters. Thus far. I've just introduced a new character! A middle-aged architect named Linus Brodie. He's sort of befuddled and cute, but his understanding of space and its potential is uncanny and he has created some truly freakish things in his time. If you'd like to meet him, let me know; I can certainly give out a bit of where he meets Nathaniel and Kensington. :)<br /><br />I'm in a goofy mood. Love and peace.<br /><br />AGBUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-32064007359712871972010-08-17T21:51:00.000-07:002010-08-17T22:20:47.070-07:00The Book (otherwise known as The Tome)Well, here I am again . . . I randomly decided to visit my own blog and saw I actually had a comment! Thank you very much, my friend . . . it will inspire me to not only work even more assiduously on The Book but should also spur me on to post here more often! I'm certainly not kidding myself that I have more than 2 *readers,* but isn't that how one gleans more? By posting?<br /><br />"No need to respond, that was rhetorical!" as Galinda would say. :-P<br /><br />Now for an update on The Book:<br /><br />It has an official title! I've decided not to use it yet though, not until it is worthy of it. What I'm trying to do is fairly ambitious, and the title suits that level of ambition, but to call it by its name until it is quite a lot nearer being done would only be presumptuous. For now, it will remain "The Book."<br /><br />However . . . I have recently made some progress! First of all, I have come to the uncomfortable realization that I have been spending too much time thinking in "movie tense" lately, which only makes sense -- I work at a movie theater. Fortunately that job is drawing to a close, as will, I hope, my propensity to write my novel like a screenplay: too many precise details, too many "shortcuts" by way of commonplace turns of phrase and even (shockingly!) cliches! I am even now in the process of trying to expunge them from both my writing and from my everyday conversation. Whatever the cost, I cannot afford to sound . . . well, lame. But duuuude . . . it's really hard not to, especially when the the very air in our culture seems saturated by it. :P<br /><br />Moving right along: Thomas LaJeune is currently undergoing a character -- well, a re-evaluation is too strong. Let's just say he's gaining more depth and, I'm hoping, more dimensions. He seems suddenly to have discovered his purpose and I'm finding it difficult to keep an eye on my other characters; he seems to be attempting to write himself, and only himself, and force me to neglect the others. Fortunately, I care about Thomas a great deal, but still, he won't listen when I try to warn him that he's only making things worse for himself by rushing things like this.<br /><br />Overall, I'm trying to focus less on ideas and symbolism and more on specifics when it comes to a character's personality (and not necessarily what color a given carpet is when someone walks into a room). Lady Vivian Fletcher is proving practically impossible, chiefly because though I know women like her, I am not a woman like her, and thus I cannot comprehend her. Whatever it is she wants, and whatever it is she feels and dreams, are almost complete mysteries to me, and yet I still feel confident that I can *write* her. She is not a truly main character, in the sense that Gabriel, Thomas, and Kore are main characters. She is frightfully important -- but like Etienne, or Honoria, or even Nathaniel, she is not always necessarily a common thread. Gabriel is like a brother to me, Thomas like the lover I could never have. But of course, the strangest thing that many real writers have said long before me . . . I am *all of them* and they are all *me.* I don't get the sensation that I'm borrowing from my friends or family, or from strangers I have observed in the doctor's office or laundromat. Instead I feel as though all of these individuals are pieces of who I am, and I have to fabricate identities to couch each part of my own character. I feel I can create my own dreams, my own alternate reality. It is strange, to say the least. Strange, but a comfortable kind of strange. Like I said, it's like a dream. Also, I've spent over 7 years thinking about and working on these people and the highlights of their lives, I feel I know them better than I seem to know some of my friends. That is what I hope to communicate to everyone who may someday get a chance to read The Book -- if, Lord willing, it is ever published! -- my love for these people, with all their bizarre desires and abilities and hopeless, even fatal, flaws. I hope someday you find out what they mean to me.<br /><br />Forgive me for waxing so lyrical! But at this precise moment in time, I have little else to do . . . And I'm assuming that, if you happen to be reading MY blog at this precise moment in time, you yourself have little else to do either. ;-)<br /><br />AGBUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-59898129775356547332009-10-14T22:30:00.000-07:002009-10-14T22:35:37.365-07:00Dumb jokes. . .I know they're certainly not for everyone, but they CAN add some spunk to an otherwise dreary day (as it has been here where I live).<br /><br />These are a couple of jokes I randomly came up with yesterday and this afternoon, and since I'm clearly grasping at straws for what to post, I'll share them with the cold, humorless depths of cyberspace:<br /><br />1) Q. What is the shape of an empty parrot cage?<br />A. A polygon!<br /><br />2) Q. What do horses say to their misbehaving offspring?<br />A. "Stop that foalishness!"<br /><br />Pretty awful, I agree, but in some petty way I'm sort of proud of them. :-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-77631463326600929952009-10-12T10:36:00.000-07:002009-10-12T10:39:38.057-07:00DeviantArtRecently one of my students made me aware of the fabulous website deviantart.com! I recently joined and put up some of my pictures on there. It's a great website, and you can join for free, which I highly recommend doing even if you don't make that much art yourself!<br /><br />My deviant name is (surprise!) madthinkingcap, and if anyone out there is EXCEEDINGLY bored, as in out of their MINDS bored, you could look up my gallery page. Nothin' much yet, but I plan to change that. :-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-46127977946454705482009-10-02T08:59:00.000-07:002009-10-02T09:10:29.924-07:00"Food, glorious food . . .. . . stuffed mushrooms and French bread!"<br /><br />A couple of weeks ago, I went to see <u>Julie & Julia</u>. Not only is it now one of my favorite movies, my friend and I were quite inspired to prepare some of the delectable-looking recipes everyone onscreen kept cramming into their mouths. It only followed that WE have a French dinner--only three days later. I tracked down Julia Childs recipes and purchased the ingredients, then fixed up some appetizers and waited for my friends to come so I wouldn't have to do ALL the work. ;-) We didn't go by technical courses, since it took a while to prepare. However, it was, when all is said and done, one of THE BEST meals I've ever eaten . . . Also, incidentally, one of the best meals I've ever helped prepare!<br /><br />This is what we ate--read, and I shall HEAR your mouth water:<br /><br />APPETIZERS:<br /><br />1. Hot, freshly-baked round loaves of French bread with butter<br />2. Fresh uncapped strawberries and green grapes with sour cream/cream cheese dip<br />3. Multigrain crackers with Camambert, Gouda, and double-cream Brie cheeses<br /><br />MAIN COURSE:<br /><br />1. Fresh tossed salad with spinach and tomatoes<br />2. Julia Child's stuffed mushrooms, served steaming hot<br />3. Bacon-wrapped Filet Mignon with sauteed mushrooms, fresh garlic, and onions<br />4. MORE French bread and butter<br />5. Fresh asparagus with savory hollondaise sauce<br /><br />DESSERT:<br />1. Julia Child's Chocolate Almond Cake (complete with RUM! I went to the liquor store myself . . . <_<)<br />2. Strong unflavored decaf coffee<br /><br /><br />And now, I am full, having read back over the list. WHEW! It was a lot of work to make, and a lot of work to eat. But it was INCREDIBLE. I'd do it again at a moment's notice. SO GOOD.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-54572827986548444212009-09-22T17:36:00.000-07:002009-09-22T18:23:34.657-07:00Mountains of NCSo . . . Today I went up to the mountains. In North Carolina. I was searching for a pleasant little spot from which I could paint something--most likely a landscape, since there were so many mountain vistas around I was pretty much sick of them by the time I got home.<br /><br />I never did find that perfectly pleasant spot--chiefly because it was so blasted GLOOMY. Though it threatened rain all day long and never got aroung to it, it still delivered a thick mist (that crept over everything I felt INCLINED to paint as soon as the notion popped into my little head). However, I DID find some interesting wildlife (with some variation regarding the term "wild"). The first one I found was, ironically, a large snail, sitting rather stupidly in the middle of the parking lot. While in the exhausting process of saving its life, I took the opportunity to snag a lot of pictures of it. Here are a few:<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384463526003584562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 247px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="271" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYDOP89OE9SQG3RWMJ8_CFt3zSafjYkLmFj8kDbegezHxntVhxtPVpPiaGaTo7_lFhKXPpBh1S_osAqyEpv8dQ0L2P2SDLtqp7jy5-hVnx82q1G6z6V8V2-eA-gPsD1CfqfOHiezkqHI/s320/snail1.JPG" width="352" border="0" originheight="247" originwidth="320" /> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384463968553279330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQV-6TAH_E7NQ7OHFLim1rhmOHvnyYvgcEWC8nn5JmyMFEcmhMdg3sO9a0tlNd4h37jFdbOMzXY1665sS4EcXBkGvD8joNm5yGlQ4oxKj8z3jlvRmkMLXm32MxE5wtzEuQcyhdVFhacug/s320/snail2.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />You might think I'm mental for taking pictures of a snail, but I LIKE them! I think they're CUTE. I even have a pet aquatic one. (His name is Ned Schneebly; he's tank mates with my goldfish, Dewey Finn, haha.)<br /><br /><br /><br />The second one kind of gave me the creeps. I was gingerly tiptoing out to the edge of one of the outlooks along the Blue Ridge Parkway when I happened to look down. This is what I saw:<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384464873948517506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 297px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3G7lsevbvD5m9-Yxz56CjEyIhrxg9fEnABumdGxrcridgGpRUisNJ8XX_atVfyuCOpxyhVkbAya_kUCMoSYbRP3p_n9HJS5p9RecLlWtqpLgy_x1MkDLB1wP6sGFROuXjEUJoe00IsFE/s320/snakeinthegrass.JPG" border="0" /><br />Needless to say, it did NOT give me the warm fuzzies on the inside. As soon as I had snapped a few wary shots of it, its brother/sister/mother/whatever suddenly showed up right next to it, and I dashed back to the safety of my car. As Falstaff (and my mother) would say, "Discretion is the better part of valour."<br /><br />The last and I think most exciting thing I saw today were a couple of butterflies flitting across a grassy median. A large bemused-looking guy was mowing the median at the time (cutting down all the butterflies' flowers), so in between passes of the machine I skipped out there and got pictures of one of them. I thought at the time that they must be Viceroys, because I didn't know Monarchs came over the Easterly way at all, but then I saw a sign discussing the Monarchs' migratory habits so I realized this was the "real" thing! I was pretty pumped.<br /><br />This butterfly here must have been used to the camera; it was quite patient with me as I (unnecessarily) sweet-talked it into staying on its flower:<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384465695142937890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 230px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxgZEBq3z7MjnnJX-NGrmsgvFcD_9aBQrM9XknhQZ9VH0jhGilrzICDP-EYpcbgj2hj9pbrkYQhKzAkSlPZW8nr-Lyps9WYAj-erBOpxBeUb5kVSp5l7gAD8NI1icUdUD7chAru6q6X0/s320/monarch1.JPG" border="0" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-74783211546388025482009-08-01T10:27:00.000-07:002009-08-02T11:10:22.036-07:00What's the matter with kids today . . ?Teaching at a kids camp this summer has really challenged a lot of my presuppositions about children.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, I was sitting against the wall about an hour before that session's final program took place, and a rather quiet, very intelligent young lady, about ten I guess, came and sat down beside me. I was surprised, because whenever I saw her in class she behaved as if she couldn't wait to get out of there. (But that's one of the problems with having a class right before lunch.) I was talking to another girl in her class at the time, so after I greeted the quiet new arrival, I returned to my other chat. I was trying to explain to them that I probably won't be coming back next summer. I heard a voice at my elbow: "Oh! That makes me sad. I LIKE you!" It was the reserved young lady, who always seemed to aloof. I truly didn't know what to say. I think I said, "Thank you," but it didn't seem like enough. She had broken free of her own personality to effectively communicate her own feelings, and my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">meager</span> token of thanks were not intrinsically worthy of it. I don't know if that means anything to anyone else, but it made a profound impression on me.<br /><br />MANY kids are difficult to read, not just the quiet, shy types. The ones from broken homes can be the most affectionate; the ones from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">traditionally</span> stable families can be bratty beyond measure. And vice <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">versa</span>, of course. I feel like I've seen all kinds this summer: from the ones whose parents dress them in hopelessly stained "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Margaritaville</span>" T-shirts to the ones who pack boiled shrimp and sushi for lunch.<br /><br />And I never dreamt that someday, children ages six to eleven would all be sitting quietly, each absorbed in a little <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">electronic</span> box known far and wide as a "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">DSI</span>," all playing a tandem racing game together. I'm not sure if this is the kind of group activity with which I should be pleased. It boggles my old-fashioned mind. In fact, it boggles my quaint little brain so much that when I see one sitting reading a book, even if it's a text version of the latest High School Musical film, I want to applaud them and their parents. Go OUT. Go READ. Go THINK. Go PLAY. REALLY play, not with a controller in your hands and the sole thought, "Next level" running like a crazed rat in a maze through your slowly-developing mind. And I have to say, not really boasting, that I'm not being a hypocrite in this: I don't enjoy video games or wantonly surfing the net. Of course, I'm very grateful that I'm not, because my will power isn't so brilliant and were I to become hopelessly addicted, I would doubtless lose what little vocabulary I have left (after college got through with my brain).<br /><br />It's such a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">topsy</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">turvy</span> world, and they are such impossibly complex beings that they always keep you guessing. Sometimes they open up completely and will talk to you about anything; sometimes you have no idea what they're feeling until they tell you, point-blank, and the truth can be so unexpected it leaves you in an awkward, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">wordless</span> zone for about thirty seconds. They don't notice the awkwardness, though, because they can't yet understand it, which is a place to which I, and a lot of other people, wish I could return.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-885524684790771132009-07-19T09:10:00.000-07:002009-08-02T11:11:16.181-07:00I can't ever think of the right thing to say . . .<div align="center">. . . but G. K. Chesterton sure does.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">"O God of earth and altar, bow down and hear our cry,</div><div align="center">Our earthly rulers falter, our people drift and die;</div><div align="center">The walls of gold entomb us, the swords of scorn divide;</div><div align="center">Take not Thy thunder from us, but take away our pride.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">From all that terror teaches, from lies of tongue and pen,</div><div align="center">From all the easy speeches that comfort cruel men;</div><div align="center">From sale and profonation of honor and the sword;</div><div align="center">From sleep and from damnation, deliver us, good Lord!</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Tie in a living tether the prince and priest and thrall;</div><div align="center">Bind all our lives together, smite us and save us all;</div><div align="center">In ire and exultation, aflame with faith, and free,</div><div align="center">Lift up a living nation, a single sword, to Thee."</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">"O God of Earth and Altar," 1906, by George Keith Chesterton</div><div align="center">(set to "Kings Lynn" traditional English melody, arr. Ralph Vaughan Williams, 1906)</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">These words fill me both with fierce patriotism and with sorrow.</div><div align="center">I wish, with thousands of other Americans, it could truly be this way.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">And a thank-you to Chesterton:</div><div align="center">though I don't really appreciate all your words against John Calvin,</div><div align="center">I am quite sure you have since discovered what is true.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-74957596269228925782009-07-02T15:20:00.000-07:002009-07-02T15:25:22.998-07:00Colored pencils aren't my thing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyYiZl7WXZr8G4muIjc9NxaQH5hWuG27P9NZxvFFBHeGHXSLe-eiyAfvGJxKWiDhsyfnQ0je6ypeJO3k7YLWhLtxGEV-1prhRqQhzBEY-Z7FjbPmKka958z36spKhZmHVDMXDJvDR4eY/s1600-h/nautilus.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353992204845095890" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 313px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 284px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyYiZl7WXZr8G4muIjc9NxaQH5hWuG27P9NZxvFFBHeGHXSLe-eiyAfvGJxKWiDhsyfnQ0je6ypeJO3k7YLWhLtxGEV-1prhRqQhzBEY-Z7FjbPmKka958z36spKhZmHVDMXDJvDR4eY/s400/nautilus.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>So . . . As the above title suggests, colored pencils really aren't my favorite medium in the world. But I am rather fond of the chambered nautilus . . . </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-91390731281425964602009-07-01T18:56:00.000-07:002009-07-01T19:22:57.025-07:00The learned gastropod . . .<div align="left">A while ago I was suddenly struck by the realization that there weren't many rhymes for the word "gastropod." That sent me reeling headlong into a story that I've been dreaming of transforming into some sort of picture book ever since.<br /><br />I told it completely in limerick form, the setting being a sort of "bug pub" called "The Golden Louse." The story involves a shy little cricket meeting a blustering, self-focused snail and their rather one-sided conversation. The purpose of the story is basically "don't monopolize the conversation or you won't have any friends." Which is perfectly true—and a trap into which (almost) everyone occasionally falls.<br /><br />Below are the sections pertaining to the single illustration I actually like:<br /><br /><br />"You know, in fact, it’s very odd,"<br />Quoth the learned gastropod,<br />"That we never ever had one<br />come to call;<br />I remember there were times <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK_JsEnzhuONTQfFmqZ25LLKiiFGM2teWZdtlvU1VjXIHbKUvXketa9IJqzAq5-_2Sd2bNJSNvLxnBJ6O6S5kTd3kb2920nF5PNqACiJBnxPFKHeTZG0_XTlSYSlr3Iq3e8EHX8fGeinE/s1600-h/learnedgastropod2.JPG"></a><br />While I dwelt in sunny climes<br />When there’d be whales<br />summer, spring, and fall!"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrujdwyBWNmaxsrrZDKzGmogDU9BRJZofPZVwda16fgKqugDUOwnAvxBkBctiDacsBQvqtiEOpKYN69B3xiPLztai931FbeQkfsABsrQrHVLuN5Y7kxEjN5ex4xpdFlFFqVSFcRh4xpwc/s1600-h/learnedgastropod2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353681392373820546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 176px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 248px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrujdwyBWNmaxsrrZDKzGmogDU9BRJZofPZVwda16fgKqugDUOwnAvxBkBctiDacsBQvqtiEOpKYN69B3xiPLztai931FbeQkfsABsrQrHVLuN5Y7kxEjN5ex4xpdFlFFqVSFcRh4xpwc/s320/learnedgastropod2.JPG" border="0" /></a>"And come to think of it," said he,<br />"There were so many at the sea– <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKgXnRUCezDYMc0_SHtoe1w57ct9xwYGLLgf_kMe2e-nUWp-GM9YfzKQOHIV397ZYEpNs-yrYDyrPsNa7_bfdAcGLgnIDzV3jp0lzPz7s4YumWOCIJuAxNcwaFvZSpjKez32wVhennog/s1600-h/learnedgastropod.JPG"></a><br />How I miss it<br />when there’s summer in the air!<br />But I left to save my skin–<br />That salt breeze near did me in!–<br />And with my home aboard,<br />I’ve gone most everywhere."<br /><br />And as he talked he gave a glance<br />Of such pomp and circumstance<br />It made the cricket weaken at each joint–<br />And to wonder what he’d wrought<br />By forgetting he’d been taught<br />That once a snail starts,<br />your presence has no point." </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br /><br />The picture was done with colored pencils, hence the rather weird smearing and/or white spots.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-26165485582960432612009-07-01T18:29:00.001-07:002009-07-01T18:44:23.972-07:00"A very good place to start."<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFt-XBtEHnlM0IaAykUzrC3kUlXG5ibcmiiTLL1OLyJsfOalZLSQw1dNFIZodftR1h6UR5BJLw20OiuhMVwwZvWfxUE9YfyVCyFOKEodsdfl8la75lUahhq6axRZfAdOl1iWSopP-m8B4/s1600-h/Teddy.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353669833827754082" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 308px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 265px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFt-XBtEHnlM0IaAykUzrC3kUlXG5ibcmiiTLL1OLyJsfOalZLSQw1dNFIZodftR1h6UR5BJLw20OiuhMVwwZvWfxUE9YfyVCyFOKEodsdfl8la75lUahhq6axRZfAdOl1iWSopP-m8B4/s400/Teddy.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p>I figured I may as well begin with something—or someONE—very close to my heart. I did this sketch over a year ago, and he really DOES look like that—distorted nose and all. Poor guy.</p><p>Yes—his name is Teddy. I do not claim responsibility for this, having been approximately one hour old at the time I received him as a gift. That being said, by the time of my second birthday party, I named my NEW animal "Panda," clinging proudly to the lack of creativity in names that was rapidly becoming a family tradition.</p><p>As an extra and, I personally think hilarious note: when I was more like six, I received another stuffed bear as a gift. This one happened to be completely white, and my mother encouraged me to, quite logically, think of something white after which to name him. I happened to be standing beside her closet when she said this to little six-year-old me clutching my new bear. Looking down, I took note of a certain pair of Keds sitting upright on her shoerack. The poor woman was expecting "Snowflake."</p><p>He's named "Shoebear" to this day.</p><p>But—THIS is Teddy. I had to have been an unpredictable child.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8234287590582988030.post-2679479250721959622009-07-01T18:09:00.001-07:002009-07-01T18:15:11.480-07:00"All you ever speak is nonsense!" "Well, that's better than listening to it!"Welcome to Mad Thinking Cap. I'm your average American citizen, with proverbial irons in practically every proverbial fire, with a profound love for things zany, wacky, and random. Although I'll probably be posting whatever pops into my head, I will try to stick to poetry (mostly of the kids' sort) and art--possibly illustrations for the poems, of which I have a few.<br /><br />That being said, I think it's high time I DID something with what I DO. As in, in this modern day and age, post it on the Internet. It took me a while to get around to this idea, so now I'll give it a try.<br /><br />Thanks for your patience.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1