Tag Archives: Patience

Son of the Big Dumb Object


EgoOne of my very favorite things in the world of fiction is that cosmic force, the presence that is imposing just because of its size, the very Big Dumb Object itself. An example, seen below, adds consciousness to the mix. The presentation is excellent. I love the image. But not enough was done with it, plotwise, back in the day.
One of the things that makes me create is the desire to see a better version of things, at least in my eyes. My first writing was done in response to a comic-book villain I thought terrible (the Stilt-Man, as in DD#48). So I come by it naturally. My art is, at least initially, imitative.dd48 It always has been. I like a certain amount of structure, a framework to stand on, before taking the great leap into the unknowable seas of imagination. My first drafts, first versions of things, almost always have a large portion of synthesis, of combining previously-known ingredients into a new stew, stirring it up, and then improvising over the changes. Continue reading

Updates, January 23


Sorry. That resolution to blog every day, or even more frequently, didn’t go very far. Where were we? I dunno. So…this is what’s been happening. I wrote stuff, made some music. Here, try some Bowie cover:

intaI have a story in this book, a short entitled “Eddie”, based on a fragment I wrote fifteen years or so ago. Just a little bit of shock and awe. Really cool cover. Ran Cartwright does good work. I have a round robin piece that I’m puzzling over, and have launched into a piece that has more detail about what Brown Jenkin did while he had the Silver Key. Both are for book appearances (hopefully, anyway), as I move along the path from unknown to virtually unknown to little-known.

Little-known is not so bad, and I’m also working on the better-paid part. Because I have bills too. A grand a month, a little writing money and my babysitting money, that’s not so much to live on.

But I don’t want to be entirely mercenary…I’m still planning a series of shorts for shoggoth.net, and I will release some music gratis. But the days of just letting everything out there are probably over.
I’m older, and sick, and tired. I’m trying to work on less pieces and make them count instead of just spinning and spinning and spinning. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be willing to slug toe-to-toe with anyone else working weird.  The same for guitar, composition, et cetera.

Handsome volumes of Duanestuff and plastic cd cases of modstuff are right around the corner. Before Crazytown will be back on sale at Amazon in February, with a print edition option (yay!) I’m not going to re-up with Amazon exclusive, though. Didn’t deliver as I had hoped. The book will move to Lulu next year, and will stay at Smashwords.

I’m investigating physical cd/download possibilities for a couple of things — the Brown Jenkins blues tune will be one, and discs of literary tributes, cover songs, and vocal versions of previously-released material are not far behind.
Been sitting on that stuff for a while.

And Cub Tracks seems to be going well. We’re undergoing a format change, and there are a few nay-nays, but the articles in general are well-received, with some getting tremendous readership numbers (at least the ones I can collect). I’d be interested to know what the sticky factors are. Maybe I should ask Al Yellon, who runs the site. He might know. He hasn’t said a peep to me about any pieces being substandard or anything like that — I’m allowed, even encouraged, to continue. So that’s a plus.

I enjoy crafting the articles. They’re aggregations of links, but they can be massaged into different media presentation styles, looked at with new eyes. I do quite a few with “themes”, essentially framing devices more or less related to some of the linked content. Mixed reviews, I’m afraid, but that’ll change as things gets more baseball-related. I’m still just drilling down into what works for the audience..heh, to the point that I just up and asked them what they wanted.

It turned out that they didn’t know.

So it goes back to what Al likes. He’s the boss, the editor. If my copy passes his desk, then things are good.

I have some ideas about form that I’ll use tomorrow. Have to cut down on the time it takes to do those articles. The last one took most of the day, since the girl was over. Like eight solid hours of mostly gruntwork, copying and pasting, then cutting and pasting. Structuring the whole document as a baseball game, with a lead-off man segment, ten innings, extras beyond that. Nobody said anything about that, and I’m operating on the principle that no news is good news there. Like when I used to slip my tape into the party music player, and nobody complained, I knew I was good. It was acceptable.

The girl. Ohhh boy. She’s been a problem since her parents called the other day and told her that he’s working again, and that they planned to visit. She has this fantasy built up, you see, where they turn out to be real human beings with competence and financial wherewithal, and take her home to live happily after. That this has been repeatedly proven to be abject nonsense doesn’t dissuade her, and consequently she turns into demon child when she speaks to them because she’s caught on the horns of the dilemma — give up the fantasy, grow up and deal, or be childish and believe in the Easter bunny.

I just want the drama over. There are papers that the parents need to sign for the custody to be permanent, and those need to be signed. And then the child needs to be removed from negative influences as much as possible, and go sit in a corner with her thoughts, and deal with those.

She’s afraid to. I understand. But she’s also eleven, too old to be playing “look at me, aren’t I cute” instead of doing her assigned work, far too old to be snuggling up to such forlorn possibilities. Time to put on the big girl panties, I tell her.

She was such a colossal pain in the ass today that I got a migraine. Defiant, selfish, willfully ignorant. She screwed up her English homework to get attention, took out her calculator and started doing her math homework with it (!) like I wasn’t three feet away. She played the food game. This is where she takes real little bites, and chews slowly, a hundred time each mouthful, and stares wall-eyed at the tv screen.

Fuck that. People have been letting her get away with it for years. It’s a waste of everyone’s time, and it’s over, at least under my roof. 1/2 hour, and the food gets thrown away, and she goes hungry. Her choice. She wasted so much time scewing up her homework that she didn’t get to go across to her house and feed the pets — so the small creatures had to wait until after dinner. Animals like the security of being fed at the same time every day. But she screws that up too, so she can get attention.

She refuses to go after positive attention, even though she claims to like it better — largely because it takes effort to do good things instead of being lazing about wallowing in one’s own ignorance.

Great model, as least character-wise, for Cassilda, who I’ve been writing up recently also.

Yeah, I’m mad at her, and mad at several other someones. It’s a GOOD thing that I don’t have the ability to wish people into cornfields or anything like that. All I can do is to have them die horribly and slowly in stories…

Wait. That gives me an idea.

’til next time.

Blue Instead of Yellow


Yeah, I know. I skipped a day, and promised to talk about KIY shit…but life intervened. Because of the weather, seasonal depression is on my mind.

I suffer from occasional bouts of depression. PTSD from my hospital stay, circumstances, aftermath. The interludes of depression can be long-lasting. Some have lasted months.

Others are worse off. Yeah, I know that. I’m not throwing a pity party.

But it’s like this: I have maybe 25% lung capacity on a good day. Most of my alveoli were destroyed by fluid incursion following a bout with a still-and-always-idiopathic lung-wall-destroying disease (all signs point to valley fever but there was no way to diagnose it by the time they got at me). My lungs are largely scar tissue, and don’t inflate completely anyway. Essentially, as my friend FJM pointed out, I live at 45,000 feet.

I live on generated or canned air. While I do have portable tanks, they last a couple of hours each, and weigh 12 pounds. It’s a complete pain in the ass to go anywhere – especially as any exertion taxes my oxygen-processing apparatus.

When I’m short of breath, I don’t think straight. I cannot diagnose things with my usual facility. Plus the need to breathe makes me panicky.

So I usually don’t go anywhere. I don’t have a car, and public transportation takes time, which is what I have the least of. Left cabin fever behind years ago.

I hate it. Just existing is so frustrating that sometimes I just want to ball up and cry. But I refuse to do that. The anxiety and frustration get channeled into art, and I keep on keepin’ on…just as I did with my lungs trashed and double pneumonia.

Don’t know any other way.

But this really ain’t about me, or my seasonal depression brought on by my body’s painful response to cold. It’s about the invisible diseases people suffer, and how they’re viewed by others, who haven’t the empathy or imagination or common decency to behave properly when confronted by something that they haven’t directly experienced.

I’ve had people ask me for cigarettes, smoke right in my face, blow smoke at me. I just shake my head sadly, and move away. What else? I could upbraid them, but what would that change?

Let’s think about that seasonal pain. It’s fibromyalgia. I know several other people who suffer from it. Used to be called neuralgia. For me, it feels like a cloud of below-freezing pins and needles lancing a lake of lava. It’s mostly in remission, thankfully, as my insurance company no longer covers the drug that made things bearable.

It has un-remissed. Made me more productive as I fill every waking moment with activity in order to sublimate the pain as much as possible. At least I have that mechanism. Many don’t.

But the point is, you can’t see fibromyalgia. Not with any instruments a common physician has. Certainly not with the naked eye.

Can’t see diabetes, lupus, many other debilitating disorders.

Have a care. Walk a few steps in the other guy’s shoes. You never know what’s in the rest of the iceberg.

 

The Best I Ever Had…


usHad to knock off early to watch the child, and didn’t manage to finish the stuff I started.
We had a running conversation about “ownership” of tasks after she did a crap job of sweeping the front room, angling to go outside.
Nuh-uh.
I explained what we want if she runs into a roadblock (ask for help), since she claimed to be stymied by the bird crap and seeds that were stuck to the floor. She couldn’t SWEEP them up, you see, so the task became impossible.
Kids.
I watered the area a little (can’t use a cleanser cuz Dammit Bunny​ might lick it) and scraped the poo up with the poop scooper. It dried in a few seconds, and I used the hand broom to brush it into the dustpan.
So she saw how it could be done.
“You know,” I said. “This is where your OCD should kick in (she has a bad case of it). You’d get so much more done.”

She just looked at me blankly. She was not having a good time.

Wah.

We continued to talk some about owning her tasks, and this was parlayed into the writing of her chores on the daily calendar in the hall, so she knows what she is to do each given day, since she almost never has homework any more.

Her homework consists of reading a half hour daily. She insists that twenty minutes is the figure, because that’s what her teacher assigned, but I tacked on the extra ten long ago, because she desperately needs to acquire some kind of vocabulary.
She’s very hard to understand. She does not express herself well, and she habitually lapses into this little-baby-girl quiet voice, which one can’t hear over the constant noise of the parakeets.
I hate that. It makes me virtually foam at the mouth. That and the refusal to answer a direct question. Those are the pettiest of my peeves.
And the more I ask her, tell her, to speak up, please, the more she does it. Agh!

She was disobedient about a couple of things before that–everything was all about getting to play. I understand the urge, but she knows very well what the score is, and copping an attitude isn’t going to gain her any freedom.

She ended up with a time in the corner, to think things over. I went through and re-swept the front room, and did the hallway, the kitchen, and the bath, while I was at it.
Told her she had an hour after she started scuffing her feet and scratching, intending to give her fifteen minutes or so and then releasing her to blow it all off.
She was still in a mood later. So was everyone else. The floor was made of eggshells.
But it was mostly a positive afternoon. Something to build on if she can live up to her promises.
Go you.

Sometimes…


Sometimes I don’t want to wear the big boy pants. Especially when I’m not feeling so adult, or even competent.
I need to listen more, and to learn not to spread myself so thin. I get caught up in things, enthusiastic, and sometimes will go off without completely understanding what I’m trying to accomplish, or why.

There are times when I miss key details. Because I want to badly to DO GOOD. To be PART OF THINGS.
“Yeah,” you say, “don’t we all?”

Well, yeah. But I’ve been a certified “weird person” all of my life. Couldn’t help it. I’m still a misfit most places. Hell, everywhere. Continue reading

How Those Famous Guitar Players Got Really Good


Yesterday, “Brook” got her birthday present a week early-a 1/2 size hot pink acoustic guitar:Pink GuitarShe has been practicing. She now knows Em, E, D, Dm, and has made inroads toward making G and A ring. This morning I showed her the blues scale and a minor pentatonic scale, and we discussed how improvisation is done and how songs are put together. Once she has the G and A down, I’ll introduce C and F and we’ll start building a repertoire for her.
Purple Haze and Nights in White Satin will be the first ones. We’ll also work on composing our own material, augmented by the dozen or so percussive gizmos I have lying around.

The world’s newest guitarist will have plenty of additional time to practice. She’s grounded again. Can’t spend five minutes outside without forgetting about the simple ground rules. “Stay in earshot” “Don’t go over to the ghetto-ass kids’ house to play” “Stay out of the parking lot”.
I predict that, at this rate, she’ll be famous by the time she’s 11.
The ghetto-ass kids’ dad is next door working on the cabinetry in the recently-abandoned apartment there. I sincerely hope he heard my lecture.
The littlest one, age seven, who goes by the nickname Yaya, is a yeller. She likes to scream and shout to try to get her way. Faith goes outside and she is told “If you play with my sister, you can’t ride my scooter any more.”
Instead of turning around and saying “Li’l bitch, we gave you that scooter, and your sister is more fun anyway,” Faith gets upset and tears around the complex on a borrowed bike, therefore being out of earshot when I call for her.
Ten minutes later, she drags her scooter into the kitchen and bugs right back out again before I can say anything.
I look out, and she’s on the back of Chi-chi’s (the older sister, all of nine) bike, going around the corner of a building about fifty yards away, in the parking lot.
I slap a tank together and go out the other way, to head them off at the pass, but no. They double back and go back in the ghetto-ass apt.
Sitting on the patio, biding my time. I water the plants and look over the gate periodically.
Eventually herself sees me and comes over.
“Get inside,” I say. “We need to talk. And take that scooter gear (kneepads, elbow pads) off–you won’t need it anymore today.”

The ensuing conversation ended, unfortunately, like so many do, with grounding and a turn in the corner, facing the wall, butthurt. During the course of the dialogue, the phrase “I don’t know” was repeatedly used to justfiy actions taken, as was “I just like to play”. The latter is okay. Not so in-depth, but excusable, depending on the behavior it’s used to represent. But the first is one of the two things that are guaranteed to makes things take a bad turn (the other is to lie to my face and have me catch her).

The child knows this. She is apparently incapable of considering the results of her actions, despite repeated preaching, beseeching, reasoning, back-patting, and other conditioning methods used to reinforce a positive behavior pattern.

She doesn’t like thinking. It makes her head hurt.

It makes my head hurt to think of another ten years of this mindless impulse-following. I’m afraid sometimes her head will just collapse in on itself. Either that, or fill up with cats (who abhor a vacuum, you know).

I’m fairly strict. I expect a lot, I’m told. Too much–I expect literacy and some degree of self-awareness and self-knowledge. I want to see some intellectual curiosity and the ability to tell right from wrong and to act accordingly.

Very little of that going on. So I’m looking at music as the way to get that sort of patience and determination going.

Fingers, eyes, legs, toes crossed. Only can only hope.

where it’s at


Oops. Well, I forget to post here for a bit. There was way too much life happening. Some of it had to do with the increasingly wayward child, some of it had to do with deadlines (most of them self-imposed), some of it had to do with other folks. During the last month or so, we’ve had to relocate for two days so that the complex could spray for bugs (seems to have worked), I’ve finalized the cover and contents of my book. somehow finagled renewing most of my web properties despite not having enough  money to do so (I spent the money on eating out during the two days we were in the hotel), and cooked a semi-gourmet meal damn near every night.

Did see the new pulmonologist. He spewed some hope, saying that there had to be some reason why the scarring in my lungs isn’t healing, and they’re not returning to full capacity. The last guy said that to, and tried to put me on the Atkins diet to fix it.

Wrong answer. I distrust fad diets, and, though I’m sure he had his reasons for recommending that (mostly having to do with my weight), I have my own reasons not to do it. We’ll talk about willful disobedience later. though, and in another context.

Continue reading