Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Random Thoughts and Story Birth

I find it somewhat funny, when you consider poetry, that the form it takes can both guide how it flows or constrict it. Below is all I could come up with before the idea looked at how I was doing and told me to push off:

 
 

Life expands, new paths unfold

Which course should I take? Must I be bold?

 
 

Choices abound, they vi for attention

….

 
 

There is no overt value in producing a poem that rhymes. Certainly, the rhythm it brings is helpful, but requiring a rhythm shouldn't shape a poem, and that's what was going on above. Sometimes I feel like writing a poem without rhymes is just cheating.

 
 

Like each breath I take, the pressure rises and falls.

My life rushes onward, though its pace never changes

Yet each new occurrence changes a plan

Which, I must confess, was hardly for certain

 
 

The warmth and security a decision will bring

Lasts only until a new choice appears.

It is these choices which tear at my mind

And yet they are comforting, forging a path

 
 

So I may be uneasy with challenges I face

Yet without them, I would float aimlessly

So I welcome my choices, and look ahead

Each question answered brings a new one to bear

 
 

Each line tried so hard in my mind to rhyme with the one preceding it, it was like beating back an animal. Rereading that creation, I am unsure whether it was right to fight the desire to rhyme. Maybe a little moderation is key in this area.

 
 

What would it be like if our dreams could lead us to a world between an absolute dream and the reality we leave behind when we fall into slumber? A world that is both small and infinite, existing on the edge of reality and a world of conscious and unconscious imagination, every little thing a person on Earth has ever dreamed of. A place of dreams manifest, where the proximity of reality has pulled such dreams out of their fleeting form and into something more permanent. This place would almost be a gate between the dream world and that of reality, caught in a tug of war as each grows and weakens, affecting the other as innumerable factors shift subtly.

I think this is a place that a man named Richard Ancile will visit, should I have my way and he lets me tell his tale.

We shall see.

Monday, December 29, 2008

Zombies and Stories

The absolute best thing about pets like the dogs and cats that we have is the unconditional love that they have for us. My puppies in particular spend half their time glued to my side, and the other half is with anyone else who is in the house. Hannah does it to be near incase we happen to stop at any point and have a free hand that can pet her. Lily does this interesting thing where she will sit and watch whatever we are doing. It's kind of like she is trying to learn how to do whatever is going on. Years ago she watched some guys retile a pool at our old house. Lately she always seems to be watching us when we are cooking. Of course, it could all just be so she can fend for herself when she kills the family.

 
 

On the subject of such disastrous events as dog revolution, I may as well jump the tracks to *drumroll* zombies! My parents' house(condo) is absolutely perfect as a sanctuary from a zombie invasion. There is only a front door and a garage door, and there are no windows opening directly outside. The front door is inside a small courtyard with a sturdy gate, and this courtyard is enclosed on three sides by the condo, and the on the fourth by a one story wall and the gate. The daylight in the condo comes from an atrium in the middle. There are also a bunch of skylights around the condo, so light comes in most everywhere. Assuming zombies can't climb very well, this place would be perfect. All the condos are roughly protected the same way, although some have windows facing out, so those would be lost. But with skylights and the courtyard and atrium, It'd be a lot better than being holed up in a dark house.

And then I realize I am writing about zombies…

Things have somewhat shifted for me, mentally, over the last week or so; I have a more clear idea of what I want to do in the next two years or so, which is a great starting point. There was a great deal of uncertainty regarding undergrad/grad school, jobs, and all that. At least now I have a vague sketch, and it's a good enough one that I feel excited to get clear of FIU and move on to what comes next.

 
 

I had a dream many, many months ago….at this point I think it has been a year at least, but it came back to me today. I was in a future world, a great deal like ours now except that place I was in was very totalitarian. There was a single leader with his governing body, and my responsibility with others was to ensure that the desired message of the leader was presented properly to the masses. Basically, propaganda. I think that I want to build on this half-world. It will be my project for at least the rest of the time I am in Texas. And yet…as badly as I want to tweak this new idea, I want to build another story, one whose basis is dreams but was conceived in the waking world a year and a half ago, midway thru a party. Chime in, perhaps?

 
 

 
 

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Mastering Direction

Blogger drives me nuts. I feel like I am very limited in how I can customize it in a way I want. Certainly, I can add little gadgets, or change the general template, but there is such a limited choice of templates, and the only ones I like seem to smash any images I post so that they can't be seen. Which kind of defeats the point of posting an image?

I need to pick up writing in these blogs I have, if for no other reason than to foster the "creative spirit". I can feel the gears starting to shift again, little bits of story and poem entering my mind at random moments and then scampering off before I can put them to paper or laptop screen. It would be handy if one of the aforementioned were waterproof or could follow me everywhere, and it is tragic that I would never want to dictate ideas into some kind of handy recording device; not liking to hear myself speak would prevent these recordings from ever being heard. Ever.

While I do appreciate ideas striking me either as I am nearly asleep or taking a shower, it would be most helpful if they would strike when I am staring blankly at a computer screen or sheet of paper. Maybe while I am traveling in a car for a half hour? Just some suggestions.


For Christmas I received a Nikon D60 Digital( that's what the D is for) Camera. I've already taken over a hundred pictures, which puts this camera's use on par with the film Nikon I have back in Miami, which I have had for four years. Tells you something, doesn't it? Possibly that I don't like developing film, which is a piss poor excuse. Or it would be, if I didn't have these kind of pictures coming out of the new camera:

http://i179.photobucket.com/albums/w304/VagrantsEpic/Wallpapers/DSC_0075.jpg

 
 

So yea, suck on that. Seems likely I shall have to explore this "Flickr" thing soon, should I continue to place photos online.

 
 

So, my dramatic plan for the remainder of my visit to my parents is thus. I will set aside an hour each night, starting tomorrow night and perhaps ignoring the 31st, in which I will do nothing but listen to music and write. I will have to gather the strength to shut off my dad's new 40inch plasma HDTV with a 40,000:1
contrast ratio. If you are uncertain what that means, I cannot help you; I only know that it is a massive amount, as shown by the placement of the ",", as well as my use of bold and italics. I don't know how I watched tv without it.

Where was I? Oh yes, I am going to find the inner strength to disable the above device, and instead write something that I can post, or at least reread myself with some satisfaction.

 
 

Where the tides start to turn...

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Hmmm…

It is rather unique to find my life for the next few years gaining something more than a vague outline. I'm finding a lot of comfort in having an idea of what's coming. The last few days have found me in a pretty good mood. It's very possible this is a product of the season, or being on vacation, or something.

 
 

Hmmm….

 
 

Anyway, a consideration…I've found as I get older, the gifts I want and cherish most for Christmas are less material and more emotional or meaningful. Example, last year my mom gave me two particular items. One was a coffee mug that my mom had given her, and the other was a pen my grandmother had for something like thirty years. Definitely not items of any value at a yard sale, but they are meaningful.

 
 

Don't really know where else to go with this for now. So tired…

 
 

I have puppies to cuddle!

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

A Different Kind of Home

I've rarely updated this lately, or as the case now is, I have only just started the word press one so this would be the first post. Regardless, here are some random things.

I'm doodling with the idea (Pun, hahah) of working on a web comic. I have to perfect my own ability to draw first.

I'm also drafting some ideas for things to write. I just have to get into that "zone" of actually doing it. It has been tough to do with school, all the papers I had to put out there at the very end, all the reading I had assigned but didn't want to complete. I've got a need to produce some things, and I hope that my vacation for the holidays will let me get to that place mentally.


 

On the subject of the holidays, I find myself at my parents' home for the next week weeks, on holiday away from school for Christmas and New Years. It is interesting to come here, seeing this house for the first time. It's not actually a house, a condo would be more accurate; yet it's probably the first place my parents have moved to that I feel instantly attached to. There is something unique about it that grabs me right away and appeals to me. I think it has something to do with how it balances a secluded and contained feeling with a feeling of openness. I explained to a friend once my love for homes up north. They feel isolated from the outside world, especially during the winter when you can sit inside, warm and comfortable, and look out at a snowy field. The part of his condo that is secluded, that feeling I get from this place draws a lot from my love of homes up north. It can't hurt that it has gotten amazingly cold in the last few days. The only thing missing here are the carpeted floors. I think I'll revisit this again while I'm here.


 

On another note, as I write this, a movie called "The Cell" is on tv. I've seen parts of it before, mostly the ending, so it's rather interesting to see the beginning. This movie fascinates me because of its presentation of the mind. Granted, it's the mind of a serial killer, so it's all fractured and disjointed, but it makes me wonder how someone would perceive another's mind if they could wander in it. I wrote something along these lines once before, which I'm going to repost below this. For anyone taking the time to browse this, feel free to contribute your own impression of your mind.

Reposted for the above

Thought Process

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the room was that the entire place had a very familiar feel. The second thing I noticed was the soft carpet beneath my bare feet. It ran the length of the room, vanishing under the desk that sat facing me, opposite and to one side of the door. The desk held a standard table lamp and what appeared to be a computer screen. The walls were a pale blue from the floor up, then they were painted to represent a mountain range about two feet short of the ceiling. The mountains had each been individually painted, free from the template drawings one often encounters. The ceiling was painted like the sky, patches of clouds floating about without any kind of pattern. The ceiling fan that spun slowly in the middle of the room had small plastic stars stuck to its blades.

The room was not a large one, but there was easily enough space in it for a person to feel comfortable. As I looked to my right I spotted for the first time a dog, a golden retriever with a full, furry coat, staring at me. Finally noticed, the dog eyed me with brown eyes, then stood up and, tail wagging, picked up a stuffed dog bed in her teeth and looked at me expectantly. After a moments hesitation I bent down and extended one had toward the dog, then gentle scratched her head. The dog accepted my affections without any reaction, her tail already wagging. I shrugged and turned, approaching what appeared to be a drawing table situated in the corner next to the door, the dog following behind me.

Over the drawing table was a large painting. It held a duck, seated comfortably in a pool chair, looking perplexed at two bullet holes in the wall over his shoulder. Written beneath the painting were the words "Sitting Duck". I chuckled as I read this, and then looked down at the contents of the drawing table. Scattered about its surface were dozens upon dozens of sheets of paper, some completely blank while others held a few words, phrases, or were filled completely. They seemed to be notes, thoughts, and stories, all jotted down hastily and without any system or organization. Several caught my eye, but my curiosity at the rest of the room tore my attention away.

I noticed on the wall a window looking outside, though the view it presented me with was not what I expected. I had the nagging feeling that before I had entered this room it was the early evening, and yet this window showed me a view out into a rainy day. A glance at my watch claimed the time was nearly midnight, and yet the window was clearly a daytime shower, the weather beyond the glass a downpour with wind strong enough to slant the rain at a steep angle. The faint sound of rain landing on a tin roof confirmed that it was in fact raining. A shook my watch a few times, then mentally scorned myself, as shaking a digital watch was unlikely to modify its function.

The dog at this point seemed to grow tired of my exploration; she walked away from me to the center of the room and placed her bed on the floor. Stepping onto it, she walked a small circle several times before laying down facing me and letting out what I thought might be a profound sigh. Her eyes followed be as I continued around the room, their puppy-dog stare zeroed in on me.

In the rear of the room was a very large bookshelf, nearly covering the entire wall. Roughly half filled, it contained books of varying shapes and sizes. There was not a single title amongst them I didn't recognize, though some lurked deep in my memory and I had to think for several moments to place the books' origins. Pulling one from the shelf, i flipped it open and found the page I had turned to blank. I shifted through the pages, and occasionally words or phrases would appear in the margins. Some sections of the books were completely filled, others empty like the first few pages I had spotted. I checked several other books with similar results, and realized after the third novel that in reading the parts that were printed, I recognized the moments in the story from my readings. I shut the third book and continued around the room to the desk.

Surprisingly bare, the desk only held the lamp, a flat computer monitor, and a keyboard and mouse. No tower was visible for the monitor, and no cables ran out of it, power or otherwise, but bright on the screen was the background of a city in ruins. A few mouse clicks and taps on the keyboard opened most of the familiar programs, though the web browser held a large bookmark folder titled "Distractions". I closed out the windows I had opened and sat down in the comfortable chair behind the desk. The golden retriever on the floor immediately stood up, grabbed her bed in her mouth, and dragged it over to where I sat. She set the bed down at my feet and once again preformed her laying down ritual. I leaned over in my chair and scratched her behind the ears for a few moments, then sat up once more.

Sitting opposite me, in a chair identical to the one I occupied was a man who appeared identical to myself. I stared for a moment and then slowly, I lifted one hand up to my face. The mirror image of myself did the same. When my hand was next to my face I bent my index finger forward slowly, and the person opposite me did the same. Then he grinned, wiggled all his fingers, and laughed.

"I'm just messing with you, i'm not a mirror or whatever you were thinking."
He grinned and waited for me to respond, taking a moment to clean the glasses he wore on his face.
"So...if you aren't some creepy mirror image murder-thing, what are you?" I said, realizing my glasses were smugded and resisting the urge to clean them.
He laughed, mouthing the words "murder-thing", and replaced his glasses.
"If you want to get really technical, i'm you, though obviously I can't be, since you are sitting there, hogging the dog, and i'm sitting here, alone without even a cat I can pretend cares about me."

I let this process for a moment and then dug down deep into my mind in order to come up with what seemed the most appropriate and fitting response.
"Ok." I said, and looked across the desk at what was apparently myself, but not.
"Look, if it makes it easier, think of me as Tawks instead of Scott" he said, reclining somewhat in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling, covered in clouds which, if I looked hard enough, appeared to be lazily drifting across their blue sky.
Laughing lightly, he spoke, seemingly to the ceiling, "Things could get confusing if we both used the name Scott."

I found myself nodding in agreement, then shook my head and looked at Tawks.
"Ok, so you're Tawks, and I'm Scott. What do you want?"

Tawks looked back at me, matching my gaze.
"Well, mostly that is up to you. What would you like to talk about?"

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

This is important.




More to come, later.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

VOTE

Have you voted yet? No?

 
 

THEN GO!

Thursday, October 30, 2008

I doubted my colorblindness...



and then I realized I can't see the number in this image...

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Illness

Being sick completely ruins everything. I have no desire to do anything at all. So this day was a complete waste. As was the day before, and likely tomorrow will be too. Being sick isn't even the real issue, although it certainly isn't helping. PetSmart is such a blah job, and even more so now, when I consider that I should have my degree in 2 months, and I am 22. And really, I cant make excuses. I'll just have to go search out in the backyard where I buried my ambition, dig it up, and make use of it. Hopefully it hasn't been too badly tainted by the lack of ambition the other residents of this home exude...

Saturday, October 4, 2008

It's Raining and You Could Be Out In It

I absolutely love when it rains. I don't know what exactly it is that attracts me so to the rain, but when it comes down, things just change in my head. Today as my brother and I left the gym, it poured. Despite being soaked straight thru my clothes, and despite my car breaks protesting at every stop sign and light(I had torn thru every puddle on my way home, the way a child would jump from the curb to stomp in a rain puddle. I'm a child with a Jeep), I was loving it. There is just something about the rain that grabs me.

  
 

Sitting on the concrete half-wall, I closed my eyes while the rain came down around me. Half-way across the park I had been soaked thru, so I had surrendered to the elements and decided to just enjoy the downpour. The rain was strong enough that I couldn't quite see the parking structure in the distance where the sanctuary of my car waited, but I didn't mind. Eyes closed and with my head tilted back, the rain ensured that not an inch of my person was dry.

Lost in my thoughts and the sound of rain falling, I didn't hear her approach nor notice her standing there for some time before she finally spoke.

"You're getting wet, you know."

I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was sheltered beneath a black umbrella, its protection the only thing preventing her from emulating my condition; jacket and jeans are hardly waterproof. Her brown hair was put up in some fashion, clearly a hasty solution to the current weather. Thin-rimmed glasses protruded from her breast pocket. I looked back to the sky and closed my eyes again.

"I'd say at this point I am drenched. I was getting wet about five minutes ago when I decided I may as well just commit to this course of action. So here I sit."

She was silent a few moments, just long enough for me to image that she rolled her blue eyes and walked away when she spoke again.

"You don't…care that you are sitting in the middle of a rain storm, in the middle of a park, looking somewhat like a crazy with your arms held out like that? Also, that wall has a 'Wet Paint' sign on it."

I resisted the urge to put my hands in my lap.

"Sign seems kind of redundant, considering the weather. And no, actually, I like sitting in the rain. It feels refreshing, or rejuvenating, or something like that. I think it opens up the senses, or wakes them up, with the rain and water hitting all over the body. Lets my mind wander."

"Your senses are probably wondering if your mind has wandered off somewhere dry.

I could hear her softly giggle, and I was suddenly sure what a "girlish giggle" sounded like. I opened my eyes again to catch her grin, and noticed she was leaning to one side, looking to my left.

"I don't suppose your mind forgot to take that notebook with it when it wandered off too?"

"Alas," I said, picking up the notebook , "this notebook has served its purpose. Apparently, that was to be filled with poorly conceived and inevitably doomed writings. Farewell, my friend." I chucked it into a nearby trashcan, the impact emitting a wet thud.

"Ah, I see," she replied, standing under her umbrella and looking at me. We exchanged looks for a time, and she shifted her weight several times. "Well…" she said, and turned to go. I closed my eyes again and put my hands back out, palms up, to my sides.

Less than a minute passed, and I heard a faint clink. I opened my eyes again to see that rather than leaving, she was now settling herself next to me, her black umbrella abandoned on the ground. She had released her hair at some point, just over shoulder-length, and the rain caused it to stick to her skin and frame her face. She looked at me with eyes that seemed to say "If its good enough for you…", though her cheeks betrayed the faintest of blush.

"At least now you'll have someone to keep you company when you are in the hospital for hypothermia," she said, closing those blue eyes and imitating my posture.

"It seems that I do," I replied, looking at her in profile for several moments before turning back to the sky and closing my eyes.

Sometime later, after the rain had eased but before it stopped, she put her hand in my upturned one, and I was more than pleased when she returned the gentle squeeze I offered.

  
 

  
 

I think it is a sign that the deadline for the creative writing contest for the honors college was extended.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Faucet

I find writing this appropriate, having conceived the idea for the post some days ago and only now getting around to penning it.

I feel like my approach to writing for several years has been all wrong. I've gone about with what I am doing, living in the world, and when an idea strikes me that I like I will try to build a story around it. Or if it has the misfortune of hitting me when I am unable to commit it to paper, it slowly dies. And I've realized how very very wrong this concept is.

Its like trying to get a glass of water from a barely open faucet. Eventually I have a full glass, but my potential is so limited it digs at me. The only method I can think of for fixing this is what I tried in the past, and must find in myself the self-discipline to find again; that being to take time out of each day to produce something that I can be proud of, or at least shape into something worth admiring, from a literary perspective. I have two stories sitting as outlines right now, two that have great potential, as well as the story I launched this blog with, of the self-conversation. I also slowly manifest a web comic out of randomness with a friend of mine; that shifts between being full of random occurrences and being story driven. Perhaps I shall find a nice middle ground on which to balance it.

And in quiet doubt, I wonder if anyone reads this, or if it is simply a place for me to put words on the net.

Have I thrown a message in a bottle out to sea?

Where the tides start to turn...

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Abridgement

When I was in Texas for a few weeks this summer(visiting my parents, and escaping the mindlessness that is working at PetSmart), I dug around and discovered all the audio books I had collected when I was a little kid. I will be up front now and say that literally all the books I had been able to hold onto and had carefully stored in a box in my closet were Star Wars audio books. I don't care, I like Star Wars. Anyway, while I was out there I entertained the notion of converting these ancient cassettes into the mighty modern digital format. I did some basic searching online and found a few things, but if anyone has an cheap method or idea for how to do this, let me know! I mention this because I have a desire to revisit these old stories, but as I own them already there is no way I am going to buy them a second time.

Of course, I say that now but ask me again in a week if I stuck to my guns.

The relevance of this is that all of these books are abridged. If you are unaware, abridged basically means that an editor went thru and removed sections of the book that are not "essential" to the story, thus making it an amicable media for an ADD society. It also means that, though the author often approves the changes made, I have no doubt it is done grudgingly. And if not….well, you suck, author. Regardless, I have no problem with the offering of an abridged version; some people just want to get straight to the entertainment. Though there is something funny in that someone who doesn't have time/want to read a book will also prefer to get a shortened version of the book in audio format. Should just save themselves a few bucks and ask their friend what it was about.

I seesaw back and forth about this though. I mean…I own at least 15 abridged
books that I just asked about converting to digital. I rationalize it with the fact that absolutely none of these titles are offered in an unabridged form.


Am I formulating an argument that was out of date ten years ago? I think so.


Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Blue or Red?

I near a point now where I can decide to leave the comfortable world of my college experience and move on to the next stage of life, or hunker down and continue my education, and I honestly can not produce an answer. My degree will be complete as of the end of this semester, and from here I can pursue minors, a second major, or move straight to grad school. I can also get what constitutes a real job in the world.


To be honest, a real job seems most appealing to me right now. I believe it is because the prospect of a real job brings with it the ability to escape out of Florida. I feel somewhat trapped here, as I have to complete my education before I can leave, and my fondness for Florida is at best a circumstantial event. On a daily basis I dislike living here; it is far to hot here for my taste, and it honestly doesn't rain often enough. And I like the rain. Everyone always seems upset when its raining; I see rain clouds forming and I smile. I'm odd, whatever!


Another plus for escaping: I kinda want to escape the roommate situation I am in at present. While there is nothing overtly wrong with the people I live with…I never thought I would say this, but they all have tunnel vision when it comes to video games. As in, if they had to sit down and describe what they do with their free time, the ONLY answer all three of them could give is "I play World of Warcraft". I exclude my brother from this assessment as he has only lived here for a month and I can't rightly describe his free time use yet.


I think that, as an experiment, I'm going to see how productive I can be if I spend some time on the days when I don't have classes on campus. I think my room, maybe even this house, is kind of like a productivity sucker. Today I had plenty of time to get things done, and instead, really, I read a little of what I needed to read, played a random game for a half hour, and napped. Oh yea, and played chauffer for my brother.


Must…flee...


Chasing phantoms in one's dreams...

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Web-Comic-ness

I entertain the notions of a web-comic, produced with a friend of mine; I will write, and she will draw. This arrangement exists primarily because she is an exceptional artist and my stick figures look like they were just pulled from a multi-car pileup.

At first I considered this to be a look at ourselves and our mutual friends, illustrating the amusing events that transpired when she and I both attended the same school. There are many events in our minds, and it is only a matter of transferring them to a community media for the enjoyment of all. However, as I have thought more about this, I have grown fonder of the idea of basing the characters on people I know, but allowing them to grow from there. I see this both as a way to achieve originality and make it so that I don't have to hide this comic from the people considered; not everyone enjoys being made fun of, I have learned.

Most importantly, writing these characters with differences from the people I am basing them on will give me what I feel is some much needed experience in writing different personalities and their interactions with each other. I feel like it would be very easy to get into the mindset of the characters…but at the same time, it feels like schizophrenia if I go too far. I suppose one must make sacrifices...



PS. I just discovered that by writing something in Microsoft office OneNote I can select an option titled "Blog this" and it will send it to blogger. How cool!

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Unnamed, for now

In a day all full of plight
I'll look toward the coming night
In hopes of hearing , in caring tones
"Now you're a welcome sight"

But if a lonely night sets on
I'll just await the coming dawn
So I may go to greet the sun
Standing by myself upon the lawn

Should I miss the sun, clock misled
I'll wait for noon to come, instead
For surely with the sun so high
Life around will be far from dead

But if rain clouds block the sun away
I'll take the rain, it's all ok
for though im alone, overslept, and a bit wet
tomorrow is a brand new day!

Thursday, September 4, 2008

The internet comes for your books and children!

A humble rant, perhaps some actual story-writing in the coming days.

I find that when confronted with someone that takes what is meant to be enjoyable recreation to an extreme, I almost immediately become an asshole. Not too overtly so, but just enough that in retrospect I can see how I was being a jerk. My key example for the evening is the four or so hours I spent playing SSBB(That would be Super Smash Brother's Brawl, for those unaware) this evening. All was fun and games until a particular person arrived who brought with him an air of both superiority and seriousness.
Now, don't get me wrong, I can take some things more seriously than others, and not all of them are intense, professional, life oriented things. But before this person arrived, most of the amazing moments in the game were punctuated by one or more people going "What the fuck? That was awesome! What was that!?". The first time such phrase was voiced in his presence, he answered with "That was back-B". An uncomfortable silence followed, underlining the discomfort and abrupt departure of the jovial atmosphere that had previously existed. This kind of attitude finds its way into some of the classes I take as well. Especially in the larger classes, I'm sure anyone with slight experience in college will remember the one student who not only knew the answers to all the questions the professor asked, but would take it upon himself to expand upon said question so that the rest of the class could leave that day without a doubt that they had witnessed the display of his intellect.

Which leads me into a second thing that has been bothering me. I've noticed, not so much in my classes but in classes that either friends or my brother are taking, where professors specify the negligible value of internet resources. This is not to say they advise against it; my brother's philosophy course has specifically said that they are not to employ the internet at all. To me this is somewhat horrifying, not because of my unrelenting dependency on the interwebs to provide me with all forms of stimulation i so desire, but because it appears that these professors either resent the internet's simply access to knowledge, or believe that all knowledge contained online can only lead to in depth scientific papers eventually looking like this:

This strikes me largely as the 21st century version of the "When I was your age I had to walk 15 miles in the snow to get to school."
"Dad, I know you had cars back then. In fact, i've seen the pictures of you and dad with the old truck"
"Well, yes but I had to siphon the gas myself from the neighbor's car, and they had a dog. A big...mean dog."
...Anyway, to me the internet represents potential access to all kinds of information. Sure, you shouldn't quote Wikipedia for your essay, but my experience has revealed that the sources at the bottom of many pages are very useful, especially for semi-current topics. I feel somew
hat like these teachers are afraid of change; that or they think that if one is not forced to search through hundreds of pages of texts in the style of a gold-shifter, the student has clearly not earned the right to view such knowledge.

The towers of those who hold our knowledge close to their chest, these "libraries", tremble in fear, though with time they will come to realize that the information they secret away in hard copies will serve a greater purpose when I do not need to drive ten minutes to search through the pages.

I almost feel obligated at this point to reinforce my dear love for the physical medium of literature, but only so much as to say this: I love reading books; I do not love pawing thru them for an hour trying to find an entire quote when I know it starts with "And then I leapt into the..." and all I have to do on my computer is hold the ctrl key and press f to search for it.

Alcohol made this meaningful, too little made it less than entertaining; I apologize.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

It's the thought that counts

On a day I had mentally dedicated both to school work and to writing, not a whole lot of either was accomplished. Much to my own annoyance I awoke not at an early hour as I had planned, but instead at almost 1 pm! This may seem a result of my staying up as late as I do(going to be now would be hitting the sack pretty early, by my standards), I have in the past gotten around 3-4 hours of sleep before heading to work at PetSmart for a good ten hours. Personally, i think that i'm finding a lack of motivation and inspiration in the things I do around the house. The only times i seem to get up when I -intend- to get up are when I've either got school or work looming on the horizon(literally!) What happens tomorrow, with classes at what has been my usual wakeup time for the last 4 days, is anyone's guess.

I find it difficult to get myself on the path to writing consistently and with substance lately. But it seems like the only issue is actually sitting down and putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, as is the case right now. When i actually let myself relax and open up a word processor, the thoughts and words just seem to pour out. So...clearly its my own fault and I just need to make a greater effort to sit still and WRITE. My notebook, which has been so neglected the last few months, has been dug out and i'm trying to make use of it again. The most recent notes in it concern a certain character, named Cecil Bandersnatch, as well as some mention of the Ragnarok. Also, I found this quote, from a poem in one of my classes last year: "I dreamed you were a poem, i say, a poem I wanted to show someone." Nice. I wish I had written it. The footnote tells me where to find the source, but I am lazy!

A word about Cecil

As a dry run, allow me a moment to tell you a bit about Cecil Bandersnatch. Some may claim he is an invention of the imagination, perhaps added by a degree of alcohol consumption, but I can tell you for certain he is a real person. This is what I know about him:

Cecil was born in the south of England in 1980 in the town of Hastings. His parents were only holiday there from their home in London, and so he has no special connection to the place. He has been overheard to say, however, that when things got rough in London he has been known to make a "Hastingsy retreat".
Though there is some uncertainty, no doubt encouraged by Cecil himself, as to the occurrences of his youth, if there is one fact about Cecil that is not in question, it is this: he went to Oxford. There he studied botany, and distinguished himself as best one can amongst the clearly competitive botany crowd. When interrogated further, Cecil has revealed on several occasions that he was second in his class, though the reason that he did not obtain the top spot has only be explained as, in his own words, "A social faux pas involving the daughter of a Dean at Oxford, and the botany department located at King's College".
Cecil's family is very old money, as people like to say; his father is the attaché to the Minister of Defense in England, which as I understand is more of a ceremonial position given to him in much the same way our country hands out ambassadorships like they are candy. Needless to say, Cecil wants for nothing and is perfectly content that way. While he does not squander his wealth, having it allows I know for a fact, having visited the place on several occasions, that he owns a rather spacious apartment in New York City that contains no furniture at all, though he has gone to the trouble of outlining every space the furniture would occupy with painter's tape and enjoys making a show of always asking why you are standing on the couch when you wander within the imaginary perimeter.
I must correct myself on one point regarding his New York apartment; there is one room that is furnished, and to see it you would think you had stepped into a different time. The walls are hardwood, where they are not hidden behind bookshelves stuffed to the breaking point with volumes containing all variations of knowledge. The vast majority of the tomes are bristling with makeshift bookmarks and notes, no doubt added by Cecil himself. The only other furniture in the room is a massive hard oak desk with a decidedly comfortable-looking chair on one side. Most of the drawers of the desk are locked, the only one that is not holds an assorted array of pipes, all of which when blown will emit a stream of bubbles.Cecil to entertain the strange notions that overtake him as a person with more free time than commitments.
I would not go so far as to say that Cecil is a drunk; this assumes that one not only achieves sobriety during the course of their waking hours, but also that one overindulges in consuming alcohol. It seems somehow significant that Cecil manages to constantly walk the line between either of these states. He carries with him always the faintest scent of alcohol in the way one is left with a favorable scent-memory of a beloved realitive who drinks a bit too much, and less in the oh-God-why-do-i-always-get-the-subway-seat-by-the-wino. He also always carries a flask on his person, though they occasionally vary in design; I have learned over time that this betrays their contents, though my investigative skills are humbled when I reveal this knowledge only comes to me by Cecil's own admission.

And that is all I have to share on the man for now.

Friday, July 25, 2008

Thought Process

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the room was that the entire place had a very familiar feel. The second thing I noticed was the soft carpet beneath my bare feet. It ran the length of the room, vanishing under the desk that sat facing me, opposite and to one side of the door. The desk held a standard table lamp and what appeared to be a computer screen. The walls were a pale blue from the floor up, then they were painted to represent a mountain range about two feet short of the ceiling. The mountains had each been individually painted, free from the template drawings one often encounters. The ceiling was painted like the sky, patches of clouds floating about without any kind of pattern. The ceiling fan that spun slowly in the middle of the room had small plastic stars stuck to its blades.

The room was not a large one, but there was easily enough space in it for a person to feel comfortable. As I looked to my right I spotted for the first time a dog, a golden retriever with a full, furry coat, staring at me. Finally noticed, the dog eyed me with brown eyes, then stood up and, tail wagging, picked up a stuffed dog bed in her teeth and looked at me expectantly. After a moments hesitation I bent down and extended one had toward the dog, then gentle scratched her head. The dog accepted my affections without any reaction, her tail already wagging. I shrugged and turned, approaching what appeared to be a drawing table situated in the corner next to the door, the dog following behind me.

Over the drawing table was a large painting. It held a duck, seated comfortably in a pool chair, looking perplexed at two bullet holes in the wall over his shoulder. Written beneath the painting were the words "Sitting Duck". I chuckled as I read this, and then looked down at the contents of the drawing table. Scattered about its surface were dozens upon dozens of sheets of paper, some completely blank while others held a few words, phrases, or were filled completely. They seemed to be notes, thoughts, and stories, all jotted down hastily and without any system or organization. Several caught my eye, but my curiosity at the rest of the room tore my attention away.

I noticed on the wall a window looking outside, though the view it presented me with was not what I expected. I had the nagging feeling that before I had entered this room it was the early evening, and yet this window showed me a view out into a rainy day. A glance at my watch claimed the time was nearly midnight, and yet the window was clearly a daytime shower, the weather beyond the glass a downpour with wind strong enough to slant the rain at a steep angle. The faint sound of rain landing on a tin roof confirmed that it was in fact raining. A shook my watch a few times, then mentally scorned myself, as shaking a digital watch was unlikely to modify its function.

The dog at this point seemed to grow tired of my exploration; she walked away from me to the center of the room and placed her bed on the floor. Stepping onto it, she walked a small circle several times before laying down facing me and letting out what I thought might be a profound sigh. Her eyes followed be as I continued around the room, their puppy-dog stare zeroed in on me.

In the rear of the room was a very large bookshelf, nearly covering the entire wall. Roughly half filled, it contained books of varying shapes and sizes. There was not a single title amongst them I didn't recognize, though some lurked deep in my memory and I had to think for several moments to place the books' origins. Pulling one from the shelf, i flipped it open and found the page I had turned to blank. I shifted through the pages, and occasionally words or phrases would appear in the margins. Some sections of the books were completely filled, others empty like the first few pages I had spotted. I checked several other books with similar results, and realized after the third novel that in reading the parts that were printed, I recognized the moments in the story from my readings. I shut the third book and continued around the room to the desk.

Surprisingly bare, the desk only held the lamp, a flat computer monitor, and a keyboard and mouse. No tower was visible for the monitor, and no cables ran out of it, power or otherwise, but bright on the screen was the background of a city in ruins. A few mouse clicks and taps on the keyboard opened most of the familiar programs, though the web browser held a large bookmark folder titled "Distractions". I closed out the windows I had opened and sat down in the comfortable chair behind the desk. The golden retriever on the floor immediately stood up, grabbed her bed in her mouth, and dragged it over to where I sat. She set the bed down at my feet and once again preformed her laying down ritual. I leaned over in my chair and scratched her behind the ears for a few moments, then sat up once more.

Sitting opposite me, in a chair identical to the one I occupied was a man who appeared identical to myself. I stared for a moment and then slowly, I lifted one hand up to my face. The mirror image of myself did the same. When my hand was next to my face I bent my index finger forward slowly, and the person opposite me did the same. Then he grinned, wiggled all his fingers, and laughed.

"I'm just messing with you, i'm not a mirror or whatever you were thinking."
He grinned and waited for me to respond, taking a moment to clean the glasses he wore on his face.
"So...if you aren't some creepy mirror image murder-thing, what are you?" I said, realizing my glasses were smugded and resisting the urge to clean them.
He laughed, mouthing the words "murder-thing", and replaced his glasses.
"If you want to get really technical, i'm you, though obviously I can't be, since you are sitting there, hogging the dog, and i'm sitting here, alone without even a cat I can pretend cares about me."

I let this process for a moment and then dug down deep into my mind in order to come up with what seemed the most appropriate and fitting response.
"Ok." I said, and looked across the desk at what was apparently myself, but not.
"Look, if it makes it easier, think of me as Tawks instead of Scott" he said, reclining somewhat in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling, covered in clouds which, if I looked hard enough, appeared to be lazily drifting across their blue sky.
Laughing lightly, he spoke, seemingly to the ceiling, "Things could get confusing if we both used the name Scott."

I found myself nodding in agreement, then shook my head and looked at Tawks.
"Ok, so you're Tawks, and I'm Scott. What do you want?"

Tawks looked back at me, matching my gaze.
"Well, mostly that is up to you. What would you like to talk about?"

Chasing phantoms in one's dreams...