So, for the new year, I have several things I resolve to do, in no particular order:
I am going to sort what are now three blogs into some kind of system. Revisit this later
I am going to press hard on this last semester of school. Avoid that Senioritis?
I am going to do more research into my plans for moving to Washington. Can't think about that enough lately.
I am going to put to paper(or text) these stories that I am just letting bounce around in my head randomly. They must live!
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.
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?
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...
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!
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.
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?"
