Three-thirty Wednesday afternoon. From the high school across the street a solo trumpet and "I Can't Get Started With You." Someone putting in extra time before Wednesday evening band practice. How sweetly it floated, timeless. The kids are alright.
Not the trumpet but does it matter?
After receiving Erin's comment, I felt remiss not having chosen this version.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
BioShock Infinite: video games are not what you think
Because a friend of my son worked as a level designer on this eagerly-awaited release, I have felt a certain kinship to the project as it went along, though I am mostly clueless in this world. Yesterday he brought home his purchase - game, lithograph, playing piece for the future board game version, key chain, remarkable character figure and a small representation of "The Art of..." book that will be released later. Between the litho and the book I found too many favorite things - a Chinese paper lantern, airships, what seemed to be the remnants of a World's Fair and possibly an amusement park from the early 20th century. The visuals are nearly overwhelming. Here is what the game's creative director Ken Levine said:
"When I was working on Thief with Doug Church, way, way back in the day, we always said that vibe was more important than story. I think that's the same thing as what you're saying. Put the player in an interesting world and make him feel like there's interesting things around the corner. That's way more important than specific details about what's going on."
If you're interested, this article pretty much explains it all, far better than I could from my spot here at the bottom of the learning curve. I'll just mention that interviewer Tom Bissell likens the BioShock aesthetic to the films of Terrence Malick, "conceptually audacious." I can imagine a lot of things and what I am capable of scarcely begins to graze the surface of what is required to put something so layered and complex together. And P.S. Video games are not ruining the world. That culprit would be ignorance, hand in hand with indifference.
ONE LAST NOTE, ENTIRELY UNRELATED. Yesterday was the 500th post on this blog. Yes, there have been a few - two in the last week, good grief - reposts but, over the years since August 4, 2008 and the first "publishing," there have probably been fewer than 10 repeats. So I am declaring this as the 501st post. In bloglandia, where many write with brilliance and dedication every day, this may seem like small potatoes and it may be. For me, though, it gives me a sense of consistency and determination which I was unsure I could achieve. And the beat goes on.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Ink, glorious ink
 |
| Pilot Petit1 Mini Fountain Pens - Fine Nib |
In the realm of making one's mark, Rubbermoon Stamps is preparing to introduce a new line of stamps and, for the first time, stencils, all of a Mid-Century Modern persuasion. They are not yet available through the website and will probably first be offered through etsy. A visit there now will not be time ill spent.
 | |
| Rubbermoon sample, stamps and stencils by Kristen Powers using new products. |
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Our divided selves - Repost of "Saturday Night Pink"
“Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.”
― James Joyce, Dubliners
If you don't know The Band, if you don't know The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, playing it loud is better than playing it softly. If you do know the band and this song, I don't need to make the suggestion. As I listened just now - acknowledging that I am not sure where my mind and emotions have gone other than to admit they were last seen limping away from a jump made from some great height, which is to say I scarcely know what I'm thinking and not a clue why - I heard an American voice whose plaintive cry has yet to die away.
I haven't the experience of a lifetime of mindfulness training, of how to be consistently unified within my fragmented, human and opposing selves, and spend what seems too much time trying to resolve inner conflict. Not big things, just whether to allow my shrieking control-driven aspect to shout down the calm, compassionate and almost wise voice. We may not at this moment be standing in formation on two sides of geographic lines wearing uniforms of different colors but as I look at us it seems we are every bit as deeply at war with each other as we were when our country split in half. If we are really paying attention, we are at the same time working to call home our personal vagrant parts, the bits that drifted away when leaving seemed to offer the best chance of surviving trauma, loss and uncertainty. As the minstrels able to show us who we've been and who I believe we still are The Band has no modern equal.
This updated preamble and the repost itself demonstrate my own diverging paths of thought. I hope no one expects the necktie to match the hankie.
― James Joyce, Dubliners
If you don't know The Band, if you don't know The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, playing it loud is better than playing it softly. If you do know the band and this song, I don't need to make the suggestion. As I listened just now - acknowledging that I am not sure where my mind and emotions have gone other than to admit they were last seen limping away from a jump made from some great height, which is to say I scarcely know what I'm thinking and not a clue why - I heard an American voice whose plaintive cry has yet to die away.
I haven't the experience of a lifetime of mindfulness training, of how to be consistently unified within my fragmented, human and opposing selves, and spend what seems too much time trying to resolve inner conflict. Not big things, just whether to allow my shrieking control-driven aspect to shout down the calm, compassionate and almost wise voice. We may not at this moment be standing in formation on two sides of geographic lines wearing uniforms of different colors but as I look at us it seems we are every bit as deeply at war with each other as we were when our country split in half. If we are really paying attention, we are at the same time working to call home our personal vagrant parts, the bits that drifted away when leaving seemed to offer the best chance of surviving trauma, loss and uncertainty. As the minstrels able to show us who we've been and who I believe we still are The Band has no modern equal.
This updated preamble and the repost itself demonstrate my own diverging paths of thought. I hope no one expects the necktie to match the hankie.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Saturday Night Pink
Of The Band's five members, only Garth Hudson and Robbie Robertson
remain after Levon Helm's death this week. If you're interested,
Wikipedia has background on The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down here. That Helm, it reports, never again performed the song after this concert, filmed for Scorsese's The Last Waltz,
tells a story. His "Saturday Night Pink" would be enough to make me
want to be a writer, wishing for such a phrase to drift in on a
summer-like wind, if that wasn't already my plan.
---------------------
Moving on to a separate topic which is not, as far as I know, connected at all to the paragraph above.
----------------------
The scraps of paper - envelopes, the backs of on-line craft store receipts, bottom of a page listing color pencil product numbers - on which we preserve the you-never-know fleeting thoughts, are repositories of the arcane. In front of me is a note that says, "phrase - suicide mollusk." For now, I'm viewing this as a misfire, not an internal prompt, not a Sherlock-worthy mystery to which I have been assigned. It might be easier to draw than write: a colossal squid holding its breath.
Wonder is an appropriate response to the creeping, dawning illumination that we are actually amphibians, afloat in the infinite sea. I think, I suggest: write how the inexpressible feels, choose words for the horizon-to-horizon journey as what we were certain did not exist begins to take vaporish form. Can you explain, I ask myself, the ways in which life as an out-of-body experience differs from being here? Or are they different? One of my favorite characters on television is John Noble as Dr. Walter Bishop in Fringe. His advanced state of "otherness" may be the result of long-term experimentation with mind-altering drugs but I suspect they were merely enhancements for his true nature.
Refrigerator words will not help me now. I'm not certain there are words in contemporary reality that don't pare down and blanch our vibrant possibilities. At last I've awakened to the allure of science fiction as a medium of revelation. (Mad Men's Ken Cosgrove finds or found an outlet, moonlighting as a sci-fi writer, for plots that would not fit into ordinary fiction. *smacks forehead*) Fantasy, speculative fiction, science fiction, the shape-shifter that is called magical realism, create opportunities for telling stories that may well be true but unprovable, real yet invisible.
When I began this post, first wanting to give a farewell wave to Levon Helm, then hoping to give credible voice to what presently rolls through my mind, I didn't know we would end up together in the section where Dune, Farenheit 451 and Slaughterhouse Five reside. But here we are. And I get to consider that languages of other worlds may be the source of words that are so elusive in this one.
---------------------
Moving on to a separate topic which is not, as far as I know, connected at all to the paragraph above.
----------------------
The scraps of paper - envelopes, the backs of on-line craft store receipts, bottom of a page listing color pencil product numbers - on which we preserve the you-never-know fleeting thoughts, are repositories of the arcane. In front of me is a note that says, "phrase - suicide mollusk." For now, I'm viewing this as a misfire, not an internal prompt, not a Sherlock-worthy mystery to which I have been assigned. It might be easier to draw than write: a colossal squid holding its breath.
Wonder is an appropriate response to the creeping, dawning illumination that we are actually amphibians, afloat in the infinite sea. I think, I suggest: write how the inexpressible feels, choose words for the horizon-to-horizon journey as what we were certain did not exist begins to take vaporish form. Can you explain, I ask myself, the ways in which life as an out-of-body experience differs from being here? Or are they different? One of my favorite characters on television is John Noble as Dr. Walter Bishop in Fringe. His advanced state of "otherness" may be the result of long-term experimentation with mind-altering drugs but I suspect they were merely enhancements for his true nature.
Refrigerator words will not help me now. I'm not certain there are words in contemporary reality that don't pare down and blanch our vibrant possibilities. At last I've awakened to the allure of science fiction as a medium of revelation. (Mad Men's Ken Cosgrove finds or found an outlet, moonlighting as a sci-fi writer, for plots that would not fit into ordinary fiction. *smacks forehead*) Fantasy, speculative fiction, science fiction, the shape-shifter that is called magical realism, create opportunities for telling stories that may well be true but unprovable, real yet invisible.
When I began this post, first wanting to give a farewell wave to Levon Helm, then hoping to give credible voice to what presently rolls through my mind, I didn't know we would end up together in the section where Dune, Farenheit 451 and Slaughterhouse Five reside. But here we are. And I get to consider that languages of other worlds may be the source of words that are so elusive in this one.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Sometimes we look behind - repost
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Flash Fiction Challenge: Lifeguards
At her blog, Pattinase invited readers to create flash fiction, 1,000 words or fewer, based on a painting by social realist Reginald Marsh. For each entry, she pledged a donation to Union Settlement. My first flash fiction challenge.
“Rainwater collects in the dents of my car hood. That is, the ones that don’t slope. A few, perhaps three, remnants of a fearsome hail storm, are perfect little craters. Yet I believe tomorrow will be sunny.” Yr. friend, Warren.
For more than three years, Warren had sent a postcard each month, the card always arriving on the day of the full moon. He wrote letters, pages of precise and immaculate self-taught calligraphy. If he had illuminated the first capital on each page, she could imagine them as work from an ancient monastery. His stationery was rich without opulence, creamy in color, high rag content, a good tooth yet smooth enough to cause no unevenness in his penmanship. She savored and saved each bit of mail.
The postcards began with this message:
“Though Morris died 41 years ago, I have the feeling I need to find some place where I can go and talk about him. That he is gone does not unwind the tangle in which he left my life. As I am the only one remaining, it seems up to me. The other knots will not be undone. Perhaps some of mine will.” Yr. friend, Warren.
His cards, which she pictured him choosing even more carefully than he selected a peach at the farmers’ market, were photos of writers or actors or scenes with bodies of water, if a river may be called a body of water. She thought that really described a sea or a lake, something that stayed in place. She wasn’t sure that bodies meandered. Other months, he chose the reproduction of a painting, something she would lean on her desk where she could look at it, turning it over occasionally to study what he’d written. It wasn’t hard to memorize the few sentences.
“As I hear the stories other family members tell in these meetings, I am relieved to know I was not alone with such thoughts. Yet I still struggle to keep hold of a belief in love that can emerge from the wreckage I know. Perhaps I will ruminate upon a word that could rename a love so battered.” Yr. friend, Warren.
Of course every postman who ever brought one of his cards, and every post office worker between him and her mailbox, read what he wrote. She could never leave that sort of information out for her neighbors to see or for her mailman to know. Warren mentioned that he always delivered them to the post office. It allowed him to hold on to some of his anonymity. Still.
“They have ceased the manufacture of my writing paper. It feels like having to find a new therapist, something perhaps more trouble than it is worth. Though I do not believe I am so fixed in my ways that change is not an option, to weigh the balance of cost and quality, to search and experiment, holds no thrill. Would you recognize me in drugstore ballpoint on a lined yellow pad?” Yr. friend, Warren.
She wrote to him in response to all his letters. There was not one specific product she preferred to another, though she could not abide a pen that skipped. At times, she sensed her handwriting was becoming less legible. Even she was unable to decipher notes written quickly. She thought, “I am becoming my father,” whose brief addenda to long-ago typed letters remained mysteries unsolved.
“It is a fellowship here, as they describe it, in these community rooms and church halls. Transgressing what I presume to be written and unwritten rules, I have identified favorite speakers whose words invariably echo recent awareness of mine. I feel less like a dazed fish who flops on the pier, less like one whose lungs cannot draw enough from the atmosphere to sustain me.” Yr. friend, Warren.
Left to make whatever she wished of the coinciding post cards and full moons, she saw it as a way of keeping track, for someone who found no beauty in dates or weeks or ordinary measures of one’s life. Where she once noticed the moon’s phases by the light cast through her east window, she now sensed the rhythm of time, felt more aligned with its flow. It did flow, as those pictured rivers, not taking its own pulse constantly.
“After speaking of Morris last night, our final moments, my helplessness and despair, a young woman touched my shoulder as I was leaving. I recognized her but could not remember the sound of her voice, which must mean I had not heard it before. The word she chose to call me was lifeguard, one who watches over those for whom the water becomes too turbulent. After tonight, she told me, I know I will be able to stay afloat.” Yr. friend, Warren.
 |
| Reginald Marsh, Lifeguards, 1933 |
“Rainwater collects in the dents of my car hood. That is, the ones that don’t slope. A few, perhaps three, remnants of a fearsome hail storm, are perfect little craters. Yet I believe tomorrow will be sunny.” Yr. friend, Warren.
For more than three years, Warren had sent a postcard each month, the card always arriving on the day of the full moon. He wrote letters, pages of precise and immaculate self-taught calligraphy. If he had illuminated the first capital on each page, she could imagine them as work from an ancient monastery. His stationery was rich without opulence, creamy in color, high rag content, a good tooth yet smooth enough to cause no unevenness in his penmanship. She savored and saved each bit of mail.
The postcards began with this message:
“Though Morris died 41 years ago, I have the feeling I need to find some place where I can go and talk about him. That he is gone does not unwind the tangle in which he left my life. As I am the only one remaining, it seems up to me. The other knots will not be undone. Perhaps some of mine will.” Yr. friend, Warren.
His cards, which she pictured him choosing even more carefully than he selected a peach at the farmers’ market, were photos of writers or actors or scenes with bodies of water, if a river may be called a body of water. She thought that really described a sea or a lake, something that stayed in place. She wasn’t sure that bodies meandered. Other months, he chose the reproduction of a painting, something she would lean on her desk where she could look at it, turning it over occasionally to study what he’d written. It wasn’t hard to memorize the few sentences.
“As I hear the stories other family members tell in these meetings, I am relieved to know I was not alone with such thoughts. Yet I still struggle to keep hold of a belief in love that can emerge from the wreckage I know. Perhaps I will ruminate upon a word that could rename a love so battered.” Yr. friend, Warren.
Of course every postman who ever brought one of his cards, and every post office worker between him and her mailbox, read what he wrote. She could never leave that sort of information out for her neighbors to see or for her mailman to know. Warren mentioned that he always delivered them to the post office. It allowed him to hold on to some of his anonymity. Still.
“They have ceased the manufacture of my writing paper. It feels like having to find a new therapist, something perhaps more trouble than it is worth. Though I do not believe I am so fixed in my ways that change is not an option, to weigh the balance of cost and quality, to search and experiment, holds no thrill. Would you recognize me in drugstore ballpoint on a lined yellow pad?” Yr. friend, Warren.
She wrote to him in response to all his letters. There was not one specific product she preferred to another, though she could not abide a pen that skipped. At times, she sensed her handwriting was becoming less legible. Even she was unable to decipher notes written quickly. She thought, “I am becoming my father,” whose brief addenda to long-ago typed letters remained mysteries unsolved.
“It is a fellowship here, as they describe it, in these community rooms and church halls. Transgressing what I presume to be written and unwritten rules, I have identified favorite speakers whose words invariably echo recent awareness of mine. I feel less like a dazed fish who flops on the pier, less like one whose lungs cannot draw enough from the atmosphere to sustain me.” Yr. friend, Warren.
Left to make whatever she wished of the coinciding post cards and full moons, she saw it as a way of keeping track, for someone who found no beauty in dates or weeks or ordinary measures of one’s life. Where she once noticed the moon’s phases by the light cast through her east window, she now sensed the rhythm of time, felt more aligned with its flow. It did flow, as those pictured rivers, not taking its own pulse constantly.
“After speaking of Morris last night, our final moments, my helplessness and despair, a young woman touched my shoulder as I was leaving. I recognized her but could not remember the sound of her voice, which must mean I had not heard it before. The word she chose to call me was lifeguard, one who watches over those for whom the water becomes too turbulent. After tonight, she told me, I know I will be able to stay afloat.” Yr. friend, Warren.
19 comments:
-
Isabel Doyle said...
-
Dear Marylinn
What an intriguing correspondence you've hinted at, with glimpses of full-bodied characters waiting to revel and hide.
This could be turned into a longer piece - have you considered that?
Hardly a 'flash'.
Best wishes, Isabel
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October 18, 2011 at 2:23 AM
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Isabel Doyle said...
-
er, ... reveal ...
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October 18, 2011 at 2:23 AM
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susan t. landry said...
-
one of the challenges in flash fiction is to give every word layers of
resonance, like a minimalist dinner in a fancy-pants restaurant, the few
meaty bits hinting at a hearty meal.
i think you have done this beautifully, marylinn; the clever dialogue, the language that illuminates the two people, whom we get to know just enough.
brava! what fun! and you are so skillful ...
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October 18, 2011 at 5:37 AM
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pattinase (abbott) said...
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This was such a lovely flash piece, Marylinn. Thanks so much for adding it to our challenge.
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October 18, 2011 at 5:40 AM
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JeannetteLS said...
-
HOW on earth do you writers do this? I meander and wander through
stories, and while I try to have each word count, in rhythm, if not
substance... I cannot seem to write flash fiction. I cannot write poetry
on a regular basis. My mind doesn't do it.
YOU did it here, moving my mind through a story as well as moving my heart through the pain and beauty.
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October 18, 2011 at 6:05 AM
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Yvette said...
-
I thought immediately of poetry when I read your story, Marylinn.
Just gorgeous. Such imagery. Really wonderful. This has a definite tone and 'feel' to it.
Something you can almost touch. Would want to touch.
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October 18, 2011 at 8:13 AM
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Jayne said...
-
Marylinn- As one who savors and saves each bit of mail, I just loved
this piece. What a joy to read your fiction--the voices resonate and I
want to know more! :)
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October 18, 2011 at 11:33 AM
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Rob Kitchin said...
-
Like the prose and the mystery in this. Kind of tangible and intangible at the same time.
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October 18, 2011 at 1:48 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
-
Isabel - Thank you. At the moment I don't know about a longer piece;
that has never been a strength of mine, that sort of expanding. I would
say I feel more comfortable with stories not-quite-told. We shall see.
xo
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October 18, 2011 at 8:05 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
-
Susan - Thank you. It was great fun and I feel more than fortunate if I
managed to meet some of the genre's challenges without having known
what they were. Ignorance of the rules can be a blessing. xo
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October 18, 2011 at 8:07 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
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Patti - Thank you. I so enjoyed participating. Marsh made a great springboard.
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October 18, 2011 at 8:08 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
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Jeanette - Thank you. All I know to say is that sometimes a piece comes
together, more in spite of me than because of. I would say alchemy but
that is too precise a formula. Which, I suppose, is why we who write
and want to write keep showing up, putting words on the page. xo
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October 18, 2011 at 8:12 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
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Yvette - Thank you, and thank you for the introduction to this
challenge. That fiction has not abandoned me causes quiet jubilation. I
enjoyed doing this so much.
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October 18, 2011 at 8:15 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
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Jayne - Thank you. It fascinates me, the way the imagination - or the
mind - gathers familiar, seemingly unconnected elements and weaves them
into something new. One is writer and reader, equally surprised by what
appears. xo
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October 18, 2011 at 8:22 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
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Rob - Thank you. Perhaps it is an expression of my peculiar notions
about what is real or true belonging to a state whose language we have
just begun to learn.
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October 18, 2011 at 8:26 PM
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beth coyote said...
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Holy wow, I loved this.
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October 19, 2011 at 5:51 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
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Beth - Thank you. Thank you.
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October 19, 2011 at 9:19 PM
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Antares Cryptos said...
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I hope there is a second installment.
Wouldn't I love to see and read those cards and stationery.
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October 20, 2011 at 2:29 PM
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Marylinn Kelly said...
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Antares - Wouldn't I, too, love to read those messages. Thank you for the thought of another "episode."
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October 21, 2011 at 2:53 PM
Saturday, March 16, 2013
What's that mean?
This is over quickly and you may need to turn up the volume.
So much uncharted territory. Because each moment is a place we've never been, a place that never existed before, confusion may ensue. I have changed from whatever I used to be to someone who looks for and usually finds meaning. Perhaps I make it up, squint so that what may be nothing looks to me like, well, something.
Because life as I experience it is an ongoing process of evolution and change, dawning awareness and acceptance of the fact that questions outnumber answers, each day carries an aspect of starting over. Why not? As a recovering, world-class baggage dragger, any sense of a new beginning is freeing, each morning a jolt of unsullied possibility, clean and separate from flubs and shortcomings of yesterday.
It may be nothing more significant or rational than the study of crop circles, this quest for meaning. Today I wondered for a least an hour if I had it wrong. As I find my way with surer steps into the belief that life is lived in the moment, that worry and regret deplete me and that a quiet mind may keep my joints from hurting, I exist in a big picture of small moments. Always the overview; the satellite sees what I can't possibly. It is in the wider shot, the David Lean pan of T. E. Lawrence's desert, where meaning, if such exists, dwells. That vista is not always available; sometimes we are just too close. In those moments we wonder, "What's that mean?" While we may never know, we always have the option to believe.
So much uncharted territory. Because each moment is a place we've never been, a place that never existed before, confusion may ensue. I have changed from whatever I used to be to someone who looks for and usually finds meaning. Perhaps I make it up, squint so that what may be nothing looks to me like, well, something.
Because life as I experience it is an ongoing process of evolution and change, dawning awareness and acceptance of the fact that questions outnumber answers, each day carries an aspect of starting over. Why not? As a recovering, world-class baggage dragger, any sense of a new beginning is freeing, each morning a jolt of unsullied possibility, clean and separate from flubs and shortcomings of yesterday.
It may be nothing more significant or rational than the study of crop circles, this quest for meaning. Today I wondered for a least an hour if I had it wrong. As I find my way with surer steps into the belief that life is lived in the moment, that worry and regret deplete me and that a quiet mind may keep my joints from hurting, I exist in a big picture of small moments. Always the overview; the satellite sees what I can't possibly. It is in the wider shot, the David Lean pan of T. E. Lawrence's desert, where meaning, if such exists, dwells. That vista is not always available; sometimes we are just too close. In those moments we wonder, "What's that mean?" While we may never know, we always have the option to believe.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Poetry as teacher
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face,
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
Stanley Kunitz
Shared by Claire Beynon in her Feb. 12 post. In her current post, she offers excerpts from Pablo Neruda's BOOK OF QUESTIONS and an introduction to this week's Tuesday Poem, which the editor calls "oceanic." I would also call it mythic, ancient and exemplifying the truths we find nowhere but poetry. While at Claire's blog, please take time to see her art. For reasons I can't put into words other than "light," her current work speaks to me of William Blake. My first job, begun when I was 14, was at the Huntington Library. On coffee breaks and lunch hours I visited the exhibits. Blake was just outside my office door. Without poetry, without illumination, how would we describe ourselves? What could we possibly know?
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