2012.08.29 — I Write Like William Shakespeare! & Jane Austen, Nabokov, Lovecraft, Twain, and...well, just about every Tom, Dick and Hairy

I write like
William Shakespeare

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Today I have decided to be completely self-serving, delusional and just a tad narcissistic with my blog. With the help of Meg Harris and her nice blog Blue Moon North East I stumbled into a bemusing claim from a 'writing' web site: through some sort of statistical analysis the web site's software will determine what famous writer your writing most closely resembles. So, for those of you who have read some of my verbiage and find such time-wasting amusing, I have supplied the list of writers that Analyze your writing claims my writing most resembles. I have put them in descending order of frequency that their software's chose a particular writer, followed by the number of times my writing emulated that writer's.

    1) H.P. Lovecraft −8
    2) David Foster Wallace −4
    3) Mark Twain −3
    4) Isaac Asimov −3
    5) James Joyce −2
    6) Arthur C. Clarke −2
    7) William Shakespeare −2
    8) Chuck Palahniuk −1
    9) Vladimir Nabokov −1
  10) Jane Austen −1
  11) Lewis Carroll −1
  12) Mario Puzo −1

Of course the site is a bit self-promotion for some additional software, but regardless, who wouldn't want to know that their hack drivel resembled the magniloquence of a Shaw, or Austen? You'll likely want to test out your own writing, and if you haven't found it already, the link is above, in the official notice that "I Write Like Shakespeare." I had enough fun at the site to willingly put its advertising in my blog. But I caution you, it is very addictive! As you can see, I wound up putting quite a lot of my writing in to be 'analyzied' because I wanted to test its consistency from one piece and style of writing to another; to test prose versus poetry. And the more I tested, the funnier were the results, as the listing suggests, until I wound up wasting an entire evening — before starting to post this blog!

In particular I had fun with my partial novel, The Wong Wedding. Each of the four chapters I've written compared to a different author, including Shakespeare (for Ch. 2). (I blush at that! LoL!). Ch. 1 was similar to David Foster Wallace, Ch. 3 Isaac Asimov, Ch. 4 H.P. Lovecraft. And for my own self-promotion, I have created links to some of my other writing that managed to emulate the famous, below.

To be honest, until this test I didn't even know of the existence of David Foster Wallace or Chuck Palahniuk. (Note to self: they are actually very famous.)

And I won't call it a fushigi, but recently Goodreads friend Al asked for a book recommendation for her class. I recommended Mark Twain.

"Gag. Mark Twain. I'd rather chew on glass than read his stuff." I laughed, and replied "I'm not a big fan, either, but Huckleberry Finn is interesting." I didn't add that I had, over the years, tried many times to force my Self to like his writing, but simply have been unable to do it. I've now given that up as a lost cause.)

Well, it turns that Life is just too too funny because one of my favourite pieces of writing, and one that Al found very enjoyable …

… was found to be like that of
Mark Twain's Writing

The story I wrote that emulated Mr. Twain
can be read @ Bilgewater in Heaven

Bilgewater assessed his situation. He realized that, if this was an example of a cat trying to commit suicide, he would need nine more tries before succeeding — the thought of which he found odious. He decided that escape was the only option, and so the battered and forlorn cat three-leggedly limped and dragged himself until after dusk, when he fell, exhausted and many miles away, at the stoop of a small and rather disgruntled looking Buddhist monastery which was hiding behind a shaggy hedge and a cracked and weed filled tarmac parking lot. He fell into an immediate and profound sleep.

Now, to complete my being completely self-serving in this blog, here are links to the writing I had 'analyzed' and the famous writer they supposedly most closely resemble, stylistically. It isn't complete because some of the writing I had analysed isn't linkable at this time. If masochistically curious, look through the feathered boxes below. You will see the famous writer I've managed to emulate in big green letters, followed by the link in small letters that will take you the writing that created this delusion. In blue is a short extract from the writing that was analyzed.

I've rationalized this blog as being a good buffet of my writing. Enjoy, if you can!

Something I wrote that is like
Jane Austen's Writing …

… can be read @ Elizabeth Strong: A Short Story

Elizabeth awoke. She thought it a good sign that in contrast to the sweat producing nightmares she'd been having almost every night for the past fortnight, last night's dreams had been quiet. From them remained feelings of peace and meaning despite all details of the dreams already having fled from memory.

Something I wrote that is like
H.P. Lovecraft's Writing …

… can be read @ Single Transferable Vote Nonsense: A Letter

As I read it, being unfamiliar with Spector’s writing, I expected a cogent argument given the prestige the Globe & Mail reportedly has. I was disappointed. I wasn’t able to finish reading the 2nd paragraph before finding him fear mongering in the most specious of ways. He says that of the commonwealth countries only (stupid?) Malta has it. An odd thing to say, and a bit misleading, as at least a part of Ireland has it, and it exists in non-commonwealth countries, including (maybe, given my weak memory), Austria. So, what’s his point here? That because no one else in our “special” group has it, it is a stupid way to go? Really, this isn’t even good fear mongering, let alone a sound argument.

Something I wrote that is like
Mario Puzo's Writing …

… can be read @ On the Self-Corrupting Nature of Electioneering

The failure of the parliamentary process due to corruption, and the eventual symptoms of that failure, begin with the electoral process itself: by its structure, the process of getting elected populates parliament with tainted goods, regardless the integrity and honesty and goodness of the individuals entering the electioneering forum. There are three endemically malevolent aspects of any electoral process built around electioneering. They are: the roles of money, good intentions and power.

Something I wrote that is like
David Foster Wallace's Writing …

… can be read @ You Have Failed Democracy: A Letter to the Editor

Shame on you all. You have failed democracy, and with it democracy is failing. ... As [Fazil] Mihlar has pointed out, the TWU’s history affords the critic plenty of truth-based ammunition – lying is not required. But when deservedly pilloried, it is a truthfully informed population that can decide for itself the value to be ascribed to the opinions printed. If I do not see some signs of at least journalistic integrity, let alone moral integrity, from Mihlar and The Sun derived from honesty, disinterest, and a respect for law and democracy, I will seek legal advice with regards to launching a libel suit.

Something I wrote that is like
Lewis Carroll's Writing …

… can be read @ The Traumatized Cat — A Mini-Play

Neve: I don't understand why Ralph seems concerned about his situation.
Professor: I don't understand.
Neve: I know.
Professor: Huh?
Neve: Yup, a rather strange cat, that cat Ralph. Not a cool cat at all.
Professor: Huh?
Neve: I understand that his having regurgitated a living mouse could be unsettling — given that he is a cat. I mean, it is not hard to see that such an upchuck could give a cat an existential cataclysm. [Starts to laugh.] And, of course, there is the fear of what that mouse was up to in his stomach before he was expelled. [Continues laughing.]
Professor: What are you laughing at?
Neve: [Pauses her laughter to look at him. Then laughs even harder.]
Professor: What? [Pause to stare at her while she laughs.] What?!
Neve: [When she stops laughing.] Have we met?
Professor: Of course we have!
Neve: Are you sure? I don't remember…
Professor: [His face turns red in embarrassment.] We had a long talk in one of Guy's plays.
Neve: [She looks at him blankly. Shakes her head slowly, but not definitively. Then shrugs.] I guess it wasn't that good for me, then. Glad it was good for you, though.

Something I wrote that is like
Mark Twain's Writing …

… can be read @ Pandora Muses on Couple Arguments — A Mini-Play

Guy: Why do couples argue?
[No one says anything, they just look at Guy. He is completely oblivious to having broken an unspoken protocol. Pandora is pleased, however, but remains impassive.]
Pandora: What is this? [She looks around.] Surely all of you here must have something to say about that! [She laughs. The others giggle nervously.]
Guy: What? What's so funny?
Sophia: [Hisses loudly.] Don't you know? We are sworn to silence, from morning to dusk. And, furthermore, most everyone here has taken a vow of celibacy. There is no arguing.
Guy: I don't believe that!
Sophia: What do you mean? We don't lie.
Guy: Of course you don't. Not here.
Sophia: Oh.
Guy: 'Oh' what?
Sophia: You're one of those.
Guy: Huh? That is kind of insulting.
Sophia: No, it isn't.
Guy: Yes, it is.
Sophia: No, it isn't!

Something I wrote that is like
Arthur C. Clarke's Writing …

… can be read @ Pandora Muses on the Muse Frank — A Mini-Play

Guy: [Knocks on the doorless door frame to Pandora's chamber. The knocking, which although done quietly, could still be heard throughout the main floor of the old house being used for Pandora's retreat centre.] Excuse me, Pandora. I apologize for the interruption, but you have received a request from someone who would like to speak with you.
Pandora: And what made this particular requestor important enough that you felt the need to interrupt my meditation?
Neve: [Before he can answer, Neve, who had run down the hall to catch up with Guy, interrupts him. Her face is red with embarrassment and frustration.] Guy! What are you doing interrupting Pandora!? You know the rules!
Guy: Define 'know.' I have read them — glanced at them, really, I guess. Aren't rules—
Neve: —meant to be understood and followed! And one of the important ones is to not interrupt the master during matins' meditation! [She turns to Pandora, and bows to her.] I am so sorry. This won't happen again! [She turns to Guy.] Well, what are you doing, standing there!? Get going, back to your spot.
Guy: [Doesn't move.]
Neve: [Is beginning to be visibly angry, and hisses] Guy! Get—
Pandora: Neve! [Her voice was quiet, but somehow the energy in it stopped Neve in mid-sentence. Her red face is now very red.]
Neve: Y-e-s?
Pandora: Is it not your assignment to train the newbies?
Neve: Yes. Of course. I am—
Pandora: —unable to follow the simple 'rule' that you keep the newbies in their seats during meditation.

Something I wrote that is like
H.P. Lovecraft's Writing …

… can be read @ Imperfect: A Short Story

Looking back I am no longer sure that my motives were simply to bask in his approval for my becoming creatively liberated, or to be simply carnally consumed by his spirit made flesh. I did love the flash in his eyes whenever a particular passion in art was discussed. Now, as I look back on it I wonder that my having aged did not bring at least some token of understanding, or even an iota less confusion. Or perhaps it is simply that youth misunderstands what real understanding is, and that is to expand from impossibility what can be true and untrue at the same time.

Something I wrote that is like
Isaac Asimov's Writing …

… can be read @ On The Myth of Man's Truth-Seeking Nature:
A Letter to an Editor

Dear Mr. Saunders:
Good try! But your investigation into the nature of truth was, while truthful, significantly incomplete in several ways. I was distracted enough by your arguments’ failures that I, instead of enjoying my ferry ride through the beautiful Georgia Straights, put pen to the margins and atop the story of the precocious Sri Lankan immigrants.

The first strong gut reaction I had was against Mr. Williams’s cited claim that the human “desire for truthfulness has led humans to believe that we ought question everything.” This is empirically not true and the worst idealization of human motivation I have seen in a long time! In fact it has been only the few that have significantly questioned anything, let alone everything.

Something I wrote that is like
David Foster Wallace's Writing …

… can be read @ Chapter 1 of The Wong Wedding: A Novel

But that was many years ago, and now, despite her ostentatious faith in God, the sight and smell of bird shit and unwashed masses was making Susan feel desperate. As was usual whenever Avis noticed Susan's unspoken but physically expressed anxiousness, he could only think that her agitation was less for the shitty state of their castle than it was a fear that God had meted out justice justly, and that Susan had been found wanting some unknown, yet to be discovered, or even completely missing, state of personal Christian mien. When he took the time to look at her hiding behind the omnipresent and well thumbed New Testament, Avis thought he could see the tracks of fear pinching into cracks her eyes and mouth.

Something I wrote that is like
William Shakespeare's Writing …

… can be read @ Chapter 2 of The Wong Wedding: A Novel

Sometime after midnight an unenlightened monk from the monastery, who was wandering around in his usual daze because of his chronic insomnia, stepped on Bilgewater and broke his other front leg. The tom's ear-piercing yowls startled the monk into the here and now, a place he hadn't been in many months because of his complete pre-occupation with his lack of enlightenment. The level of horror he felt when he falsely determined that he had broken two of the cat's legs was a significant measure of how far he had yet to go as a Buddhist, despite his fifteen committed, self-mortifying, effort-filled and celebrated celibate years. So it came to pass that, against the strenuous protestations of the Abbot who tersely cited one vague catastrophe after another, the unenlightened monk took Bilgewater in, set his legs and brought him back to health.

Something I wrote that is like
Isaac Asimov's Writing …

… can be read @ Chapter 3 of The Wong Wedding: A Novel

Somehow that uncontrolled micturition aligned with everything that she had done in the last twenty-four hours, to Joel, to Wong, to her mother. And to herself. She felt whole laying with a strawberry-chocolate masque and pee dampened panties, a studded collar, leather clothes and food-stained bra in the bed she'd made sordid with food and spit and champagne and the gagged and hog-tied Ng. She relaxed into life, into being alive for the first time inside her life. She wiggled her toes, and marvelled at the wonder of that, with the wonder she must have felt as an infant when first she knowingly wiggled her toes.

Something I wrote that is like
H.P. Lovecraft's Writing …

… can be read @ Chapter 4 of The Wong Wedding: A Novel

But as it turned out, even five years of being a cop had not brought J.J. closer to concluding whether or not the compiled contributions of the Shakespeares and Blakes and Bachs to the world outweighed the existence of the order and structure seeking Inquisition and all the other "Ultimate Solutions" tyrannies which have plagued the centuries. He slowed his chewing while rolling through his mind the pros and cons of the validity of holding a world view which saw life as brutal and short or benevolent and full. Like five years ago he eventually gave up this tainted grail quest. He wasn't going to be able to answer this age-old and apparently unanswerable question. Maybe the long and short of it is that life feeds upon itself, and the sun and rain fall equally on the good and the bad.

Something I wrote that is like
James Joyce's Writing …

… can be read @ Summer Love: A Sonnet

I came to this lonely place to be alone.
In my thoughts, what little thought I thought I thought,
This seemed the way to find how to atone
For dreams that I'd taken, stolen un-sought.

Something I wrote that is like
Vladimir Nabokov's Writing …

… can be read @ Everything Happens to Everybody: A Short Story

Jack pushed his heavy black rimmed glasses back up his nose, brushed off the remnants of potato chips, nuts and dried noodles off his shirt. He looked out the window. He could see reflected in the blinded window in the building across from his suite that the sky was greyed with dark and threatening clouds. They reminded him of Phil Connor, Murray's weatherman, weathering with dismay his being betrayed by snow filled clouds and his misplaced faith in his meteorological science. Jack laughed. 'Science,' he told the cat, 'thinks that the simplistic act of naming things is enough. Hah! The label of DNA is as explanatory to the why of life as is Allah, Buddha and Anne of Green Gables combined.' Jill had heard this cant many times before, and so continued to dream his little dream of Koi and catfish flicking their tails just out of reach beneath the surface of a sun drenched pond.

Something I wrote that is like
Chuck Palahniuk's Writing …

… can be read @ Whose Deja View: A Short Story

It was with uncomfortable familiarity that I sat down at my spot to sip a new drink, a caffè mocha. For reasons that will become clear I, for the first time in as long as I can remember, forwent my usual, my macha latté. And instead of having a white chocolate macadamia nut oversized cookie I chose the low-fat scone on which to nibble. I had hoped that my change would be enough to remake my fate, but as has happened every Thursday for the last three and a half months, the face I saw walking to sit in the table across from me was hers.

Something I wrote that is like
David Foster Wallace's Writing …

… can be read @ Why Are You False?: A Play in One Act

Jane: I lie because life is funny. I have heard it – life I mean – described as a kind of practical joke. And this imagery of life I love for many reasons, but mostly because it makes enduring the prating ideologues and other moralists espousing their bile, in this age of moralistic posturing, rather entertaining.
Moralist: [And uninvited guest, stands.] As an honest, and serious moralist, I take great offence to that! Morals are what the wise and good person uses to guide him or herself towards a moral, hence proper life! This makes the moralist the most –
Jane: [Laughing.] See what I mean? [Laughter increases.]
Moralist: – important philosophers and teachers! We moralists take what we do very seriously. [More laughter, louder.] I don't see why you people are laughing. In life, being able to distinguish between good and evil is extremely important! Just look to history to see what evils have been wrought because of moral ignorance!
Jane: [Trying not to laugh.] And this just proves my point, because in a way I agree with you! But not your rules-based solutions to the problem of good and evil, which Jung also condemns when he wrote that 'There is no morality without freedom.' You moralists have failed to see the trees for the forests of life because you don't trust the winds of true freedom blowing through their limbs!

2012.08.21 — The Devil Wears Prada: A Ten Bulls Review

The Devil's in the Details, and She also Wears Prada.

M and Al, two people I respect in Goodreads, the book-biased social networking site, panned this movie. M was mostly ambivalent, seeing in it some positives, but finding it not to his taste. Al dissed it quite harshly. I was surprised, because I actually like it enough to have watched it more than once. On 2012.08.18, this is what we wrote:

Al: mm, I just experienced a fushigi moment. I walked downstairs and my mother was watching The Devil Wears Prada. Guy just mentioned that movie not long ago and then I walked back upstairs went back on GR and saw the book in my recommendations. How strange.
M: I hope the book is better than the movie.
…

Guy: I confess to enjoying The Devil Wears Prada movie. And not because it is a 'good' movie, because I doubt very much that it is. I enjoyed it in part because it is a guilty pleasure. And it is a guilty pleasure because it is in a very curious way, a western hyper-stylized version of The Ten Ox Herding Songs of Zen Buddhism, A.K.A The Ten Bulls! LoL! It's funny, I didn't think of that until I tried to figure out why it was I liked it.

M: …
The Devil Wears Prada isn’t my kind of movie, though I think it’s very well, and very expensively, done. I don’t feel that I know Andrea or Miranda or Emily much better at the end of the movie than I did at the beginning. The movie is loaded with atmosphere, a sense of place, but a kind I find offputting. The music in the movie is a complete turn-off for me—though I think it’s perfect for the movie.

And so it was that I began with a peculiar thought. What made that thought even more peculiar is that when I began to examine it more closely, it is actually a pretty strong link. Here is what I wrote:

Re Prada I find your comment interesting because you are correct and, I think, not. [I was going to make a quick and oh-so clever comment, but as I started writing it my ideas and connections continued to expand and multiply. So…]

Here's the Ox Herding Songs thing that I see in the movie:

Andy (played by Anne Hathaway) begins the journey with a strong identity of her place in the world. She (with the ostensibly masculine name) is a journalist, a documentarian of the 'real' world. And that real world demands she soil herself in the grime of money acquisition and its challenges to identity. When she is first faced with its challenge, she rejects it as being beneath her — her contempt for the fashion industry and those who profit from it. This is the first hypocrisy of Andy as the seeker of truth: her morals have given her the arrogance to be able to predetermine where the truth of the 'real' world can and cannot reside. This is an example of the classic Taoist problem of where the Tao does and does not reside: the mind, dazzled by its glittering truths and moral edicts, believes in demarcations and separations that do not in real reality really exist. [LoL at that sentence.]

Fortunately, when the student is ready, the teacher appears. Her hypocrisy is challenged by Nigel (played by Stanley Tucci). 'You haven't tried, not really,' he tells her, 'so don't cry to me about how badly Miranda is treating you. If you want her respect, you need to respect your place here.' [That's a paraphrase, of course.] Slap! She is awakened to her hypocrisy, and moves into the fashion world fully. With skill and focus, she learns a new truth and rises to the top of the industry. But typical of all truth acquisition, she has in the process replaced her other truths with it without being aware of that change. Her other real world keeps reminding her of where she is from, and how far she has moved from it. She doesn't see it, so blind has she become to her new truth, which is to become fully one with the world — of fashion.

When the student is ready, the teacher appears. This time from Miranda (played by Meryl Streep), who slaps Andy with the truth of her journey. And so Andy leaves that world, the 'real' world, and applies for a job at a 'real' magazine. LoL. This scene transforms Miranda from being a mere puppet in her world, to a fully aware participant. She doesn't change or grow, but with the end we become aware of her self-awareness. We may not agree with it, but she has made a conscious choice to be, to embrace, her nature. In fact, without that self-awareness she would not have been able to teach Andy in the end and return her to her self with enlightenment.

So, what we see in Andy is the journey of the young idealist, who leaves her ideals to join the grimy world, and then move back to her ideals, but now with the acquisition of real-world wisdom.

Emily (played by Emily Blunt) remains unchanged and, we see, largely without self-awareness. The hope that she will change is when Andy gives her the clothes without expectation of anything return. In Emily's world view, such 'exchanges' are unheard of because there are no free gifts. That is what I call planting a seed of doubt about the 'reality' of one's beliefs. Furthermore, the gift of clothes is a confirmation of Andy's spiritual growth: she is a part of the real world but apart from the real world at the same time.

I'll paraphrase and shorten the ten songs (or bulls as they are also known).

Here is the journey to one's Self:

   1) seeking for truth because of ignorance/hypocrisy;
   2) discovery of a path towards it (or a) truth;
   3) finding what you think is the truth because vision is too small to understand you haven't yet;
   4-7) struggle with that truth (Miranda/boyfriend, Emily/co-worker loyalty, etc.)
   8) Find the various faces of the truth.
   9) Rediscovery of self.
10) Return to the world.

Amusingly enough, even the name of the movie is a gesture towards this path: the devil is the archetypal energy of carnal physicality. The devil is what keeps us mired in the real world. And, it is only in embracing the physical world fully, that the truth of our spiritual connection to it can be made. The shoe is often a dream symbol of 'understanding' because it holds up our feet. It also represents the intellectual (man-made) separation or gap between our soles/souls and our being grounded in the real world. The shoe may epitomize the fashion world, and also the crippling of feminine (anima) understanding: highly stylized, expensive, hobbling and, if kept on too long, ultimately crippling.

Sorry to have gone on so long, but as soon as I started thinking about this, more and more of the ideas and connections came into my consciousness. And yikes! This sounds so pompous. Sorry about that.

2012.07.03 — A Stinker Caught Hook, Line and Baited: A Self Abusive Fushigi*

Undoubtedly what is about to follow will be seen as an abusive stretch of the vaguest connection between a fushigi and anything even remotely considered meaningful. And maybe it is just a little funny, too.

This morning, at work, I was talking with TR about writing. It originated with my passing on to him the praise his writing had received from one of the excellent writers of the WSS creative writing thread in Goodreads. It was fascinating, because it turns out that TR and I had a similar reaction to the process of submitting stories when we were young. And that the pleasure we have in writing in the WSS is in no small part because of the immediacy of the feedback and the give and take of the different writers, good and bad. It is, we concurred, a very definite writing community. He commented that he's already done more writing in the last couple of months than he'd done in ten years. I commented that a part of that may relate to there being in the WSS people actually reading and commenting on the writing, because "writing that isn't read is kind of like masturbation. Yes, it provides some pleasure but isn't really fully satisfying."

Later, around noon or so still at work, NR called me over to ask for my opinion regarding some details of a job. The geospatial drawing for the equipment was in complete disrepair, and after some discussion I was curious to see who was the tech who had left it in

such bad shape. We poked around and found that that person was from a different office, and his name is (first name withheld) Bates. Given how poorly the work had been done, I ironically commented something like 'That would appear to be the work of a Master Bates.'

I added that that wasn't a very funny joke, but to my mind came a scene from the oddly appealing movie, Bob the Butler with Tom Green and Brooke Shields. The movie is both silly and not in equal measure. One of the silly scenes is set up when Bob, who is training to be a butler, learns that the 'proper' butler address for young men, without exception, is Master + name. Of course, his first job is with a woman Anne (Brooke Shields), who has a son by the name of Bates (Benjamin Smith). Drum beat!

So, how does the sort of fushigi complete itself?

Tonight I watched MasterChef Episode#10. At the end of the show are the obligatory teasers from the next episode, showing the people struggling to clean and scale fish of various sorts.

Well, the sound bite they include from Gordon Ramsay

is amusing because he is castigating one of the struggling chefs by snapping at him 'It's 'Master Chef' not master baits." Now, the audio clip was very quick, so I re-listened to it on the later broadcast: Yup, that is what I heard.

Too funny! So silly that I'd notice and even sillier to blog it.

Addendum 2012.07.04

This morning the fushigi extended in a most peculiar way. I finished reading What Uncle Sam Really Wants by Noam Chomsky. And as I usually do I read through the bibliography of the book. I was amused when I read the following:
Bates, Greg, ed. (1991). Mobilizing democracy: changing the U.S. role in the Middle East: Interviews and essays featuring the thoughts of Noam Chomsky and others. Monroe, Me.: Common Courage Press.

Sorry, I'm still finding this funny for absolutely no good reason.

2012.06.19 — A Blast of Fushigis* — Time to Clear the Sticky Note Pile (2)

Egad! And it's hats off to you, today. The *fushigis have accelerated again, and instead of clearing the back log today's blog begins by jotting down the latest head scratchers.

[2012.06.18 ~4:30pm] The seed event was my enjoying a, for me very rare, guy's afternoon. For my second time I met up after work with my friend and local butcher, W. In the last few years we've gotten to know each other over his display counter at a local shop. Without exaggeration, W's small corner of the shop is as clean as any I've seen. And the quality of the meats and cheeses he brings in are as good as I've ever got.

Anyway, after years of over the counter chit chat we decided it was time to get away from phones and work. We met up for coffee and a genial chat about anything and everything. W has a history in the city that is broad, diverse, and fascinating! And we had so much fun that Monday that we agreed to do this again. We did, and it was again great fun. He knows just about everyone!

Day B4 Inauguration with Reporters 

In one of his stories he expressed his regret that the resurgence of the popularity in men's hats didn't quite make it. He commented that it was the inauguration of JFK that began the demise of men's hats, because he was the first president sworn into office hatless. W then elaborated an amusing story about his father's beautiful sheared white beaver skin hat. (W has it, and wears it on special occasions, his head being the exact same size as his father's.)

[2012.06.19 ~5:30am] NR and I talked books, yesterday, and he made me feel a we bit guilty that I hadn't started reading yet a book he recommended a few months ago, and which I almost immediately bought. It has been sitting in my to-read pile, untouched but not forgotten, as I have been reading too much Chomsky, and now Moby Dick and other stuff.

So, this morning, I took a few minutes to at least break open Three Day Road. I laughed when I read the following, on page 4:

I stand back in the shadow of the shelter and watch as the people in front of me tense, then move closer to the track as it approaches, not further away as I would have expected. The women in the crowd look nothing like me, wear long dresses made of too much material and big hats. The hold bowed cloth shields above their heads. The men are dressed in black and brown and grey suits, and the shoes upon their feet are shiny, so shiny that I wonder what kind of animal the leather has come from. All the men wear hats, too. All these people wearing hats in summer. I do not understand much of the wemistikoshiw.

Typical fushigi, initially not quite worth blogging, but almost.

[2012.06.19 2:45pm] So why blog it? Well, because today, a Tuesday, ML had me stop in for take away. This was a first for a Tuesday. We have take away fairly often, but normally Fridays, to end the week, or sometimes Thursdays. So, as I usually do while waiting for the food to be cooked and packaged, I work on the crossword from The Province newspaper.
If they are slow, and I am fast, I have been known to finish the Word Jumble game and most of the crossword. Today's word jumble completed the fushigi because the second clue was B E Y R D, which, in English, translates as 'Derby' a kind of men's hat.

Derby Definition (on-line somewhere):

der·by (dûrb; British därb) n. pl. der·bies
1. Sports: Any of various annual horse races, especially for three-year-olds.
2. Sports: A formal race usually having an open field of contestants: a motorcycle derby.
3. A stiff felt hat with a round crown and a narrow, curved brim. [AKA a Bowler.]

[Addendum 2012.06.20]
This morning began with sunshine blasting into our office! The first time in what seems like weeks. And, as I do when that happens, I leave the blinds up and don my Tommy Hilfiger baseball cap (some weird promotional gift years ago) to enable me to see the screen. [Interestingly enough, when I went blogging to find an image of my particular cap, I was unable to find it, despite finding dozens of Hilfiger baseball caps.]

@ 7:15 MR came by to ask me about the shared car pool in our group. With the recent office shuffle, MR is new to our group although we've worked together as instructors and as floor support for the department for almost ten years. MR made a typically cheeky kind of comment about the hat — it being quite likely she's never seen me wear it before, given that sunny mornings are the only time I do at the office, that they don't happen too often since moving to the new office last year, and that MR's office is half way across the building from my desk.

@ 10:00, after I'd removed it because the sun had moved off the window, NR commented about the dent in my head left behind by the hat. Then he pointed out that MR's comment may constitute a fushigi.

And, as you can tell, I did add it as a fushigi, but only in part because he suggested it. The last push to make it bloggable was when, @ 11:00 am, BC commented on my not wearing the hat. His comment initiated a discussion about the problem shorn heads have with displaying hat marks in their heads.

In the year+ that we've worked in this office, and have been wearing a hat on sunny days, this is the first day I have had any extended jokes or comments. Until now almost complete silence, as its function is plainly evident by how the sun shines in the window onto my desk.

NOTE: the last image is from a photograph by Christian Apuena Cravo. If you like it, please visit his on-line photo gallery display at Artnet.com.

2012.06.10 — A Blast of Fushigis* — Time to Clear the Sticky Note Pile (1)

I have been away from my blog over the last couple of months. But I have been writing in the WSSCC on Goodreads a lot, and work and life in general has been keeping me busy. I will be posting some of my other writing at some time, but for now, it is time to begin to clear up my BIG pile of *fushigi scrawled sticky notes of many colours festooning my desk and challenging my wife's sense of household propriety.

I will warn you right up front that I wouldn't label any of them as being 'WOW! That was amazing' But what may not be extant in the individual can perhaps be made up with in their power as a collective with a steady flow and peculiarity. Although Jung would be castigating me if he'd heard me elevate the collective to be on par the individual!

As this Blog post will takesome time to complete, I will post it in instalments over several days. I will post my addenda as separate blogs with this date, but with the name incrementing. And just to make it a little more confusing, instead of picking up where I left off my fushigis at 2012.03.17 — A Half March of Little Fushigis, I will work backwards to them.

2012.06.06/09 So, today's strange little fushigi began a few days ago when I copied into iTunes a CD I'd borrowed from the library. It was a random pick during a get a couple of quick CDs while the take away pizza across the street is being cooked. So, amongst two others, I grabbed a weird one by someone I'd never heard of before. The CD was Mysterious Mountain and And God Created Great Whales by Alan Hovhaness. I had wanted to like this more than I did, although I did enjoy it enough to not delete it from iTunes and will continue to re-listen to it to see if it grows on me.

So, the fushigi — and I'll ignore the kind of obvious one, which is that I am well into and thoroughly enjoying Melville's masterpiece Moby Dick right now, which I didn't even think of until now, righting out this blog!

This morning, after doing my shopping, I got into the car, turned the ignition and heard not only the engine start but a woman, cellist Amanda Forsyth as I subsequently learned, describe being terrified as a girl of five by a piece of music called Voice of the Whale by I had never heard this music before and may have heard the name George Crumb with having listened to CBCR2 for almost thirty years, but I do not have any conscious awareness of him, his music or his reputation. (Okay, now wasn't that music truly … unusual? It certainly is engaging, but I find myself hard pressed to see it as what I understand to be music.)















2012.06.04
At 11:10pm I finished and posted a character/author dialogue in a thread of the Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company in Goodreads @ Poems Topic: Car Music. It ends:

Me:
Well, what about your students? I've heard that, in a rather pathetic sounding sports parody, professors get their share of groupies, too.
Professor:
Yes, I've heard that too. [Quiet.]
Me:
Well!
Professor:
Well what?
Me:
Are you serious?! I am going to bed, you educated moron! [Leaves]
Professor:
[Pulls out his pipe. Before initiating the tobacco ritual, he wanders over to recover the remote control and turns on the TV. He doesn't look at the screen after confirming that the volume was low enough to be heard but without being disruptive. He very leisurely cleans and stuffs the bowl, assures himself of a proper draw, and with a great sigh, fires it up.] That Guy guy. Just when you think he might have his sh*t together, he shows himself to be no master, but simply eking out adequacy. [Draws in the smoke, sits in the big leather overstuffed library chair. He turns to the bookmarked tome beside him and begins reading it with the Simpsons playing softly in front of him.]

Nothing special there, of course, although I have emphasized the germane bits. The fushigi completes when I re-commence Moby Dick @11:30pm at Chapter 27 'Knights and Squires', where I read:

What, perhaps, with other things, made Stubb such an easy-going, unfearing man, so cheerily trudging off with the burden of life in a world fail of grave peddlers, all bowed to the ground with their packs; what helped to bring about that almost impious good-humor of his; that thing must have been his pipe. For, like his nose, his short, black little pipe was one of the regular features of his face. You would almost as soon have expected him to turn out of his bunk without his nose as without his pipe. He kept a whole row of pipes there ready loaded, stuck in a rack, within easy reach of his hand; and, whenever he turned in, he smoked them all out in succession, lighting one from the other to the end of the chapter; then loading them again to be in readiness anew. For, when Stubb dressed, instead of first putting his legs into his trowsers, he put his pipe into his mouth.

I say this continual smoking must have been one cause, at least of his peculiar disposition; for every one knows that this early air, whether ashore or afloat, is terribly infected with the nameless miseries of the numberless mortals who have died exhaling it; and as in time of the cholera, some people go about with a camphorated handkerchief to their mouths; so, likewise, against all mortal tribulations, Stubb’s tobacco smoke might have operated as a sort of disinfecting agent.

2012.05.28
This is a very boring fushigi, but peculiar in its own right. It begins with my catching a part of the televised conversation of reality TV protagonist Bethenny Frankel that my wife watches. Normally I tune out and listen to music with my headphones while writing. Anyway, what I caught was BF talking/crying with her therapist about how alone and lonely she feels. (After the fact, I noted the time as being around 7:45pm Pacific.) The fushigi completes around 9pm when I became curious about the translation of the Tao Te Ching I bought the previous weekend. Well, I quickly read through it — the translation is good — and laughed when I read Chapter 42. Stephen Mitchell's translation of it goes:

The Tao gives birth to One.
One gives birth to Two.
Two gives birth to Three.
Three gives birth to all things.

All things have their backs to the female
and stand facing the male.
When male and female combine,
all things achieve harmony.

Ordinary men hate solitude.
But the Master makes use of it,
embracing his aloneness, realizing
he is one with the whole universe.

Of course what makes this peculiar one very funny, is that this BF is a celebrity extraordinaire, who became a near billionaire 'overnight', etc., but the Tao sees her as ordinary.

[2012.06.11: Solitude Addenda.
I finished writing this pile of blog last night, with the final post around 11:00pm. This morning as I was driving into work, at around 6:25am or so, I was bemused to hear that solitude had cropped up again. This time from Neil Young's song Lotta Love. (Note that my commute was less than 15 minutes, and so I heard about 3 songs, max.) From 'Lotta Love':

…

So if you are out there waitin'
I hope you show up soon,
'Cause my heart needs relation'
Not solitude.
…

Now, I don't really think of this as strong enough to fushigi blog, although it did catch my ear. (I'm not a big fan of Neil Young, nor of that song, actually.)

This became a bit more interesting when I bumped into TK in the kitchenette area at work at around 2pm. We had a long discussion about various things, but mostly about her mother who is developing dementia. Last week was a bad week for her, TK said. She commented that her mother is feeling lonely, and needs to be with someone. Specifically, her brother walked in to find her sitting beside the phone, feeling too tired and sad to answer it.

But it truly gets fascinating when, about 20 minutes later, when I left work (late!) I turn on the car at 2:23pm or so. When I turned on the car I heard Holly Cole singing a song with solitude lyrics in it.

When I looked it up, she was covering Hank Williams song I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry. Here's the lyrics:

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill,
He sounds too blue to fly.
The midnight train is whining low,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

I've never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by.
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hide its face and cry.

Did you ever see a robin
weep when leaves begin to die
Like me he's lost the will to live,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky.
And as I wonder where you are
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

And then, tonight, I joined a new thread in the Dims Hall group in Goodreads. One of the threaders wrote:

… I want a real person to love me. Sometimes I just want a real person to say they love me and I don't even care if they really do or not. It's horrible, but sometimes I'm just so lonely and being alone is a dreadful feeling….

And that's it for the lonely/solitude stuff! At least for now.]



2012.05.19
Today I listened to Naqoyqatsi by Philip Glass for the first time with care. It has been in my stack of CDs for a long time, and I have listened to it before, but I had a creative/intuitive urge that this music would work with the poem Cotton for Comfort that I'd recently written and read into Garageband at the request of a poet with the nom-de-plume of Koeeoaddi. (Ko is a great poet! You can listen to my reading her poem 'Migraine' at Guy's Soundcloud Space.)

Oops back to the fushigi. Naqoyqatsi's soloist is the famous American cellist Yo-Yo Mah. Oddly enough, I have never been a big fan, although I have tried various of his CDs. Oddly enough, I am not a huge cello fan to begin with — except for Zoë Keating's Avant Cello. Anyway, shortly after listening to Noyaqatsi on my iPad, I turn to my attention to networking poetry on Goodreads. I visit the private group with which I am a member, and visit a poem put up by Joan Colby's looking for critiques.

Joan gets some, including a very technical one from RTO on the musicality of the cello. RTO is familiar with the instrument and is balking at Joan's depiction of 'chords being plucked' as being extremely rare and not really appropriate for the cello. So, from Joan' lovely poem 'In the Pines, In the Pines':

…
Peeling a tangerine, the golden juice
A blessing or how a cello sounds
Its deepest chords plucking at the strings

Of dailyness. …

From this line evolved the cello discussion, which culminated in my reading reference to Yo-Yo Mah literally within fifteen minutes of listening to him, and actually enjoying the performance and the production!.

This pile-up of sticky-noted fushigis is to be continued as addenda blogs.

2012.06.03 — Cotton for Comfort — a Nearly Successful Poem

Hello!
It has been too long since I have posted here. I have been busy writing. Elsewhere. Primarily for the Weekly Short Story Contest and Company — WSSCC in Goodreads. But it is long past time to post something. I have been amassing a long string of tiny fushigis (March to June), but today's blog won't be them. Instead this blog will be entirely self-promoting.

I have been having the smallest of creative writing successes over in Goodreads and the WSSCC. Today's post began with the story/poetry prompt Cadaver. I wrote 'Cotton for Comfort' and subsequently had it critiqued and with the help of some excellent writers revised it into a form good enough to make it as a finalist on the Poetry Group's monthly competition (out of 300+ entries). And even though it finished 5th out of the 6 finalists, this constitutes a form of publication, and so here is:

Cotton for Comfort
The cadaver wanted to signal the world
That the remains of the she
she once was was not all that she was!
But her tongue remained still, thoughts stillborn
under the weight of entomological entropy.

The cadaver remembered
all her apprehensions, understandings
and now even their misses. All of them.
Misses. Missus. Masses. Mass. Mas. Maws. Mauls. Mulls.
Mulligans! Now that is a great word!
Missed. Mist. Miss. Misses.
Where's the mulligan?

The cadaver wondered
at the state of her body.
It would seem, by the sights
she couldn't see, and the sounds
she couldn't hear, that she had been abandoned
somewhere wild, wild where the wild things are.
Where the wild things were returning
her once complex interleaving of molecules and cells,
with a macabre dance,
to the more natural chord of thrumming humming humus.
Humus! Hum Us. Humour Us. Humorous!

She wondered that she could hear
that chthonic humming
now that she couldn't hear words
that chimed charmingly
with an importance she could no longer fashion.
Fashion?
She began to soundlessly laugh
at being alive in vain.

Vain. Vanity. Inanity. Insanity.
She'd left that morning wearing her badly worn,
tired and holey underwear,
underwear her mother told her
not to be seen dead in,
but in which she felt natural.
Nature all. All Nature. All Natural.
Cotton for comfort. Comport. Come apart.
Be apart. Be a part of. Be a part of wordlessness.

One of the people who commented on this poem asked to hear it. With Koeeaddi's prompt, I proceeded to record it with music. If you are curious about how it sounds as read brilliantly by Rose Mary Boehm click Cotton For Comfort. To hear me read it not as well as Rose Mary, click on Cotton for Comfort.

And I encourage you to visit the WSSCC if you like creative writing of all short stories, not just short stories. Recently a script writing thread/competition has been started.

2012.04.21 — Young Writing Talent: Introducing the Poetry of Jessica of the WSSCC

Today this blog isn't about me or my creative efforts, or even those peculiar fushigi things I seem to like.

Today I would like to introduce you to Jessica through her Haiku:

1
I prefer shorts and
A blanket in cold weather
To Chicago Junes

Within Goodreads, which is a reading/writing oriented social networking site, there is extant a little group called Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company!

13
I have got to do
something about this wasteful
Rapunzel leisure

I stumbled into this quiet and unobtrusive — modest — thread by accident, and it has become a source of endless delight and genuine creative inspiration. It is one of the most creative little things I've discovered on the web and as such is an excellent example of what makes the web a social good. (Okay, okay, I spend more time sitting in front of the computer than my demands for exercise would like for my personal well being.) It is moderated primarily by a young college student whose energy and contributions are astounding. Alex's writing and energy and imagination are all a huge part of its success. And for the most part it is a venue for young people learning to write. The few older people like myself who participate also bring something to it, but I consider us to be the exceptions that prove the rule.

31
Her strange silhouette
That lurks, encompasses us
When the lights turn on

The WSS has expanded to include a delightful and quirky poetry thread called Weekly Poetry Stuffage :) Here I and the others who read this thread have been blessed to read a diverse range of poetry, much good, some not so good, and some truly excellent. One of the best, and some of the best poetry I've read anywhere, comes from the keyboard of a young woman by the name of Jessica.

36
Those heavy scented,
dusty Yankee aisles make
me want to vomit.

Jessica began the Haiku thread. Wow, has this been a fun thread. Huge creativity, both with 'real' Haiku and farcical, multi-verse, interleaved rhyming "Haiku." But Jessica has recently written some that hit me so hard I remembered them for days, and kept re-reading them. They need to be shared with the world. So here, with Jessica's permission are Jessica's recent Haiku:

1062
Remember when he
crawled into a butcher's shop
and said, "I hear God"?

Remember when they
tied him up and put him through
the sausage machine?

And fed the whale with
his end bits, the ones that writhed
like belly dancers?

…
1149
Residual sleep
fell down the tip of his nose
and stayed there awhile.

But the drowsiness
wore off toward a buff shine and
he asked for a dance.

These are a few of Jessica's Haiku. She has also written some astounding modern poetry.

With this blog I would simply like to publicly say, 'Thank you, Jessica! Keep writing.'