Reboot

I ignored this blog for the entirety of 2012.  Why?  2012 was a big year for me.  A lot of changes spun my life into a new direction.  My old life ended in a lot of ways, so I started new one.  On the outside, it doesn't look SO different; I still have my rockstar daughter, I still live in the same town and have the same friends, same favorite restaurants and late-night haunts, still wear the same scratched-up glasses and grade-school hair cut.

But for the first time in my life, I feel like an adult.

Its weird how long I felt like a child. I was married, had a child of my own, suffered through miscarriages and car repairs and bills, etc.  I had the all the things that said, "Hey, look, she's a grown-up, sho'nuff."  But I always felt like a liar; I was sure if anyone scrutinized me too closely they'd see what a bumbling adolescent I really was.  At the back of my mind was always the worry that life would call my bluff and my clumsily-erected house of cards would slither into a formless heap.  Then one day last year, that's exactly what happened, and I had to learn how to be a grown-up on my own.  It was terrifying, and lonely, and the things I learned about the human mind's ability to deceive itself were pretty interesting and sometimes soul-shattering.  But I also learned that every time I let go of a part of the fear that had been holding me back for years, the rewards were incredible, and so slowly I started building a new life. MY life. One dictated by what I thought was right, what I knew to be true.

I can't describe to you a perfect moment that encapsulates some profound realization when I realized that I finally felt like I had the power to take the reigns and direct where I was going in life.  It's a culmination of little changes made here and there, of decisions made that sometimes may not have been of any large consequence, of nights spent crying myself to sleep only to wake up the next morning and thinking, to hell with this, I'm tired of being sad. What else can I do?  I learned to accept support from others when it came with no expectation of repayment, to change the locks on my house by myself when no one else could help me, to trust myself and the decisions I make, even when I'm still deeply afraid that I'm wrong and it will all blow up in my face again.  The thing that helps me most with that fear is reminding myself, sometimes on a daily basis, that the last time my life choices blew up in my face, I had felt powerless and constrained in the choices I allowed to be made for me.  I had been dealt cards and let other people pull from my hand.

This time, I feel free to make the choices and play the game myself, instead of hiding behind paper houses.

Notes on Scarlet Letter Campaign

http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Rights_of_Sentience http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Orvax_IV
http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Slavery
http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Thalassian_slavers
http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zygerrian_Slavers_Guild
http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Karazak_Slavers_Cooperative

Writing Exercises

Instead of doing NaNoWriMo properly, Kirstin and I have been doing poetry exercises.  I am working on novels, as well, but I'm not forcing myself to write a set amount by the end of the month or anything, and anyway I really want to work on my poetry.  I won't be faithful about posting everyday or anything, but I will try to post some of the random bits of word fluff on here from time to time. Anything I regard as worthy of further development I'm going to hold back, but I'll let the internet have the random busy work I'm not sure I want to keep.

11/2/11


She was a rogue planet
wandering far from the nebulae
of sin and guilt that birthed her
wrapped in her own mantle
shadow and tinsel, alive
warmth in the sea of cold.

Her heavenly body inspired us
her gams oh-la-la'ed in nets
her scarlet woman lips arched up
daring damnation
welcoming adoration
she made it all a joy
a gift of natural beauty
that shone against the contrast
of its dark backdrop.


11/5/11


She doles out each penny and calls its number
math is a new language she greedily pours
out onto  my desktop, trying to speak
between myself and the keys.

The clinking march and rote to interrupt
my writing, to wrest my attentions
she must think I give all my love
to this glaring screen and lecherous hum.

Each time I sit down it's the same battle
and sometimes I am the child when I scream
pounding the desk with petulant fists
she looks on, dark eyes solemn
and pats me gently on the back.

11/7/11

We spend so much

of our lives on stoops

smoking as we choose

which words go where

while the clouds roll in

with the bass beats

the pumpkins degrading

slowly into the flowerbeds.

You strike lines through stanzas

because my narrative runs

to prosaic mutterings

you tell me you want

to embrace poetry

digging into its flesh

to plant your spring irises.

Torchwood Miracle Day Theory

WARNING: Don't read this if you don't want any potential spoilers or if you just hate listening to other people's stupid plot predictions for shows you enjoy.  If this were someone else's blog, I wouldn't read it.  Other people's theories usually drive me nuts.
Speaking of crazy...

Bill Pullman is watching you and breathing heavily.

I typically try to restrain from forming pet plot theories before big reveals for shows I like.  For movies, it doesn't matter as much, because you'll find out within a couple of hours or less what's really going on.  Usually movie plot twists are easy to see coming, unless the director is trying so hard to keep it a surprise that the clues are obscure to the point of being invisible or there are no clues and the result comes out of left field.  Television shows, though, develop slowly because it takes months (or years) to get the resolution.  Any theories I start out with usually change three episodes later based on new information or because I've simply had more time to think on it.  I find pet theories get in the way of enjoying a series, because I invariably fall into the trap of trying to make all new information fit into my pre-existing notion of how the show should be progressing.  Anything that doesn't fit might get discarded as irrelevant only to later turn out to be pivotal, and vice-versa.  Then I get annoyed with myself for having put blinders on myself and also irrationally at the writers for not agreeing with me on how their show should be playing out.

But watching the latest episode of Torchwood: Miracle Day has stirred my need to theorize, and I don't feel like resisting.  Who cares?  My idea is most likely going to be wrong, the information spurring it will probably turn out to be coincidentally correlational, and anyway no one reads this blog.  Likely I'm seeing similarities between information presented in "Escape to LA" and previous Doctor Who events because they were both created by Russell T. Davies, and typically writers repeat themselves in tiny ways, whether consciously or not.

So once the idea of the "Families" was brought up towards the end of the episode, the first thing that popped into my mind was the Family of Blood from season three of Doctor Who.  What if other families of their species are also seeking immortality?  We know they can take over human bodies.  Of course, the problem is that they only live for a few months, but maybe they put themselves in stasis or have bred countless generations or some other plot device that allows them to be behind all this shit (see, justification for my ideas are already fermenting).  Also, they used a Time Agent Vortex Manipulator when they were hunting the Tenth Doctor; was that the thing Jack supposedly "gave" them? (Whether or not this was a willing gift is obviously up in the air.)  Perhaps after failing to gain immortality through the Doctor, another Family secured the Vortex Manipulator and used it to go back in time to Earth's past and begin long-term plans to ensure their eventual immortality?  Maybe even one of the original Family members was freed from their eternal imprisonment and went on to lay the groundwork for the "miracle".  If so, it seems Brother would be the best choice, since the Doctor just up and left him in a field to watch over England forever.

He'll be making that creepy stalker face for all eternity, otherwise.

Leaks about future Miracle Day episodes refer to the organization behind it all as "The Three Families" (thus the triangle).  Maybe they're three separate alien species, each a family, coming together for whatever nefarious shit aliens get up to in the Torchwood/Doctor Who universe, who knows.  More than likely whoever's behind all this is someone/thing completely new and I'm just spinning my wheels.  But it'd be neat to see more ties between Torchwood and its parent show, no matter how remote, because as much as I respect the show is supposed to develop into its own thing, I'd like to see evidence that it's still in the same universe, you know?

How to Construct a Muse?

I should mention that I had to have the Muse's threat explained to me by a few friends.

Sometimes trying to write is hard, especially when there are so many amusing things to read that other people have already written.  I haven't done much writing with my newly acquired alone time since Liv started summer school; mostly I've been playing video games, picking up around the apartment, and filling out applications for jobs.  Also fiddling about online, reading articles and webcomics, etc.  I quit smoking, cut out a lot of junk food from my diet, and drink waaaaay less soda.  Needless to say, I feel less like crap.  Yay.  

However, I still haven't written much since I left school (two years ago....eesh).  What I have written, I hate.  I admire people like my husband who work consistently to progress at mastering a skill.  He's been out of school a year and still does graphic design and drawing exercises every week.  I'm one of nature's born slackers who wants to get something right the first time and be awesome right away.  I blame things being too easy in elementary school and being praised for being smart.  That's bad for children, being constantly told how smart they are.  It makes them think things will always be that easy.  Sure, I was socially deficient and couldn't follow instructions to save my life. I'm like that now.  It probably won't change.  Every time I get a handle on one thing, three other things pop up to prove how incompetent I am at things other people grasp innately. I don't care about those things.  The point is, in areas academical I got the concept quickly and tested well as a child.  It made me think everything was supposed to be that way, and if it didn't come easily, I didn't bother with it.

It's interesting that I've chosen writing as my field.  I suppose if I had stuck with science as a teen, I probably would have made out okay.  Science is less convoluted than interpersonal communication.  But science also requires a lot of slogging, and I am not one of nature's sloggers.  My mum is, my husband is, pretty much everyone in my entire family is a slogger.  They can keep their heads down and shoulder their way through repetition to arrive at the end result.  Their minds go through the correct mental hoopery to achieve the kinds of answers most people expect.  It amazes me sometimes to see my husband's mind at work.  He'll find solutions to problems that absolutely confound me, and understand things without needing them explained.  I think I keep him around as a buffer between me and the rest of the planet, to be frank.  He saves me a lot of awkwardness at restaurants, for one thing.  He deals with mechanics.  I imagine in the future he will frequently have to smooth things over with Liv's teachers and quite possibly the entire PTA.

And that's my problem.  As I have told people in writing workshops, bar conversations, and a couple of times when helping Pam teach her beginning poetry classes, writing (along with all other forms of creative media) is about communicating something to the reader.  Expressing an idea to an audience.  If you have failed to make them understand or feel or connect on some level, you have failed as a writer (or artist or musician or whatever).  I often find myself understanding exactly what I mean to say, and no one else does.  I have been told I can be fairly good at putting words together in ways that sound impressive to the average person, but it doesn't always translate meaning to someone reading them.  I endeavor to write in a more... vernacular style?  As one would converse with a friend on a typical day.  Especially on a blog.  My short fiction is just one attempt after another to write in a manner that allows easy communication between myself and the reader.  Poetry is harder, because it's more personal.  If I use my purest voice, no one gets it.  If I try too hard to make it accessible by others, I feel like I've cut out the heart of it.  So poetry is a constant balancing act for me.  

I've been trying to find motivation for writing, and then today realized that's stupid.  You don't find motivation for important things, you just do them.  A lot.  Over and over until you finally end up with something you can tolerate.  This goes back to my instinctual dislike of doing things that way and my absolute dearth of focus; however, as an adult I know I need to actively make myself do things the slow and steady way.  Slow and steady isn't the approach I feel a person should take on their entire life; to quote Jack McBrayer, "That ain't no way to live!"  I understand, though, that it's the correct method to work out some of the more important things in life.  

Apparently THIS is the way to live.  I'm not arguing.

I've been reflecting on the nature of "one's muse".  Creative types can get ridiculous about the idea of their "personal muse" and how it supposedly inspires them.  The idea that inspiration is supposed to come outside oneself confuses me and yet simultaneously entertains me to the point where I've been thinking of making one up, just to have something to bicker with cathartically when writing doesn't go my way.

Allen Ginsberg said that the real challenge for writers is to talk to your muse as you would your friends, to break down the walls between how you really experienced an event and how you express it.  Donald Revell says something very similar in The Art of Attention: The Poet's Eye.  He talks about how the true poet merely pays discrete attention to what is real and true, then stops their brain and its myriad conceits from getting in between that which they perceive and themselves: "Bum and troubadours can have no truck with the intentional fallacy."  So, in this spirit, I feel that my muse should be something I perceive as true, as directly honest and meaningful to myself.  

When I think about writing, I invariably think about Pam McClure.  Pam was one of those wonderful people who not only readily believes in the abilities of others, but causes said people to believe in themselves. She inspired a lot of students, friends, and colleagues in her time.  Her Facebook group calls her "powerful beyond measure", and there are only a handful of people I would describe in that way.  My mum, certainly, and sometimes I try to write about her and how I see her and the things she's been through, but that's closer to home and infinitely harder to write about.  

In a way I think I've quietly and unintentionally made Pam my muse.  I hear her voice a lot when I sit down to write, even if my own internal voice narrating what I'm writing sounds suspiciously like a female Stephen Fry.

How's that for a mental enema, eh?

Because I admire her so very much, I reread Donald Revell's book she recommended to her students often.  Donald Revell was always referenced as "The Great Man", and I have "Composition is taxidermy" (The Art of Attention, p.25) tattooed around a partly-mechanical raven on my left arm.  However, Pam believed in the value of tinkering about with traditional forms of poetic composition and making them your own, so in that spirit I am going to attempt the triolet, villanelle, and sestina this summer.  Maybe another sonnet.  I like those a damn sight better than the aforementioned styles.  I can almost hear her deprecating the fact that I waited until after I graduated and she died to do things her way.  This is a rather extreme reflection of our relationship while she was still alive; she'd say, "Abbey Riley, you should try this. You'd be awesome at it" and I'd ignore her and do whatever I wanted anyway.  Then later she'd hit with me with a book.  I would try to push her into doing things my way with the Ivy Review.  She usually relented, and then later hit me with a book.  We maintained this equilibrium successfully for two years.  


Pam was one of my only real role models, and a beautiful poet.  I hear her voice whenever I see horses in pasture, a country lake, a peacock feather, the sunburned shoulders of teenage girls.  She had a vibrant soul that hummed around the periphery of perception.  I miss her a great deal and find myself talking at her memory in times of confusion.  While I have yet to really understand the nature of muses, I think I could do a lot worse for a muse than Pam McClure.

Much love and gratitude, O Impetuous One.

Happy Towel Day!

The Big List of Reasons Why Living in the Past Sucked

Originally started in September of 2010.  I was tired of it hanging around in "drafts".


With fall being Renaissance Festival season in these parts, many of us (mostly nerds) start thinking about strapping on a corset or lacing up some tights and partaking in creative anachronisms, accompanied by large quantities of beer and songs about how much fun drinking beer tends to be.  We also get to thinking about life in olden times, the days of yore when knights tilted in the lists for the idea of love and the reality of money, the days when magic, religion, and fledgling science took turns trying to explain the endless wonders of the natural world.  What were those days like?  Some us even may feel that we were born in the wrong time, that our romantic souls would have been better placed in a time of chivalry and courtly romance.

If you're looking for historical accuracy, 

you left it in your other Warrior Princess bustier.

I am not one of those people.  If anything, I was born too early.  I'd be much more at home with Jean-Luc Picard aboard the Enterprise (albeit likely the resident moron; the 8 year-olds would pity my ignorance) than singing "Hey nonny, sing ho" with Shakespeare at a filthy London tavern while drinking ale of dubious origins.  Here is the beginning of what will hopefully be an ever-growing list of reasons why living in the past sucked.


1. No rights for women.  For any men saying, "Hell, yeah!" right now, I hope nasty, unspecified things happen to you.
2. In Europe, no rights for non-whites.  Same sentiment as expressed above to racists.
3. THE SMELL.  OH, GOD, THE SMELL.
4. Even greater religious intolerance.
5. No showers. Again, imagine the smell.
6. No condoms.  Think of all the babies you would have had by now were this 500 years ago. Feel free to shudder dramatically and/or vomit.
7. No toilets. No toilet paper.  Often, not even an outhouse with a seat.  Just the outdoors.  Ew.
8. In Europe, home of the Renaissance, before contact with the New World, there were no potatoes, tobacco, tomatoes, bell peppers, chocolate, corn, etc.  Arguably, there may not have been syphilis, either.
9. People died from things we scoff at now, like chicken pox, the flu, and things easily avoided in our modern world like salmonella.
10. Lice and fleas.  LICE AND FLEAS.  *shudder
11. No video games.  I know this is not really a priority for most, but I would die.
12. No real health care.  You were lucky if one of a hundred "remedies" for ailments sort of worked.
13. Clothes were crappier.  We take for granted some of the awesome textiles we luxuriate in today, often using fabrics not seen until the last century or so to make "historical" costumes that are waaaaaay more comfortable and eye-catching than their original counterparts.
14. That being said, think about the underpants, or the typical lack thereof.  Now think of the majority of your neighbors.  Yeah, I thought not.
15. The food sucked more.  Think about the staggering variety of food choice and preparation taken for granted by most Americans.  Didn't really exist back then.  Global trade not really being a thing back in the day, spices and flavorings from around the world were non-existent, and forget "ethnic" food.  Think about life without nachos, or chicken lo mein, or even something as boring and humdrum as vanilla ice cream.  Now die a little inside.


More items to follow later.