Heh. I wanted you to be so perfect. Instead, you're a twisted and misshapen little thing. Gimping along, dragging your damaged and malformed little self along as best you can. Oddly, you're all dressed up in your Sunday-best words, which only emphasizes your inadequate and slow moving story.
Dunno if I should try to fix you, or send you to the shredder to spare any innocent bystanders from accidentally reading you.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
"Kiss me..."
I heard a Bonnie Raitt song, yesterday. I've heard it before, but this time the phrase "...and you haven't even kissed me, yet" stuck in my mind.
Something about the word "yet"...So very loaded, such implications of inevitability.
Just because I'm an etymology weirdo, there is this:
I'm not talking about the other kinds of kisses: the frosting-smeared toddler kiss; the papery, little-old-lady, grandmother kiss; the soothing kiss your mother planted on your forehead when you were small, and didn't feel well. Not the kiss from your long-time lover, partner, and friend. Although those are all lovely kisses, too.
I have it on good authority that the generation just after mine indulges in make-out sessions as sort of a recreational pastime. I'm not even talking about those kisses. Although I think that's great. And I'm sort of jealous. And I think the behavior signals a fairly radical cultural change--but that's an entry for another day.
It's a kiss related to the cathartic movie-kiss, when it finally happens; when you've known throughout the whole movie that it would happen, it should happen, these people need to just kiss, for chrissakes, and all those plot complications will magically resolve so nicely...
It's also related to the off-limits kiss: The kiss from that married-or-otherwise-unavailable-friend, the one you're crazy about, but haven't let yourself wonder about kissing. The kiss that you never anticipated, because you couldn't imagine where or how it would ever happen, but then it's New Year's Eve, and you zoom in for the quick, friendly smooch, and suddenly the paradigm shifts--drops out from beneath your feet--and the kiss is over, and you're staring at each other, and someone's spouse is pissed...
I'm talking about that kiss--the kiss in your mind, when you're starting to think about what it might be like to kiss someone specific. Someone you've never kissed before. Someone who hasn't kissed you, yet.
That kiss, when you wonder about someone you know, when you imagine their lips and tongue, and you wonder if they're any good at kissing, anyway.
That kiss we write songs about. The kiss we remember, years later.
I was talking to a friend about the whole kissing thing, this morning. I said that I thought the kiss in your mind was much more powerful than the actuality. She asked me who the hell can hold out that long? "If I sense it's coming, I just go for it," she said.
She also observed that's why the first few seconds before the first kiss are so sexy.
That "kiss me" instant...
Something about the word "yet"...So very loaded, such implications of inevitability.
Just because I'm an etymology weirdo, there is this:
kiss (v.)Kissing seems such a weird thing to do; and the emotions a kiss evokes, all out of proportion to the mechanics of the behavior, itself. We write songs about it, we fantasize about that first kiss, we hang all kinds of expectations and conditions and idealizations around the very idea of that kiss.
O.E. cyssan "to kiss," from P.Gmc. *kussijanan (cf. O.S. kussian, O.N. kyssa, O.Fris. kessa, Ger. küssen), from *kuss-, probably ultimately imitative of the sound. The O.E. noun was coss, which became M.E. cuss, but this yielded to kiss, from the verb.
For vowel evolution, see bury. There appears to be no common I.E. root word for "kiss," though suggestions of a common ku- sound may be found in the Gmc. root and Gk. kynein "to kiss," Hittite kuwash-anzi "they kiss," Skt. cumbati "he kisses."
I'm not talking about the other kinds of kisses: the frosting-smeared toddler kiss; the papery, little-old-lady, grandmother kiss; the soothing kiss your mother planted on your forehead when you were small, and didn't feel well. Not the kiss from your long-time lover, partner, and friend. Although those are all lovely kisses, too.
I have it on good authority that the generation just after mine indulges in make-out sessions as sort of a recreational pastime. I'm not even talking about those kisses. Although I think that's great. And I'm sort of jealous. And I think the behavior signals a fairly radical cultural change--but that's an entry for another day.
It's a kiss related to the cathartic movie-kiss, when it finally happens; when you've known throughout the whole movie that it would happen, it should happen, these people need to just kiss, for chrissakes, and all those plot complications will magically resolve so nicely...
It's also related to the off-limits kiss: The kiss from that married-or-otherwise-unavailable-friend, the one you're crazy about, but haven't let yourself wonder about kissing. The kiss that you never anticipated, because you couldn't imagine where or how it would ever happen, but then it's New Year's Eve, and you zoom in for the quick, friendly smooch, and suddenly the paradigm shifts--drops out from beneath your feet--and the kiss is over, and you're staring at each other, and someone's spouse is pissed...
I'm talking about that kiss--the kiss in your mind, when you're starting to think about what it might be like to kiss someone specific. Someone you've never kissed before. Someone who hasn't kissed you, yet.
That kiss, when you wonder about someone you know, when you imagine their lips and tongue, and you wonder if they're any good at kissing, anyway.
That kiss we write songs about. The kiss we remember, years later.
I was talking to a friend about the whole kissing thing, this morning. I said that I thought the kiss in your mind was much more powerful than the actuality. She asked me who the hell can hold out that long? "If I sense it's coming, I just go for it," she said.
She also observed that's why the first few seconds before the first kiss are so sexy.
That "kiss me" instant...
Friday, April 29, 2005
Awesome Chicken Tacos with mango/roasted corn salsa
You'll need to invite some friends over. This makes rather a lot. Delegate the margarita-making to someone with whom you don't mind sharing counter-space.
Salsa:
a couple, three, ears of fresh sweet corn
two or three fresh limes
a fistful of fresh cilantro
a couple or three ripe mangos
at least one fresh jalepeno pepper
a couple of fresh anaheim chile peppers
a medium red onion
a couple of small ripe tomatoes
a couple of cloves of fresh garlic
sea salt
In a big black skillet, or a wok, or whatever you have handy, roast the kernels of corn you've managed to save from falling all over the floor while you were slicing them off the ears. Send someone out for more ears of corn, if needed.
Just heat your pan with a little good olive oil. Before the oil starts smoking, toss in the corn. You want to roast it fairly hot, so it just begins to carmelize, but the kernels are still crisp. Have a margarita while you're working. Have two. Roasting corn while everyone else is out on the deck is hot and thankless work.
Take the corn up and let it cool, while you chop all the other stuff--you want it all chopped fairly fine, but not teeny-tiny. Holding back the cilantro, sea salt, and limes--chop up all the mangos, peppers, onions and tomatoes and put 'em in your biggest bowl. Add the corn. Then juice the limes and add the juice a bit at a time, until the mix starts to take on a salsa-ish texture. Add the cilantro according to taste. I like quite a lot. Sprinkle the whole thing with a bit of salt to bring out the flavors, then clear off the top shelf in your fridge until the bowl fits. Cover it with plastic or something. Have another margarita, if you want one.
Chicken:
fresh boneless, skinless chicken breasts, sliced across the grain into strips about 1/2" wide
1/2 cup of decent tequila
2-3 limes
2-3 cloves fresh garlic
toss the strips into a big bowl with three or four shots of good tequila, the juice from two or three limes, and a couple of cloves of finely chopped garlic, marinate for an hour or two.
Pour off the marinade and toss the chicken into the big black skillet, or wok, or whatever you cooked the corn in. (You've cleverly cleaned it up so that the chicken doesn't stick like crazy.) Cook it fairly hot, with a little more olive oil, so that it browns nicely. Salt as needed.
Set that off on the back of the stove, while you grill some nice corn tortillas. You want to cook them just a bit past "hot" but stop well short of "crispy". I like 'em just a little toughened, so they don't fall apart when you fill them.
Have another margarita.
Grate a bunch of Monterey-Jack cheese.
Serve with either plain yogurt (for the low-cal, low-fat contingent) or sour cream. Either tastes pretty good. Chicken, salsa, cheese, sour cream, in the grilled corn tortillas. Have more margaritas, as needed.
You'll probably have enough salsa left over to go on top of omelettes in the morning, too.
Salsa:
a couple, three, ears of fresh sweet corn
two or three fresh limes
a fistful of fresh cilantro
a couple or three ripe mangos
at least one fresh jalepeno pepper
a couple of fresh anaheim chile peppers
a medium red onion
a couple of small ripe tomatoes
a couple of cloves of fresh garlic
sea salt
In a big black skillet, or a wok, or whatever you have handy, roast the kernels of corn you've managed to save from falling all over the floor while you were slicing them off the ears. Send someone out for more ears of corn, if needed.
Just heat your pan with a little good olive oil. Before the oil starts smoking, toss in the corn. You want to roast it fairly hot, so it just begins to carmelize, but the kernels are still crisp. Have a margarita while you're working. Have two. Roasting corn while everyone else is out on the deck is hot and thankless work.
Take the corn up and let it cool, while you chop all the other stuff--you want it all chopped fairly fine, but not teeny-tiny. Holding back the cilantro, sea salt, and limes--chop up all the mangos, peppers, onions and tomatoes and put 'em in your biggest bowl. Add the corn. Then juice the limes and add the juice a bit at a time, until the mix starts to take on a salsa-ish texture. Add the cilantro according to taste. I like quite a lot. Sprinkle the whole thing with a bit of salt to bring out the flavors, then clear off the top shelf in your fridge until the bowl fits. Cover it with plastic or something. Have another margarita, if you want one.
Chicken:
fresh boneless, skinless chicken breasts, sliced across the grain into strips about 1/2" wide
1/2 cup of decent tequila
2-3 limes
2-3 cloves fresh garlic
toss the strips into a big bowl with three or four shots of good tequila, the juice from two or three limes, and a couple of cloves of finely chopped garlic, marinate for an hour or two.
Pour off the marinade and toss the chicken into the big black skillet, or wok, or whatever you cooked the corn in. (You've cleverly cleaned it up so that the chicken doesn't stick like crazy.) Cook it fairly hot, with a little more olive oil, so that it browns nicely. Salt as needed.
Set that off on the back of the stove, while you grill some nice corn tortillas. You want to cook them just a bit past "hot" but stop well short of "crispy". I like 'em just a little toughened, so they don't fall apart when you fill them.
Have another margarita.
Grate a bunch of Monterey-Jack cheese.
Serve with either plain yogurt (for the low-cal, low-fat contingent) or sour cream. Either tastes pretty good. Chicken, salsa, cheese, sour cream, in the grilled corn tortillas. Have more margaritas, as needed.
You'll probably have enough salsa left over to go on top of omelettes in the morning, too.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Musing on Heroes and Warriors
On the Warrior Ethos, From the Army National Guard Recruitment page:
"In the face of a rapidly changing theater of operations, General Schoomaker, U.S. Army Chief of Staff, has personally called for a return to this most fundamental of creeds. The modern Guard, active now on battlefields around the world must be prepared for battle at all times. There is no such place as “behind the lines” any more. Our enemy will strike at us whenever and wherever they can. And we must be, we will be prepared to meet them and destroy them. And we will accomplish this mission by adhering to the Warrior Ethos:
I will always place the mission first.
I will never accept defeat.
I will never quit.
I will never leave a fallen comrade."
Sergeant First Class Paul Ray Smith received the Congressional Medal of Honor posthumously, April 4th, 2005. The accounts that I've read of his heroism and sacrifice clearly describe this man as both a hero and a warrior. You don't have to agree with the motives behind the Iraq War and you don't have to like the ideology that keeps America in the conflict in order to feel a surge of admiration and respect for a man who voluntarily laysdown his own life to protect the lives of his comrades.
Then I found myself thinking about heroes, warriors, and how we value them.
I spent some time perusing the Congressional Medal of Honor page, and the stories of the recipients of the medal. It was an education for a would-be writer of fiction.
There is a certain kind of valor, a level of heroism remarkable in its purity, that seems to transcend ordinary human nature. Perhaps that is why the more cynical souls among us seek to diminish the weight of such acts. I suppose it would be more fashionable, at least among my most radical pc friends, if I were to write and think about Sgt. Smith's medal as a story told by the government at a time when this war badly needs some positive publicity.
I refuse to do that. I can't bring myself to diminish Sgt. Smith's valor that way.
I do want to think about it in terms of stories, though. I want to think about this act in terms of the stuff of heroism. This story is all the more poignant because of the accompanying pictures of the sergeant and his surviving loved ones--the human face. And I wonder if we need to recognize the face of the hero, to love him. If, in knowing and accepting his all-to-human failings, we recognize all the more the power of his transformation.
Our most revered medals aren't awarded for killing the most enemy combatants, like some real-life video-game--God save us all, if our culture ever comes to that.
I will always place the mission first.
I will never accept defeat.
I will never quit.
I will never leave a fallen comrade.
This ethos seems to me to be about selflessness, about the whole being greater than the sum of the parts. An effective fictitious hero/warrior must be recognizeably human--and still must embody selflessness.
The tension of the struggle between those two states of being is where the story lives.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Passings
I'm struck by the quiet dignity accompanied by international vigils surrounding the Pope in his last hours. In comparison, the lunatic hysteria surrounding poor--purportedly Catholic--Terry Schiavo seems even more ghastly.
Godspeed to them both.
Godspeed to them both.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Pushing the edges
I got some really good advice, years ago. A Hemingway scholar I used to know told me, "write hard. Then, when you rewrite, write even harder. Make the words as true and powerful as you possibly can." That's actually a more or less fictionalized paraphrase--but it captures the essential gist.
Now, this is easier said than done, of course.
It seems a fine line: manipulate your reader, without letting on--because as soon as the reader feels manipulated, you've blown it; write in a manner both true and unflinching, without sacrificing tension and subtleties.
Oh, and write about something that lots of people care about--or if you're really good, make them care about something they didn't realize was so important. Find something that sets up that odd, aching, harmonic overtone inside the reader--without letting your words or your story slip away into cliches.
While we're at it, stand on one leg on the tip of a chimney in a high wind and recite The Odyssey backwards while knitting a sweater.
Just kidding. Mostly.
*note: I like this template quite a lot, but the white letters on the dark blue field have to go. I'll be mucking about with it for the next few days, and since I really don't know what I'm doing, the whole thing might well vanish completely. If that happens, my apologies in advance. I also rather like the courier font--but I'm afraid it isn't the easiest thing to read on the screen. So I expect I'll be experimenting with that, as well.
Now, this is easier said than done, of course.
It seems a fine line: manipulate your reader, without letting on--because as soon as the reader feels manipulated, you've blown it; write in a manner both true and unflinching, without sacrificing tension and subtleties.
Oh, and write about something that lots of people care about--or if you're really good, make them care about something they didn't realize was so important. Find something that sets up that odd, aching, harmonic overtone inside the reader--without letting your words or your story slip away into cliches.
While we're at it, stand on one leg on the tip of a chimney in a high wind and recite The Odyssey backwards while knitting a sweater.
Just kidding. Mostly.
*note: I like this template quite a lot, but the white letters on the dark blue field have to go. I'll be mucking about with it for the next few days, and since I really don't know what I'm doing, the whole thing might well vanish completely. If that happens, my apologies in advance. I also rather like the courier font--but I'm afraid it isn't the easiest thing to read on the screen. So I expect I'll be experimenting with that, as well.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Humility
Whenever I feel the need for a reality-check about my relative importance, I just come here and look at my google ranking.
It helps me remember not to take myself too very seriously.
It helps me remember not to take myself too very seriously.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Tonight...
Tonight, I would like to be some incredibly interesting and complicated character in a noir film...or perhaps a little indie foreign picture. Someone with chiselled and compelling features, smoking at a little table in a tiny bar, someplace exotic and dangerous.
I would smoke, french-inhaling and letting the smoke curl from my lips into wisps over the table. If I could figure out a way to do so without looking ridiculous, I would blow smoke-rings.
I would drink something terribly potent and tasty and romantic. When the time came, I would slip my trenchcoat around my shoulders and step out onto the street, into the night and the fog, to keep my prearranged assignation--despite the danger and uncertainty.
I wonder who I need to talk to to arrange my very own, extremely cool soundtrack.
I'm allergic to the alder trees blooming their little hearts out, here. The antihistamines are obviously making me a bit strange.
I would smoke, french-inhaling and letting the smoke curl from my lips into wisps over the table. If I could figure out a way to do so without looking ridiculous, I would blow smoke-rings.
I would drink something terribly potent and tasty and romantic. When the time came, I would slip my trenchcoat around my shoulders and step out onto the street, into the night and the fog, to keep my prearranged assignation--despite the danger and uncertainty.
I wonder who I need to talk to to arrange my very own, extremely cool soundtrack.
I'm allergic to the alder trees blooming their little hearts out, here. The antihistamines are obviously making me a bit strange.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Thoughts about the WIP
I've linked this back to the livejournal that I'm using as a sort of brainstorming place for what I want to work on next. I don't actually plan to be cross-posting like this, often.
Lately I've been thinking about Henry II and the murder of Thomas a Becket.
Divine King of England: A Study in Anthropology, by Margaret Murray, supposedly suggests the murder of Becket was actually a ritual substitute sacrifice, a Sacred-King sacrifice. Katherine Kurtz played with this idea in Lammas Night, sort of an alternate-WWII-history fantasy.
The problem IS that Murray and many of her ideas have been co-opted by more marginal new-age sites and proponents. I'm unsure as to the quality of her actual scholarship. I have a lot of work to do, there. I can't find an actual copy of her book, Divine King--which might at least help me distinguish what has been sensationalized and taken out of context. I'm off to the library as soon as I have a free day--because I just don't trust the internet for reliable sourcing.
Meanwhile, I'm completely infatuated with the picture of Becket, murdered at vespers, monks chanting, candles lit... during the Christmas season. I'm not alone in my interest, of course. There is also the French play, Becket.
Henry, legend has it, walked barefoot to Canterbury as penance. Becket and Henry, by all accounts, had been closer than brothers, at least at an earlier point in their lives and relationship. Henry was apologizing to Becket, or to the Church? Probably both, life and history being complex and fraught with rich nuances of relationship and politics. And he didn't actually cover as much ground barefoot as he might have.
Still.
The idea of the murder as a voluntary laying-down-of-life for the king--his close friend and almost brother--as a surrogate sacrifice...hmm.
Gawd, what a story, though. No matter HOW it really played out, once upon a time. You just KNOW the real story is infinitely more complex than history can really tell us.
Lately I've been thinking about Henry II and the murder of Thomas a Becket.
...The monks were solemnly chanting vespers to Almighty God, as he entered the sacred temple of Christ, shortly to become an evening sacrifice. The servants of Satan pursued having neither respect as Christians to his holy order, nor to theA terrible thing to love a king, and find yourself set against him. Even worse to be the king, though. The seeds of tragedy lie within human fallibility.
sacred place, or season; but attacking the dignified prelate as he stood in prayer before the holy altar, even during the festival of Christmas, these truly nefarious Christians most inhumanly murdered him. Having done the deed, and retiring as if triumphant, they departed with unhallowed joy. Recollecting, however, that perhaps the transaction might displease the person in whose behalf they had been so zealous, they retired to the northern parts of England, waiting until they could fully discover the disposition of their monarch towards them.
Source: The Church Historians of England. Vol. IV - Part II. Translated by Joseph Stevenson. London: Seeley’s, 1856; pp. 465-7; 478-81; 493-5.
Divine King of England: A Study in Anthropology, by Margaret Murray, supposedly suggests the murder of Becket was actually a ritual substitute sacrifice, a Sacred-King sacrifice. Katherine Kurtz played with this idea in Lammas Night, sort of an alternate-WWII-history fantasy.
The problem IS that Murray and many of her ideas have been co-opted by more marginal new-age sites and proponents. I'm unsure as to the quality of her actual scholarship. I have a lot of work to do, there. I can't find an actual copy of her book, Divine King--which might at least help me distinguish what has been sensationalized and taken out of context. I'm off to the library as soon as I have a free day--because I just don't trust the internet for reliable sourcing.
Meanwhile, I'm completely infatuated with the picture of Becket, murdered at vespers, monks chanting, candles lit... during the Christmas season. I'm not alone in my interest, of course. There is also the French play, Becket.
Henry, legend has it, walked barefoot to Canterbury as penance. Becket and Henry, by all accounts, had been closer than brothers, at least at an earlier point in their lives and relationship. Henry was apologizing to Becket, or to the Church? Probably both, life and history being complex and fraught with rich nuances of relationship and politics. And he didn't actually cover as much ground barefoot as he might have.
Still.
The idea of the murder as a voluntary laying-down-of-life for the king--his close friend and almost brother--as a surrogate sacrifice...hmm.
Gawd, what a story, though. No matter HOW it really played out, once upon a time. You just KNOW the real story is infinitely more complex than history can really tell us.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Very bad news.
GENEVA
(CNN) -- Doctors reported for the first time Wednesday the ominous spread of a strain of the AIDS virus that is resistant to protease inhibitors, the medicines
that have revolutionized care of the disease.
I also heard on an NPR sidebar that there is apparently a drug-resistant strain that converts to full-blown AIDS much faster than the old-style HIV.
God. What if we just spent a third of the money we spend invading other countries on microscopic killers, instead?
This could be a very bad thing for the already floundering health-care system.
Friday, February 11, 2005
A Passing...
"As of 11:12AM Friday, February 11th, 2005, Jack Lawrence Chalker has now passed away and is now in a greater place. We thank all that have kept Jack in his thoughts and prayers." --from JackChalker.com
Midnight at the Well of Souls was one of the first sff books I remember reading.
Godspeed, Mr. Chalker.
Midnight at the Well of Souls was one of the first sff books I remember reading.
Godspeed, Mr. Chalker.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Worthless damn spell-checker
A friend of mine recently returned to school for her graduate degree. The other evening, she told a story about a member of her creative-writing class who is hell-bent on submitting his stories with a sort of neo-spelling: laff for laugh, enuff for enough, thru for through--or threw, presumably--and so on.
My initial incredulity wore off just enough for blatant hostility to set in.
Apparently the guy belongs to an organization that promotes the simplification of spelling, and he firmly believes that if people start submitting stories and articles with simplified spelling, the whole thing will catch on and spread like wildfire.
I immediately started planning to lose a lot of sleep fretting over this thing. I love English. I love our words, and their idiosyncracies. I love the funky spellings that make little or no logical sense to the modern mind; words that send me off to the dictionary, where I can lose hours--literally hours, I kid you not--looking up etymologies.
I started looking for someone I could send my donation to, someone who was standing on the wall, in the gap, dictionary in hand--someone to halt the barbarians clamoring at the gates of civilization, demanding that we all start ignoring silent letters as if they'd never existed.
Information is power. Besides, I'm ever curious, and with too much time on my hands that I would only otherwise only spend constructively, I did some googling.
One web site tells me:
"The Simplified Spelling Society was founded in 1908 in Great Britain. The Society first proposed a fully phonetisized system. Its outcome was a basis for
the Initial Teaching Alphabet. This is a regularized spelling system which was used in several schools throughout the 1960s to the 1980s. The Simplified Spelling Society does not offer only one proposal to reform spelling. The
Lojikon (1995) proposed a reformation of consonants only, whereas Cut Spelling (1996) removed the 10% redundant letters."
The site lists George Bernard Shaw as one of the movement's early proponents. That bit of knowledge put an end to my original thought that these people obviously just hate the language, and/or are congenital bad-spellers, and bitter about it.
I've actually always sort of liked Shaw. I've read a couple of his plays, and perhaps an essay or two. I'd never found his spelling to be particularly eccentric. I'd have a hard time believing he hated the language. I felt oddly betrayed.
So I felt I must dig a bit deeper to make sense of the motivation behind the whole thing; because, frankly, spelling just doesn't seem that damned hard to me.
Turns out this is far from a new thing. Organizations promoting the simplification of spelling have been around for quite some time. Better than a century, in fact. It also turns out that hardly anyone but me is particularly worried about the simplified spelling movement. Far fewer sites exist, promoting the preservation of archaic English spellings.
This site informed me that "Webster's plan for reforming English spelling centered on 10 main classes of words":
1. "-our" to "-or"
2. "-re" to "-er"
3. dropping final "k" in "publick," etc.
4. changing "-ence" to "-ense" in "defence," etc.
5. use single "l" in inflected forms, e.g. "traveled"
6. use double "l" in words like "fulfill"
7. use "-or" for "-er" where done so in
Latin, e.g. "instructor," "visitor"
8. drop final "e" to give: ax, determin, definit, infinit,
envelop, medicin, opposit, famin, (others)
9. use single "f" at end of words like "pontif," "plaintif"
10. change "-ise" to "-ize" wherever this can be traced
back to Latin and Greek (where a "z"/zeta *was* used
in the spellings) or a more recent coining which
uses the suffix "-ize" (from Greek "-izein")
I don't have a primary source for this assertion about Mr. Webster--only what the website tells me. They drop a bunch of other names, too--Mark Twain and Teddy Roosevelt, for example. Mark Twain, I don't worry about, so much. He might well have had his tongue in his cheek--and I've seen some of the fun he poked at the language. And Teddy Roosevelt...well, I'm just not all that surprised.
But having gotten this many concessions, the philistines are only emboldened: This site has a list of proposed new systems.
Strangely, many of the links don't work. Heh. Imagine my pleasure that so many of these pages have already vanished into obscurity.
I suppose I don't really think the language is in any real danger. I suppose there is no burning need to actually pick up arms and defend the "s" that sounds like a "z"--but that guy in my friend's creative-writing class is awfully lucky I'm not teaching the class.
Also, this whole strange excursion resulted in the unwelcome discovery that my MS Word spellchecker recognized "thru" as a legitimate spelling.
*sigh*
I already knew the damn spell-check was next to worthless.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
"...a very interesting thing to know..."
I was cleaning out desk drawers the other day--in lieu of actually writing--when I came across a scrap of paper apparently from years ago.
I sat and looked at the little piece of paper, on which I'd written: “One of the things that is a very interesting thing to know is how you are feeling inside you to the words that are coming out to be outside of you.” --Gertrude Stein
I know it had to be from years ago, because the last time I actually read any Gertrude Stein, I was in graduate school. That would have been sometime just after the Louisiana Purchase. (Not really, unless we're speaking in terms of geologic time, but the phrase pleased me.)
I don't really know exactly what Gertrude Stein meant by that sentence, you understand. In fact, I really don't know what she meant by a lot of the things she said--except, of course, for those things she said so directly that it seems there is no way to misunderstand her. Even those things, I don't quite trust to be as straightforward as they seem. It makes me question my own perceptions.
She's tricky, that way.
I understand what the words themselves string together to mean, in a conventional sense. It just seems very much as if something altogether deeper and more complex sits at the heart of that sentence.
Take the whole "rose is a rose is a rose" thing, for example: Of course it is. Except when it isn't. Which is part of her point. I think.
Now, admittedly, I'm getting myself all tangled up in semantics, reading a woman who--legend has it--once received a rejection from an American publisher with the kindly advice that she should write in her native tongue and employ the services of a good translator.
The more I think about the deceptive simplicity of the sentence on that scrap of paper, the more intriguing it becomes. "...a very interesting thing to know is how you are feeling inside you to the words that are coming out to be outside you."
Then I put it aside and went to work actually writing, instead of pretending I was writing when in fact I was really cleaning out desk drawers. Then an odd thing happened. I was writing a scene taking place on a porch. Suddenly, the word "porch" looked very wrong.
Now, I'm not a particularly obsessive soul. At least, not about most things. But the more I looked at the word "porch", the worse I felt about it. I had to stop and look it up. make sure it really was a "porch" I was talking about, not a patio or a veranda.
The dictionary definition sounded all right, for the context. The etymology was unenlightening: "Middle English porche, from Old French, from Latin porticus, portico, from porta, gate."
But it still looked...wrong.
The experience was akin to the discomfort of having bit the side of your tongue, and for a day or so afterwards, your tongue seems to fit awkwardly in your mouth--uncomfortable, and the wrong shape for the available space.
So I moved the scene to the yard.
"Yard" is a good word. Nice, solid-feeling. Old English roots. I can depend on a word like that, I think, not to go all strange and uncomfortable.
I sat and looked at the little piece of paper, on which I'd written: “One of the things that is a very interesting thing to know is how you are feeling inside you to the words that are coming out to be outside of you.” --Gertrude Stein
I know it had to be from years ago, because the last time I actually read any Gertrude Stein, I was in graduate school. That would have been sometime just after the Louisiana Purchase. (Not really, unless we're speaking in terms of geologic time, but the phrase pleased me.)
I don't really know exactly what Gertrude Stein meant by that sentence, you understand. In fact, I really don't know what she meant by a lot of the things she said--except, of course, for those things she said so directly that it seems there is no way to misunderstand her. Even those things, I don't quite trust to be as straightforward as they seem. It makes me question my own perceptions.
She's tricky, that way.
I understand what the words themselves string together to mean, in a conventional sense. It just seems very much as if something altogether deeper and more complex sits at the heart of that sentence.
Take the whole "rose is a rose is a rose" thing, for example: Of course it is. Except when it isn't. Which is part of her point. I think.
Now, admittedly, I'm getting myself all tangled up in semantics, reading a woman who--legend has it--once received a rejection from an American publisher with the kindly advice that she should write in her native tongue and employ the services of a good translator.
The more I think about the deceptive simplicity of the sentence on that scrap of paper, the more intriguing it becomes. "...a very interesting thing to know is how you are feeling inside you to the words that are coming out to be outside you."
Then I put it aside and went to work actually writing, instead of pretending I was writing when in fact I was really cleaning out desk drawers. Then an odd thing happened. I was writing a scene taking place on a porch. Suddenly, the word "porch" looked very wrong.
Now, I'm not a particularly obsessive soul. At least, not about most things. But the more I looked at the word "porch", the worse I felt about it. I had to stop and look it up. make sure it really was a "porch" I was talking about, not a patio or a veranda.
The dictionary definition sounded all right, for the context. The etymology was unenlightening: "Middle English porche, from Old French, from Latin porticus, portico, from porta, gate."
But it still looked...wrong.
The experience was akin to the discomfort of having bit the side of your tongue, and for a day or so afterwards, your tongue seems to fit awkwardly in your mouth--uncomfortable, and the wrong shape for the available space.
So I moved the scene to the yard.
"Yard" is a good word. Nice, solid-feeling. Old English roots. I can depend on a word like that, I think, not to go all strange and uncomfortable.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Nuremberg and the environment
I grew up with my mother's stories about JFK. In her fond reminiscence, he attains the mythic powers and stature of an epic hero. She was in Dallas the day he was killed. I've heard the stories over and over again. She calls him "Jack Kennedy" and goes misty-eyed and shining-faced when she talks about that era. (Never mind that she was a single mother working two jobs and living with her parents--hardly having a good time of it.)
So when I went to listen to Robert Kennedy Jr. speak, Saturday evening, I think I was hoping for something akin to the Kennedys of my mother's fond remembrance.
I also want to make note of the rather disappointing turn-out for his speech. Seattle is a pretty liberal city, but the appearance was poorly publicized--no doubt at least partly to blame for the small crowd.
I noticed that the folks who did show up and sit through the speech--rightfully denouncing illegal coal-burning power-plants--all expressed a longing for a 60's-style Kennedy to follow. They said this either directly or obliquely--but the longing was apparent. During the question and answer period, over and over, people asked: What can we do? Who can we follow? We remember your father, we remember your uncle.
The mostly unspoken question--are you like them?--went unanswered. One woman gamely hung on to the microphone and said, "We had leaders in the '60s, your uncle, your father. We need a leader like that today--maybe you...?" And she trailed off. There was a heartbeat or two of embarrassed silence. Then the microphone was passed on to the next questioner.
You know what? I was disappointed.
It took me a day or two to realized how very unfair that reaction really was. For one thing, I wasn't alive when JFK was assassinated. I don't have any first-hand knowledge of that era, and the mood and the people and the culture. It seems terribly unfair to hold a living human being up to a fallen hero that I never followed, I've only heard stories about.
I'm don't really know that much about RFK Jr., but I will plug his book, Crimes Against Nature : How George W. Bush and His Corporate Pals Are Plundering the Country and Hijacking Our Democracy. (The title pretty much reveals everything you can expect from the book itself.)
Among other things, Kennedy says point blank (in this interview) that GW is "the most corrupt and immoral President that we have had in American history."
RFK Jr. also refers to something Herman Goerring said:
I just thought it bore repeating. I'll give you a second to digest it, in case you hadn't seen it before.
Artificially linking the Nuremberg Trials with current environmental issues might seem a bit forced; however, RFK Jr. made it seem perfectly logical. This article is worth reading. So is this one.
By way of parting, since we're speaking of that era, I'll also direct you to Eisenhower's farewell speech:
So when I went to listen to Robert Kennedy Jr. speak, Saturday evening, I think I was hoping for something akin to the Kennedys of my mother's fond remembrance.
I also want to make note of the rather disappointing turn-out for his speech. Seattle is a pretty liberal city, but the appearance was poorly publicized--no doubt at least partly to blame for the small crowd.
I noticed that the folks who did show up and sit through the speech--rightfully denouncing illegal coal-burning power-plants--all expressed a longing for a 60's-style Kennedy to follow. They said this either directly or obliquely--but the longing was apparent. During the question and answer period, over and over, people asked: What can we do? Who can we follow? We remember your father, we remember your uncle.
The mostly unspoken question--are you like them?--went unanswered. One woman gamely hung on to the microphone and said, "We had leaders in the '60s, your uncle, your father. We need a leader like that today--maybe you...?" And she trailed off. There was a heartbeat or two of embarrassed silence. Then the microphone was passed on to the next questioner.
You know what? I was disappointed.
It took me a day or two to realized how very unfair that reaction really was. For one thing, I wasn't alive when JFK was assassinated. I don't have any first-hand knowledge of that era, and the mood and the people and the culture. It seems terribly unfair to hold a living human being up to a fallen hero that I never followed, I've only heard stories about.
I'm don't really know that much about RFK Jr., but I will plug his book, Crimes Against Nature : How George W. Bush and His Corporate Pals Are Plundering the Country and Hijacking Our Democracy. (The title pretty much reveals everything you can expect from the book itself.)
Among other things, Kennedy says point blank (in this interview) that GW is "the most corrupt and immoral President that we have had in American history."
RFK Jr. also refers to something Herman Goerring said:
Naturally, the common people don't want war... (but)
it is always a simple matter to drag people along ... All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in every country.--Herman Goerring, the Nuremberg trials,1946.
I just thought it bore repeating. I'll give you a second to digest it, in case you hadn't seen it before.
Artificially linking the Nuremberg Trials with current environmental issues might seem a bit forced; however, RFK Jr. made it seem perfectly logical. This article is worth reading. So is this one.
By way of parting, since we're speaking of that era, I'll also direct you to Eisenhower's farewell speech:
Disappointingly, my mother voted for Bush. I have no fucking idea why. I keep thinking that if I can only understand that, I'll have a beginning of an idea what we're up against, and how to combat it.In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.
We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.
Atlanta Nights
I mentioned a sting on Publish America, a few posts back. The book, Atlanta Nights, will shortly be getting an ISBN of its very own. It has a blogosphere radar profile rapidly becoming incandescent.
If you need to catch up, the official press release explains the chain of events beautifully. The story of the pseudonym "Travis Tea" is nearly as entertaining as the book. The acceptance letter from PublishAmerica is here, and the contract is here.
Meanwhile, you can watch the ongoing discussion at Absolute Write, Making Light, Critters,or Metafilter. You can also see what one of the involved authors had to say about the whole idea on Robin Hobb's newsgroup. Look fast, because I don't think those archives hang around very long.
It all serves as a cautionary tale for those searching for a book publisher: scams abound, and there is no shortage of unscrupulous companies and individuals willing to exploit new writers.
Proceeds from the sales of Atlanta Nights will benefit the Science Fiction Writers of America's Emergency Medical fund.
If you need to catch up, the official press release explains the chain of events beautifully. The story of the pseudonym "Travis Tea" is nearly as entertaining as the book. The acceptance letter from PublishAmerica is here, and the contract is here.
Meanwhile, you can watch the ongoing discussion at Absolute Write, Making Light, Critters,or Metafilter. You can also see what one of the involved authors had to say about the whole idea on Robin Hobb's newsgroup. Look fast, because I don't think those archives hang around very long.
It all serves as a cautionary tale for those searching for a book publisher: scams abound, and there is no shortage of unscrupulous companies and individuals willing to exploit new writers.
Proceeds from the sales of Atlanta Nights will benefit the Science Fiction Writers of America's Emergency Medical fund.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Today, January 27th
Today is the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. I wish I could think of something new and profound to write, on this day. But these events happened a couple of decades before I was even born--and anything I might try to add would sound hollow. And redundant. At least to me.
But I can offer a prayer--
And a picture is worth a thousand words.
Especially when there just aren't words, enough.
But I can offer a prayer--
And a picture is worth a thousand words.
Especially when there just aren't words, enough.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Oh, LOOK!
I've done something hopelessly stupid to my template.
Bear with me, while I try to figure out why the sidebar has dropped to the bottom of the posts....
*sigh* Now, if only I weren't such a complete techno-moron, I could fix it, and add some snazzy new features while I was at it.
Edited to say: All better now.
Bear with me, while I try to figure out why the sidebar has dropped to the bottom of the posts....
*sigh* Now, if only I weren't such a complete techno-moron, I could fix it, and add some snazzy new features while I was at it.
Edited to say: All better now.
Strange new world...
I've recently bumped into the strange and skewed world of fanfic.
I'm not going to post any links, since a quick google search will certainly land anyone who cares to look in the middle of more fanfic than they can shovel themselves back out of.
Now, please understand that the adjectives "strange" and "skewed" aren't meant in a derogatory way; rather, I find myself at a loss for any other way to describe this stuff. Some of it is frankly awful.
But some of it is disconcertingly...well-written. I almost said good, but then I had an attack of goody-two-shoes ethical heebie-jeebies at the idea of appropriating someone else's characters and universe, and then moving stuff around without permission.
A couple of the interesting things, writerly ethics aside:
1.) My gawd...to write a story that takes such strong hold of readers that they can't let go of it once it's over...
2.) Interesting compulsion to "finish" someone else's story: the writer let me down by not pushing this as far as I think s/he could/should have...
3.) Slash: What the hell is this about? In some cases, about the fan's own unresolved sex-stuff, of course. In other cases, perhaps about tension the author/creator set up, that went nowhere, leaving fans feeling like the tension was unresolved, and the promised pay-off didn't happen.
I'm just sayin'.
It bears thinking about.
I'm not going to post any links, since a quick google search will certainly land anyone who cares to look in the middle of more fanfic than they can shovel themselves back out of.
Now, please understand that the adjectives "strange" and "skewed" aren't meant in a derogatory way; rather, I find myself at a loss for any other way to describe this stuff. Some of it is frankly awful.
But some of it is disconcertingly...well-written. I almost said good, but then I had an attack of goody-two-shoes ethical heebie-jeebies at the idea of appropriating someone else's characters and universe, and then moving stuff around without permission.
A couple of the interesting things, writerly ethics aside:
1.) My gawd...to write a story that takes such strong hold of readers that they can't let go of it once it's over...
2.) Interesting compulsion to "finish" someone else's story: the writer let me down by not pushing this as far as I think s/he could/should have...
3.) Slash: What the hell is this about? In some cases, about the fan's own unresolved sex-stuff, of course. In other cases, perhaps about tension the author/creator set up, that went nowhere, leaving fans feeling like the tension was unresolved, and the promised pay-off didn't happen.
I'm just sayin'.
It bears thinking about.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Publish and Perish
Heh. Seems that a group of writers from SFWA recently executed a rather telling sting against Publish America. You can read all about it here on the Absolute Write website.
The involved parties are understandably gleeful about showing PA up VERY publicly for exactly the scummy, scammy, exploitative operation they really are. And they deserve to feel glee. If you look at the manuscript, it is funny. Hold-your-sides, blood-pressure-popping funny.
Many of the writers involved with the project have taken no end of crappy and abusive repercussions for the work they do to expose this company. PA preys on the dreams of would-be writers with all the avarice and slick patter of a telephone con-artist working a scheme to part senior citizens from their savings.
At the same time, I feel so profoundly sad for the people who labored long hours--giving up time with family, staying up too late, and rising before any one else was awake--to finish a book they dreamed of selling. A book they loved and believed in. And in the face of all this, I think the PA authors that continue to defend their company aren't really defending Publish America at all, deep down.
They are trying very hard to continue to defend that book they love and believe in.
Ouch.
The involved parties are understandably gleeful about showing PA up VERY publicly for exactly the scummy, scammy, exploitative operation they really are. And they deserve to feel glee. If you look at the manuscript, it is funny. Hold-your-sides, blood-pressure-popping funny.
Many of the writers involved with the project have taken no end of crappy and abusive repercussions for the work they do to expose this company. PA preys on the dreams of would-be writers with all the avarice and slick patter of a telephone con-artist working a scheme to part senior citizens from their savings.
At the same time, I feel so profoundly sad for the people who labored long hours--giving up time with family, staying up too late, and rising before any one else was awake--to finish a book they dreamed of selling. A book they loved and believed in. And in the face of all this, I think the PA authors that continue to defend their company aren't really defending Publish America at all, deep down.
They are trying very hard to continue to defend that book they love and believe in.
Ouch.
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