Out of the fog. . .

Having finally come out of the fog of foolish despair, I've been energized anew for the Writing Project. Friends keeping note will be happy to know that I've begun book three full on. Chapter 1 is completed and 2 is not that far behind. Of course I realize that the rewriting of book one is not yet complete, nor is the finalization of book two any closer. But I'm very excited about the Project and so I feel strongly that it shouldn't be too much longer. I think that all I needed was an emotional kick in the ass to get me going again. It's also been helpful to finally realize that, yes, I can do two things at once in terms of going out to my favourite coffee shop to work on the rewrites and put myself out there for someone to possibly take an interest in, and then going home after a few hours to work on books three and four. That way, I'm not forever in my cave and my goals are being completed apace.

Chocolate and espresso helps too.

To be or not to be. . .

Or. . . the pros and cons of being single.

This time of year is a bit difficult because the sun is much farther south and so I suffer through a lack of light and I get lonely.

In every single relationship I've been in, there have been more cons than pros and so I've generated a list of what I do not want in a relationship. It is longer than what I do want and so I had come to the conclusion that being single is a hell of a lot easier.

Or so I thought.

Pros:

I have all the personal space and time I want, (minus the cats.) Chris, the co-dependant and Tracy and Lisa, the jealous types.

I don't have to keep my home white-glove spotless, just sanitary. Stephenie, the snob.

I don't have to tell where I'm going or how long I'll be gone. Lisa, Stephanie and Tracy, the jealous types.

I can spend time with friends without worrying about the jealous trip. Lisa, Stephenie and Tracy.

I do my own laundry. Stephenie, the snob.

I keep comfortably odd hours. Very, very odd hours. Tracy and Stephenie, the control freaks.

I watch the shows I like. Tracy, the idiot who doesn't understand Brittish humour.

I can eat what I want when I want. Tracy, the materialist control freak.

I don't have to deal with negative attitudes about everything. Tracy, the drenched wet blanket.

I am the only insecure person here. Stephenie, Tracy, Lisa. . .

I'm not self-conscious about having false teeth or hairy legs. Stephenie, the snob.

I don't have to change any aspect of myself just so the other person will shut up about what ever it is they want me to change. Stephenie and Tracy, the snob and the control freak.

I don't have to celebrate the holiday I hate most: Valantine's Day. (Icky poo mush, mush.) Tracy, the pathetic romantic who thinks that a chair full of useless gifts are the way to a person's heart.

And last but certainly the most important, I can work on my Writing Project without someone getting in its way and then getting jealous over it. Creativity keeps me sane, and every person I'd been with has always, always tried to pull me away from it. Each and every one of them. . .

Now, for the cons:

There is no one to come home to.

There is no one to be held by while watching a show.

There is no one to cook for.

There is no one to keep me sane after a bad day at work.

There is no one to look up to.

There is no one to share my creativity with.

And so, again, I have come to the conclusion that being single is best for me because there is no one out there who can or would even want to put up with me.

It's going to be a long winter.

Another dimension of the bizzare. . .

Once upon a time, my neice and I were strolling innocently through the Ross Creek Cedars when, suddenly we stepped into another forest that looked much like the one we had left. Whereas in the previous forest there were flora and fauna that kept to themselves, this grove had within it entities that did not. As we tred carefully past the giant trees that seemed to bend a long hard look to our presence, tree clams suddenly opened their maws and reached for our faces!

We ran and ran, looking for the exit but eventually finding none. So we took up fallen sticks with which to defend ourselves and proceeded with extreme caution.

As we continued slowly on our trek, we encountered cave-like openings within some of the trees. Cautiously, we peered inside and found to our horror several people who had been taken in and wrapped in thick webs, and who were fiercely guarded by more tree clams who giggled diabolically and had short little legs.

Again we ran and frantically searched for a way out, yet still found none.

We then decided to make a small camp as night was encroaching across the sky. A small fire going, (made with wood not related to the animated trees), we sat around it and listened to the night.

It was very quiet. Too quiet, and we began to fear for our very lives. Would the tree clams hunt after us while we slept? Would the trees gather our slumbering bodies with their crawling roots? These and other questions kept our eyes wide open and our hearts drumming.

But it remained very quiet within this dark place and we had no way of knowing what was planned for us.

Then hunger overcame our fear and so we cooked up a little meal and ate in silence, all the while clutching our meagre defence of sticks.

Suddenly, something landed with a thump in the fire, and when we looked, we saw a large pinecone. Knowing what happens to pinecones in fire, we jumped up and stepped back a fair distance for safety.

Nothing happened. We looked at each other and decided to wait it out a little more. But still, nothing happened in the quiet of the forest night.

Then we heard it. Faint at first, there was what sounded like laughter, a high chirping sound that echoed all around. It grew louder, and then louder still until, suddenly, we were surrounded by ninja squirrels with light sabres. They circled us in a dance-like formation, waving those terrible wands at us and laughing maniacally. Then more pinecones fell from above, each one aimed at our heads with uncanny precision until, finally wearied by the onslaught, we succumbed and fell to these horrible entities.

"Dinner's ready!" says my brother.

My neice and I shut down the game and thankfully took our normal seats around the normal table and ate our fill of good food within the safety of our home.

We then lived happily everafter.

The end.

Uh oh. Religion.

Now that Thanksgiving is over and the "holidays" have officially begun, I thought I'd take a moment to share my recent ideas about religion.

This is a thing that has been on my mind for the last few weeks and, quite frankly, I am disgusted by what I've discovered.

What is religion? Rather, what is the purpose of religion?

Mysterium Tremendum. That which is beyond explaination.

A friend of mine and I were discussing this recently. She is a pastor at a local church and so understands what religion is supposed to provide in the way of self-betterment, enlightenment and Humanity's evolution toward these goals.

But that's not what is really happening. Bureaucracy has taken hold and thus compartmentalized religions all over the world to the point where there is separation, (to the extreme of violence), of Humanity and of the very nature of the Myterium Tremendum. Religion was never to be used as a means of social control, information hoarding or discemination, to put one's self above others, to condemn those who think and feel differently, to use as a rallying point for war, or to do anything else that infringes upon free will.

I am not against religion. But I am very much against the orginization of it. Bureaucracy is very, very bad and should have never attempted the task of controllong how religion works. Mysterium Tremendum is way beyond the materialistic and should remain so. Enlightenment cannot happen otherwise.

Coffee in Hand

I have only three types of companions when writing: music, cats and coffee. . . A lot of coffee. I do not like it black and I use soy milk for creamer. The Cats? Not much of a choice there. They don't like coffee, especially when they "accidentally" knock mine over and it gets all over them. The faces they make while licking their fur are a bundle of laughs, their vocal protests jarring with the Steve Roach music in the background.

Seriously. . . I think most artists have an addiction or two, and one of those addictions happens to be of coffee. So what is it about coffee that makes the creative world go round? Is it the actual taste? But coffee, I hear, is an acquired taste. And there are many different blends, beans and roasts to choose from. I personally like the so-called French Roast. Sumatra is good too, especially on rainy days.

But honestly, I think it's the idea of coffee. The warm, rich and mild or bold taste only enhances the coffee experience when coupled with the artistic moment. It's the idea of something just outside the accepted realm of general society, eccentric, classic, artsy. . .and my personal favourite, sophisticated. Or rather, it used to be slightly outside the norm. . .

An instructer from long ago had opened up a coffee shop called Brew HaHa. I remember how proud she was of having this tiny cafe in the middle of downtown Spokane because there were, at the time, so few of such places. I also remember how she had become a bit cocky with the notion and often likened the cafe-owning experience to something foriegn to this country. I think she actually tried to Frenchify it, thus revealing she had been in love with the idea rather than the actuality. (She too was an artist.)

But it is the idea fitting so well with the artistic circumstance that makes it so very intriguing, almost other-worldly, perhaps even magical.

Until you find a few cat hairs in a full cup. . .

Writing Rightly. . .again

One of my bosses, a co-worker and I were talking about writing and how we make notes for large projects such as college papers or stories. The co-worker does the spider web type of notating where as the boss and I are linear, either to the side or down below or both. The co-worker informed us that Microsoft Office has a new notating program that employs something like the spider web bubble type. I made the comment that I can't do such a thing on the computer and that all my notes have to be hand-written, along with everything else. Knowing that I'm writing a book series, the boss asked if I write out everything. I said yes, and then explained that because I wasn't exposed to computers until I was in highschool, I hadn't become reliant upon them and so the creative process melded to pens and pencils. (Though now I use only pencil.) She also knows that I write very, very, very small. The running joke at work is: "Don't let Mary write anything by hand because we can't read it without a magnifying glass."

Seriously though: The skill of hand-writing is a dying art. And though I see that computers, like the word processors and type-writers of before, are tools and that we can do nifty things, such as blogging, with them, I fear that we may have become too reliant upon them. I run into kids now that have only a two to three-week training on cursive. I remember learning it in forth grade and being required to use it for the rest of my school carreer. And when encountering these young people who text rather than write, I feel very much like the ghost ship above.

Swine Flu (part two)

Need I really say more?

Actually I probably should so as to warn anyone who reads this about the wonderful anti-viral medication called Tamaflu. It has the propensity to excite the oracular centres of the mind in such a way as to show alterier dimensions in the space-time continuum and elsewhere.

As if delerium wasn't exciting enough.

However, I will admit that, despite the entertaining side effects, had it not been for Tamaflu I would have ended up in the hospital in critical condition due to a very, very high fever. I have not been this ill for over twenty years. So I now consider myself very lucky to have caught the symptoms in time and taken action to get through it without a hospital trip. (Though the other trips were quite fun. . .)

Today is actually the first day without a fever, and, if cleared by the good doctor, I should be able to return to work this coming week, for which I know my supervisor will be very, very glad. . .I hope.

Swine Flu

Whenever the flu season hits, I hardly ever get it. If I get it, then it's usually just a mild cold that lasts a couple days. When working in a shelter this seemingly strong immune system is a very good thing.

But now there is this swine flu to which I have fallen without much grace. It has been at least two decades since I had run a temperature above 101 and so I had forgotten what it's like to be a bit delerious. (By the way, my normal body temperature is about 97, so a 101 for me is like a 103 to others.) The closest analogy I can come up with is that it's a lot like being drunk under water. (Don't ask.) Also, all one can do is sit and watch TV while wondering why the cats do nothing to help which then leads to some pretty wild notions of bio-technology for the cats so they can be of assistance. Then this train of thought begins to include what is occurring on the TV, which happens to be the SciFi channel, with the heroes going to other worlds through the stargate with the cats. The cats return, seemingly unaffected until their eyes glow and they begin talking with really deep voices about how I too must become host to a symbiote.

The good doctor stuck me in a kind of quarrantine where I cannot go to work for at least seven days, (which really sucks on the financial end and especially for my supervisor who has to fill the shifts), then prescribed Tamaflu and a lot of water and juice. So, once I could gain some semblance of reality, I went out to get it before I experienced more alien abductions of cats. (But the cars, on the other hand, were driving on air.) Now, thankfully, the Tamaflu is cutting the symptoms in half and so only one cat has been abducted instead of both of them.

Writing rightly, part two. . .

I have just completed the first draft of book two of the Writing Project and then decided that, since it is a four-book project, I will be working on all books at once. I came to this decision because I recently found that writing, for me, is very much like working on a visual piece where all parts are worked on simultaniously. Some writers can do a series in succession and it works. Not me. The story that I'm relating is very much like the ghost in the above image. It cannot be picked apart bit by bit nor written like a school paper because the story is an entire entity. It comes to me in flashes, vague or solid, and then begins to fit itself together as other aspects are glimpsed over time. This adds time to the Project, but I also have come to accept that, because Time itself is relative and cannot be hurried.

Out There. . .

If immortality were possible, say through cryogenics or some other passive process, I would opt for it just so I could have the opportunity to go out into space. That is if and when our species decides to get its collective head out of its arrogant and spiteful ass. At the rate we seem to be going, it looks as if we may never go beyond our solar system.

But if we do manage to survive our large collection of mistakes, if we start paying attention to the young and energetic and brilliant minds emerging from this mess called society, then perhaps we'll make it to another system or even another galaxy.

So then I would opt for immortality. . . just to see what is out there and to be reminded that we are not alone, that we are a part of something extraordinary and can learn from it.

Someday.

Writing Rightly. . .again

Having now gotten over what I term the "Moon Fever", I have taken up the Writing Project task again. Not that writing emotional poetry and prose is a bad thing, but it gets in the way of the things I feel I need to do in order to remain Human.

Book two of the Writing Project is nearly ready to be put on the computer and edited thus. For those who don't know, I write by hand first.

Which reminds me: there was an MSNBC article about the death of cursive. A shame, really. I mean, what would people do if all of a sudden they could not use their computers to communicate with the written word? Talk on the phone all day and night? The USPS would see a rise in service. That is if people even remember how to write with pencils and pens. Even though I understand that computers and keyboards are yet another set of tools, I strongly feel that we should never become too reliant upon them. We already suffer from, what the late Frank Herbert termed in his "Dune" series, "hydrolic dependancy". I certainly hope our great nation never has a nation-wide black out.

Hated Eros

It is the original Eros, first born of Earth and Heaven, primal, elemental, who has struck my flesh with feathered flames and blinded my mind within a labrynth of falsely lighted night. Against such raw forces of pure nature, I am absolutely nothing, save but as an irritating spark in your eye and never more than a flagrant leaf torn apart by those fiery winds shot from the ethers of Tartarus.
I scream at the Gods above and at the Titans below to grant me the key, any key, for my quick release! But, like you, they refuse to answer, remaining as silent as their rotted-out temples and the scattered dust of forgotten offerings left by history's countless love-sick fools.
If only you would cause me to hate you completely, instead of this half-measure notion pierced and polluted by arrow points of taunting memory and false hope, then I could complete my chosen and godless destiny to string my own flames and let fly the stars. Then, and only then, could I thank you for your lessons, light a flame in your memory and thus forget you utterly.

Obsessions

While in Montana over my weekend, I was thinking about criminal minds. (I was watching that particular show as well.) What we see on TV and in the news about criminal minds in the cases of obsession are the extreme sides of such behaviours. Obsession in of itself is an extremely difficult thing to deal with, not only for the object of said attentions, but also very much for the one obsessing. It is an incredibly debilitating experience, often getting in the way of what would be considered a normal life and leading to the high expences of psycho-therapy. Make no mistake, I do not think it is okay to obsess. However, one must take into consideration that, in most cases, the person doing the obsessing DOES NOT WANT TO think about the object of the obsession. Things like "getting a hobby", "going out to mingle" and other such jewels of advice simply do not work. Even therapy does not take away the seed that was planted. Nor does time erase that which precipitated the often painful experience of having unwanted thoughts popping in unexpectedly.
So my advice to anyone who is obsessing over another poor soul is: bite your lower lip and learn to live with it, because it is forever a part of our lives and rarely will the object of our obsessions succeed in turning our thoughts of them away. Oh, and don't do anything illegal because you actually do have a lot to lose whether or not you think it.

Montana wolf hunting

When I read an article about how it was going to be allowed for hunters to meet a wolf hunting quota of 75 wolves and that it was even going to be allowed in the first place, I don't think I have ever been quite so angry. Now, before anyone gets their panties in a bunch over the "fact" that wolves are predators and "deserve to be hunted", let's just take a moment to evaluate the Human equation. Wolves and other predators do not create nuclear weapons. They do not fly aeroplanes into buildings. They do not fight and kill each other over money or other material objects. They do not rape and sell children. And the list goes on of all the nasty, unecological and immoral things Humans have done and still, to this day, do. So the question is: what creature on this planet is the worst kind of predator?

Homunculis

She's a sprite,

giggling, tickling and no longer

contained.

Poking and prodding,

she remembers her birth

from your red-pencil reply:

"Perhaps if circumstances were different. . ."

I've tried to keep her close

and well-behaved.

But she just pops out

with a wide-eyed grin

to dance and laugh with maniacal innocence,

liking the bright light

and the chance for fun,

freedom and a damn good ribbing

now and then

and nothing more.

And she is all yours.

Nothing ordinary

Here is an excellent example of transforming the ordinary into something entirely unexpected and transcendent. Dare we bust out of our jars and go beyond our limited expectations? I dare you.

Once Upon a Time. . .

. . .there was love. True love.

We danced in joy,

cooked each other dinner and gave each other flowers.

We wrote each other poetry,

played music to the stars

and shared bottles of wine.

Because we loved.

We walked hand in hand among the trees,
made love in the Spring flowers,
or in the Autumn leaves.
Yes, we loved.

There were no hang-ups,

no inhibitions about age, gender or social status.

Because we loved freely,

fiercely and tenderly

and our passions were the envy

of the gods.

Because we could love.

And if it endured we were glad.

If it faded, we moved on without anger or regret.

Because once upon a time

we all loved.

Testament

http://www.smashingmagazine.com/2009/03/20/30-beautiful-surreal-and-dark-art-pictures/

"This life is only a test. If it were an actual life, you would have been told what to do, where to go and exactly how to get there."

Twisted interpretations

http://psd.tutsplus.com/articles/inspiration/48-mind-blowing-examples-of-photo-manipulation-art/

I selected from this site a few more visuals that could describe the emotional chaos of the young and impressionable. Oh, and how impressionable we all are when lost inside the heart.

Storms

If I were lightening,
I'd scratch my name across the sky
and flash before your eyes
the slashing flares in my heart,
and pound sharp thunder
through your very soul
so you too could not forget.

Computer graphics and old Atari games

(We'll try this again since my hand hit the wrong button at the wrong time. . .)
Just got over with playing a game from Blitwise Productions called Neon Wars. I have just one phrase that describes this frenetic montauge of very bright colours: Asteroids on crack!

Computer graphics and old Atari games

What They Feel

This work by Andreea Anghel depicts what homeless kids usually feel about their situation. Homelessness is not just about having no address. It's also about having no identity or even the foundation from which to create one and therefore no reference to a social place other than what is designated to them by the "well-placed".

Nothing more than words. . .

I try to ignore
what's deep inside me
so the daily grunge can go on
until that day is done and I can close my eyes.
But it's a Phoenix
banked ember-bright down within
and hunkered within its own fires
and desires
scorching my untempered mind.
Useless ash then is scattered
to the four winds fanned
by the release of its flaming wings,
and it keeps burning
as though there is something left
more substansial than illusions;
a face,
a name
but never more
than a searing memory.

"Life here began out there."

When looking at pictures of other stars, of other galaxies, it truly blows my mind to hear people insist that we are the only ones in the Universe. Looking at the stars should be a sublime and humbling experience, not one of hubris.

When the moment strikes. . .

http://www.toxel.com/inspiration/2009/03/13/photo-manipulations-by-erik-johansson/

Sometimes you just have to do this to yourself.

mardis nenno - new work

mardis nenno - new work "Carry On"
Insomnia
This piece represents how my bed feels right now. Though it's relatively early for some, especially for those night owls, and even though I work nights, on my days off I have a non-vampire schedule and not sleeping at night really sucks. How can my dreams carry on when there is no sleep?

Art with Words

I drive eighty miles an hour
to reach a place free of your presence
and memory.
Petal to the metal and music drumming
to the sharp turns of the two-lane,
I seek the mountains now veiled in smoke
from wildfires and storms,
hoping to find some answers.
But those mountains,
like all the others from before,
jagged and glacier-capped,
touch the sky in a way that I cannot
and hold within their sharp folds
the folly of a wisdom
not meant for me.

Presentation

http://abduzeedo.com/crazy-photomanipulation

Most of the time we present to people something other than what we really are.

I totally love this particular piece because I have cats and I really like reptiles, and neither one are predictable.

"Go Fish"
http://maringouin.deviantart.com/art/Go-fish-129837685
This piece, found on deviantART, represents, I think, the constant trial and error of the adolescent experience. Even as adults we find ourselves in situations we never thought were possible.
But all things are possible, and rather than look down upon our youth as reckless and misguided "punks", we should support their courageous will and determination to try all things and learn for themselves through those experiences. How else will they have the confidence to take on what we consider to be adult responsibilities?
I just completed my three-night work week and I was once again amazed by the kids and their tenacity for survival in a concrete and glass world. And not only do they survive when many of us choose to give up, but they somehow find the means to express their very souls in a way most of us have forgotten.
Once again, Art is the act of expression and not the end result. Yet, the end result is truly beautiful.

Here is a link to Mardis' website so her work can be seen:
http://www.mardisnenno.com/shows/indelible.html#../images/indelible/wingChairRiser.jpg

Tasteful Work

I was looking around a bit on Digg.com and found some really cool street/house Artwork. Now this is definately something to brighten up our neighbourhoods!

mardis nenno - indelible

mardis nenno - indelible
"Spark Detail"
Think of being on the hot seat. Uncomfortable and relentless. That is what it's like for the homeless kids I work with. When they're on the hot seat, it's not about being in any kind of trouble with authority. It's about stressing out over where they're going to find shelter for the night, how they're going to get food for the day and especially about how they perceive, sometimes rightly, that the entire adult world is against them, and they feel deep down that their situation is truly indelible.
I say this notion now because tonight I begin my work week of three twelve-hour nights with these kids. I look forward to it on most days. On other days I would rather sit on the winged chair and pretend that this society is truly for the people.

Writing rightly

Today's notion is more about writing than about my former instructor's work. (Yes, Mardis was one of my Art instructors, and a damn good one too.)
Writing a four book series is very difficult. The trouble is not with destriptive settings and places, nor even the plots of the story itself. The challanges lay in wait in the form of the characters who have always had a mind of their own and are quite insistant about how their tale should be told. What's even more hilarious, (and I do find this experience quite laughable), is when a character comes along in a chapter, then dies in that same chapter.
When sunk in the creative process there is absolutely no room for an ego. Otherwise Art can't really happen, so, wanting this Writing Project, (as it's been dubbed over the last couple years), to be finished, I have really had to learn to let go of my own rather large ego. "I think, therefore I am" does not apply.

mardis nenno - safe passage

mardis nenno - safe passage

"Mary"

It's a good thing I know that my name is the most common one in the world. Otherwise I'd be a little worried. It's a good piece. I only wish the picture was larger so as to see the little details.

flying

"Wing Chair/Riser"
Flying while sitting is a sublime experience for artists in any field. As a writer, I quite literally feel as though I'm flying as the pencil is flipping across the page. It had been the same when I worked on illustrations many years ago. But when words held me aloft much longer than shapes and colours, that is when I truly found my wings. This piece by Mardis Nenno is, I think, the best example of the artistic experience.
But I have been wrong before.
P.S. As I am rather new to this site-creating thing and haven't yet figured out how to send pictures from one site to another, Google her full name and click on the top listing. Then you can see her work.