Are you sure God doesn't want it to die?

It's often said that distance makes the heart grow fonder and that if you love something then let it go. Therefore, I can only assume my absence from this blog has only made you appreciate me all the more. Well, thank you and don't think I take for granted how important I am in your lives.

Some of you know and some of you don't, Amber and I are back in Massachusetts and have settled closer to Boston. I'll be attending Emerson College graduate program in Communication Sciences and Disorders to become a Speech-Language Pathologist when I grow up, and living here made the most sense. But I feel settled and wanted to re-inject some e-life back into this lumbering sloth of a blog. I hope to continue with some regularity as the semesters pass me by, but the future is cloudy and I'm all out of fortune cookies.

Amber started with a garden when we moved in. See, we have a deck/patio and she always wanted potted plants and little vegetables. We bought peppers, cucumbers, basil, and a tomato plant. As the summer waned, I kept thinking that something must be eating our tomato plant, as the leaves had become stubs. However, I also thought the plant just didn't have the same fervor it displayed at the start of summer and was slowly dying. Cycle of life, and all. This seemed all the more plausible because I had never seen any sort of insect near the plant, and as a man of weak faith, I must see to believe. Today, however, I caught the herbivorous culprit... a Tomato Hornworm.Ugly little bastard, huh?

Anyway, when I saw this little guy gnawing away at my wife's tomato plant I nearly relived my entire childhood. I got so excited and gleeful that I ran in the house to grab my camera (hence the photos). I plucked him from the plant (gently, of course, you don't want pictures of a mangled caterpillar) and set off to get more pictures.

















Maybe I shouldn't have called him an ugly little bastard before. I mean, he does kind of grow on you. Well, whatever.

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble

This past weekend, Amber and I were in Salem looking for an apartment and visiting with some friends. The apartment search lacked much result; we only had one scheduled viewing, thumbs down. The place was alright, great location, but the landlord made Amber uncomfortable, kind of nosy. We heading back soon to look at a few more promising leads; I'm sure listing agents love Craigslist and the bodies it brings in. That's right, we're Craiglisters.

While in Witchville, I snapped a few shots.Historic Town Hall, maybe?Above is the Friend Ship. How cute.This is the Derby Square Book Shop. I love visiting this flea market of a bookstore.

Eternal Education

Last weekend, Amber and I went to Emerson College's Graduate School Open House. I've been accepted into their Communication Disorders/Speech Language Pathology program for the fall of 2009. It should take a little over two years, starting this summer with five pre-requisite classes. Overall, the day went very well, and speaking with the program directors settled several of my shaky nerves. It'll be expensive, cost being the main cause of my concern, but I hope this opportunity with offer me some professional and personal rewards as I graduate and move into the field. While in Boston, I snapped a few shots of the fog rolling into the city, blotting out many of the taller buildings and smudging the skyline.The Old Burying Ground just outside Emerson HQ

That's me with the bronze, amphibian Thinker at Boston's Frog Pond

Here's the encroaching fog just outside the Boylston Street T-Station

Bookworm

I've recently finished two novels by Walter Moers, The City of Dreaming Books and Rumo and His Miraculous Adventures. Both are fantastic, escapist stories of sci-fi protagonists embarking on relatively traditional quests. Dreaming involves a deathbed promise, while Rumo follows his heart. The twist in both novels are the characters themselves and the settings.Dreaming takes place in both Lindworm Castle and Bookholm, two cities populated with evolved dinosaurs noted for their adoration of the written word. Lindworm, famed for its writers and their intimate knowledge of the Orm, opens the story as the main character's authorial godfather draws his final breaths, reveals a secret manuscript (the best he's ever read), and demands his nephew find the author in Bookholm. The Orm is their version of the muse. Of course he sets of in the following weeks, a relative bumpkin in the bustling city of Bookholm, and falls into the mischievous and nearly Machiavellian constructs of the city's puppet-master. He's locked in the bowels of the city, where all the most expensive and valuable novels are stored, forgotten about, and then hunted by Bookhunters. Oh yeah, there are Bookhunters who do just what the name says and do it well. They're a militant bunch, very superstitious, that play a major role as the novel winds down. I feel in love with the book as I crashed through the pages, consuming Moers' words and illustrations and quickly went out to purchase Rumo immediately after the final page of Dreaming.
Rumo is a Wolperting (that's him, laughing in the middle; note the horns), a mythological hybrid of a wolf and a deer, renowned for its ferocity and fighting ability, a true warrior. Faster than any other creature in Zamonia, most citizens offer a wide berth when Wolpertings linger and avoid their private city entirely. Full of adventure and action, we follow the main character from his first steps to his first love, grazing past the varied species of Zamonia as Rumo fights to find and win his true love. With a slower pace than Dreaming, I better appreciated Moers' ability to create landscapes and entire worlds similar to our own, yet wrought with the amazing creatures of living dreams. He loves to play with words and develop characters in an entirely new setting.

Like Terry Pratchett and Discworld, Walter Moers exceeds at his chosen task to enhance our perspective of reality by exaggerating imagination and drawing upon the classic quest scenario, full of hero worship and insecurity. Moers explores the basic requirements for heroism and humanizes the fantastic worlds we each created as children. It is pure and enjoyable; plus, the illustrations are little treasures strewn throughout the novel, adding a sense of whimsy to some very tense situations.

Not so Sci-fi

I feel like writing something fantastic, not blow your mind fantastic, but fantasy fantastic. As it's not in my general vein, I'll give it a shot.

Ampelron, sage of Weildwin, watched the sun rise quietly over the blank plains of the east without much fanfare or glory. He had seen the same sight nearly every morning for twelve hundred years as part of his meditative regimen. The rising sun signaled the start of his three-hour water breathing exercise, a chore that chose him; one he would rather avoid as the lakes of Weildwin still stung with the chill of winter.

With a quiet, resigned sigh, Ampleron left the porch of his humble cottage. Traversing the hill to Whir Lake had become second nature, as meditation dictates. He climbed the granite outcroppings and slick rocks without watching each step while deep in thought. The land in the lakes region changed much more slowly than the greater continent, which allowed Ampleron the freedom to learn each pebble and clod of earth over time.

OK, this isn't great, but it's writing, and the rules of free-writing dictate, regardless of quality, one must continue to write. I won't be breaking into the dragon-infested world of fantasy literature any time soon, as you can see. Well, I tried and Tolkien I'm not. Sorry it's so short, but I haven't much patience right now and a marathon headache. Adios.

12 Echoes

Write a poem of twelve lines about whatever you want; each line must end with one of the following words: “down,” “accept,” “on” “life,” “light,” “flowerless,” “pulses,” “us,” “sun,” “heights,” “shrivel,” “little.” You may use the words in any order. Give the poem a title.

On Delicate Wings

I cannot dream without an audience of flowerless
eyes; hollow, empty, abandoned by light.

I cannot say their countenance haunts us,
so still, so stagnant. They stare, and I shrivel.

I have surrendered aspirations to attaining those heights,
as Icarus and even Daedalus learned to accept
the bindings of fate and misfortune drag dreams down.
Yet, falling meant reaching and drowning meant life.

the sun
pulses
little,
and my wax melts on.

I would like to recognize Prof. J. Bobrick for assigning a similar challenge during my undergraduate education and providing the twelve words used above.

Man in White

Today's self-imposed assignment:
Find a photograph and use it as inspiration for a brief story.I chose this picture from [daily dose of imagery] through my Google Reader account. Below is my story: "Man in White"

"I remember our wedding," the old man paused to reflect, "her lovely gown, my sweaty, shaking hands. I can't believe my nerves, fluttering like dry leaves on a windy November day."

He passed the Church and its skeletal steeples every day. The small loop through Camenta Park only took Albert a few minutes out of his way, minutes that seemed to have grown each lonely month since Virginia's passing. The extra steps were worth it, freshening the past and clearing some of the fog brought by age and solitude, so Albert sacrificed the energy for the sight their chapel and made his way home in quiet contemplation. He would always pause at the entrance and exit of Camenta to glance upward at the spires and their colorless peaks, or gaze reminiscently at a young couple beaming from archway through a flurry of confetti and lively cheers. Today, however, the steps remained empty but welcoming to wayward saints and weary sinners. With that thought, Albert chuckled, “Which am I?” he thought. “A good man too old to do good, or a fool too tried and tested to carry on?”

Losing Virginia had not been much of a surprise, but the shock tore at Albert’s heart; she had been his ballast, maintaining his everyday, shining his everynight. They were married as Poland fell to a psychopathic god clad in desolate olive and black, and their first few years subsisted with a promise to return. In good health, Albert kept his promise and life kept moving, days toward dreams, life toward death, and two toward one. The only movement left is from one to zero, and Albert had little strength left to stand in the way of sunset and could only wind his watch and wait to wind it again.

It hadn’t been much trouble and the clerk barely looked twice before accepting Albert’s money for a bundle of rope. Imagine if we understood the intent of others before they acted, not in retrospect when nothing could be done. We could help or hurt, but something would be different. Yet, star-crossed tragedy may lose its luster and life its flavor. Had he known, however, I doubt the clerk would have so quickly wished Albert a nice day. Just another body in line moving toward the exit, “Your change, and have a nice day.”

Once home, Albert sorted through his quiet parlor, then his living room, and finally, Virginia’s kitchen, cleaning and picking up the simple debris of widowhood. She loved the kitchen and barely allowed Albert entry, except to repair a dripping faucet or tighten a loose cabinet hinge. He would have cooked for her, but she was too enamored with the movement of energy from stove to food, the momentary instinct of knowing perfection before the rapid decline of over-cooking set in. Virginia kept each device and apparatus in her kitchen in perfect order, stainless and shining steel, bright and colorful enamel, robust and patinaed copper. Every inch and surface basked in her love and Albert had a difficult time inheriting the emotion tied into that room. He most often ordered a dinner, or dined-out alone, only using the microwave and coffee maker as Virginia allowed. The kitchen held most of Albert’s pain, as it had been Virginia’s room and still radiated her presence. The muffin pan still sat next to the oven as it had before the ambulance arrived; Albert could not return it to the pantry; could not touch it, could barely look at it through clear eyes.

He left the kitchen quickly, sat in his favorite armchair and scrawled a note in his arthritic script. Clutching the rope, Albert descended into his basement, tying off one solemn loop with thirteen bands. The rope tightened against the floor joists and Albert kicked softly.

Days later, Patrolman Angerona read Albert’s note quietly, “I miss my Ginnie,” and radioed dispatch.

Word Count: 648

10...9...8...

My first writing exercise will be a ten minute free-write, after which I will correct for spelling and grammar. The rules are to write for ten minutes without stopping or fixing for mistakes. I've already slapped backspace a half a dozen times and find it a bit more difficult than I had imagined, to type without taking a break. Occasionally, I'll pause and look for a key and think I'm stopping to think about what should follow. I keep backspacing when I notice a mistake in my typing, a difficult habit to break, for sure. Also, there's a glowing red line below occasionally from two sentences ago because I butchered its spelling, and that demonic line is driving me crazy. I can't bear to look at the screen, keeping my eyes on the keyboard , which affects my typing. The trick with this free-write exercise is to avoid your own head and let words come out naturally. I can't seem to figure this one out.

I chose not to follow any more stringent guidelines for my first exercise because I haven't made much effort in writing recently and thought it was more important to mount the challenge of making a fool out of myself on the blog by posting some foolish drivel that never ends. I assume you could always continue on your e-way once this bores you. It's more of a meditative and personal effort, this free-write stuff. I'm simply working on keeping familiarity with writing. I hope I don't run out of ideas with three minutes left to go.

I have read the rules for different free-write exercises and believe I'm supposed to reveal my thought process on the page (or web page), and I must admit, it's unnatural for me. I've always worked sentences out in my head before committing the to paper. Another confession, I've paused twice now in this paragraph alone and think I may need to keep practicing this exercise. And I'm sick of writing exercise over and over again. I want another word. I'm nearly finished with this, in the last minute, and I'm racing to get it done, pause, comma, drivel. That's the one problem I have with free-write: regardless of its worth or value, I'm writing for a time limit and cannot stop to improve.

P.S. All errors made during the session were later edited to save myself the embarrassment.

Structure.

Sorry I've neglected you for so long. I'm ashamed, really. I've been busy or trying to keep busy; I even started another blog to maintain writing. I didn't think the content of a new blog matched the purpose of this blog, therefore: new blog. You follow me, right?

The reason I've drawn you, my readers, together at this point is to relaunch the direction of this blog. At least temporarily. I want to write again and have decided to utilize my corner of the web to that end. I will be researching and experimenting with free-writing techniques and posting the results on this page. I hope to write every day, for at least ten minutes, and maintain a modicum of structure.

Once I begin, I encourage your comments and criticism with the hopes of improving what little skill I have, which I let dwindle in the recent past.