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.

It's a Marshmallow World

The 19th of December, two days before the official start of Winter, we were blanketed by nearly a foot of snow, still holding out for another storm predicted for Sunday. The cold air blew down and it looks as though someone packed Frosty with pack of TNT and lit the fuse. I suppose it's nice to have flakes a'fallin around Christmas, and it does look quite picturesque, but two snow storms on the heels of an ice storm that sucked power from most of Massachusetts may be asking for a little too much Holiday Cheer. And, it seems, the Pacific Northwest wouldn't have been much refuge this week, as the Portland Metro area was hunkering down for record snowfall, according to the National Weather Service. This stuff is everywhere.

I took a few photographs, with the original intent of sending them to my brother, of the house and yard, but thought, "What the hell?" So, now they're being posted for all to enjoy.

Up top, my dad is snow-blowing the driveway in the windchilled air. He gets awful picky about the driveway and refuses to accept any help. We were relegated to the porch and stairs once he fired up the blower.

Over on the right, a lovely shot of the house through the trees. There isn't much narrative here; you see what I see. If you'll notice, however, the snow is still falling.

Passengers on the left side of the aircraft should notice our old hitching post and the snow-touched trees bent with time and loose soil.

It's winter in New England. We've got our rock salt and shovels, a hot pot of coffee and some beef stew. We'll just hunker down and wait to complain about hot humid it will be in July. We're a fickle bunch.

The Graveyard of Good Intentions

As you may have noticed, this blog has fallen on hard times. Without a clear topic (i.e. Portland urban exploration), I'm finding difficulty in locating a new direction. I began writing on this ramshackled-melange of diodes and processors under the personal restriction of avoiding my soapbox. I have some difficulty with blogs promoting a personal agenda, without the organization of some ethos. I don't want to lampoon the world of my observation or stumble across hidden truths, like Homer in the twelfth episode of season six, "The Computer Wore Menace Shoes."I mean, I'm no Mr. X, or anything. And I don't want to be secretly shipped to a hidden island where koalas wear costume spectacles. Besides, my opinions are mine and I don't want you to get them.

On the other hand, Worcester County is an ancient beast lumbering toward the inevitable, and I can't imagine treating it as I did Portland. I could explore the abandoned Outlet Mall downtown or check out the new fire station. But who cares? I could focus on television gossip and report on my favorite shows, but I can't devote enough time to television to write about what happens on television. Or, I could post pictures of my bowling pin in and around local points of interest... oh wait, that's not me. It's the other Matt.

If you have any good ideas, let me know. I'm here.

Don't be fooled!

Three Weeks and Three Thousand Miles

The decision to re-relocate, while brewing for some time, came quickly, and we had everything packed and shipped in nearly a week. If you haven't been privy to this information before, here it is: We've moved back to Massachusetts. It's a long and disheartening story, and I'm sorry I know it first hand. Basically, poor timing and supervision curtailed our whirlwind excursion to the Pacific Northwest, and it's best to leave it at that. I've swallowed the humble pie whole, nearly choking myself in the process, and feel a lasting tinge of failure reinforced by the extended job search in Massachusetts. I still receive reminders of the tight, Portland job market every once in while, as another gem of rejection appears between those Yahoo! parentheses.

The drive back, though more disappointing than the first, was more manageable, as we are now road-tested marathoners and the Fit has seen its share of opposing coast lines. We set off for Idaho Falls, ID, on Thursday, November 13. Arriving safely, I still can't believe I didn't see a potato. I think it's a conspiracy, a grand scheme of the Idaho Tuber Commission to fool America into believing Idaho has some value and shouldn't be divvied up and converted into Eastern Oregon and Washington. For everyone else disappointed with the scenery of a long Idahoan drive, here's the jewel of Potato alley and its rich, volcanic soil:
Take a good look, you farming bastards. This is what the people want; proof of your value to society, your contribution to the starchy gut of Americana, Solanum tuberosum Linnaeus, your supposed battle cry in the world economy of starchy fuels.

The drive can grow tedious and the mile meld together. Come back soon to read about our trip through the Rockies and Deer Chop Suey Alley.

Dia de los Wierdos

Traditionally, November 1st marks the point when most of Anglo-America packs away its paper skeletons, composts its soggy jock-o-lanterns, and gorges itself on stores of candy from the previous evening. We've all snuck a few leftover Peanut Butter cups and fun-size Snickers in between masked callers, and the first of November is high time to pull in those empty calories and poisonous, complex sugars. Also, most of the commercial world has begun to lay Christmas on pretty thick. In the blink of a sugar-shocked eye, automated, motion-detecting skeletons and cackling witch mannequins have vanished from Target shelves and candy relocated to the Clearance bins while self-lighting pine trees and tinseled wreaths sprout up to dominate the shopping landscape. It's a crying shame how quickly we're forced to move into Christmas when our Halloween cavities haven't had a chance to pock the enamel of our molars. Don't rush All Hallow's Eve; it's a holiday with a lot of potential.

Luckily, as Portlanders have made such an effort to keep the city weird, a large cross-section of this liberal Northwestern hamlet have extended Trick-or-Treat time into a sacred, Latino festival; Dia de los Muertos (or Day of the Dead for those of us that missed the bilingual Sesame Street as kids). The festivities often include large banquets held in honor of dead ancestors, processions to cemeteries, and vigils in remembrance of the departed. Since Portland's a beer city, these sacred rituals and practices have morphed into a large party. And we were invited!
Saturday night, we joined several other Muerto observers for the Vagabond Opera, a group of musicians with amazing musical talent and an impressive stage presence. The show, held in the Wonderland Ballroom, began at 9:00 PM with a nameless performer (nameless to us, anyway) who entered the hall, skeleton mask donned, banging a shovel and carrying a sign. It was a poor man's STOMP, an opening with which I was not impressed. In fact, I would rather have most of his opening act erased from my memory and replaced with an hour-long verse of Henry the Eighth, I am, I am. Second verse same as the first... And so on. He performed his little pauper heart out. He had a squeeze-box and an acoustic guitar; he sang unintelligibly; he talked without the aid of a microphone, and he told us a story. The story was stupid, to be frank. It was long and slow and killed any momentum previously gained. The story, about a street performer selling his fingers to improve his play and impress a girl until no fingers were left, seemed like the low point of his set until he immediately followed story-time with a really slow and quiet song, which drove me out of doors, into the rainy November night for a cigarette. I was bored, send in the Marlboro Man. The performer, Jason something, I think, rallied by throwing penny-filled, plastic bottles into the crowd like crappy instruments for a second-grade music class and relying on the audience to imitate violins and trumpets for one of his songs. I did not participate. I attended to be entertained, not to work. His set, so convoluted and disorganized, was at one point interrupted by the headliner's stage crew because they thought he was finished. Trained professionals had no idea what the hell this guy was doing. What hope was there for me? Sadly, the roadies were early and Jason whatever needed to perform his Hymn to the Tomato. Again, he banged his shovel on the stage and repeatedly chanted, "Tomato." The bumper sticker says, "Keep Portland Weird," not, "Make Portland Retarded" jackass.

He left the stage, thankfully, and I sighed with relief. The Vagabond Opera slowly established their stage, hanging a band sign behind the drum set and adding a few microphones. We had been reassured by former attendees that the show would greatly and immediately improve with the musicianship of the Opera, but after Jason who, I was skeptical.I have to admit, I was occasionally mesmerized by the band's skill, especially the cellist, an amazing player. However, in between those moments of sparkly hypnosis, I was confused. The best I can do in describing the Vagabond Opera is LSD-laced, Circus Cabaret. They were a throwback to Swing bands and Rat Pack lounge singers. But there's a reason the swing craze of the early nineties ended in the early nineties and America fed the Rat Rack d-CON. And that coffin should remain shut. The stage show dragged on for over an hour; I say over an hour and not exactly how long because Amber and I left early. Between the stress of her week and my cynicism, we just couldn't stay the entire time. However, celebrating Dia de los Muertos was an enjoyable success and something I've waited for since 10th grade Spanish class.