Breakfast buffet (biscuits with apple-cinnamon jelly! blintzes!). Panel on "Staying Focused," in which we described all the things that distract us. *g* Reading from Claim, at which someone got the oblique contemporary political commentary. (*g*) Lunch--crabmeat pizza! Awesome! Guest of Honor question and answer session (I got to talk about Shadow Unit--yaaayy! An hour out in the lobby talking to the folks with their spinning wheels, asking about equipment and techniques, and about one woman's marvelous portable wheel, a Merlin Tree Hitchhiker. Present from ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
twistedchick delivered: a moebius shawl-scarf in the most delicious autumn colors. Just what I needed for the chilly parts of the hotel! (Thank you--it's gorgeous, and I'm so sorry you weren't able to be there.)
Quick, back to programming room! for a panel on what writers owe to the audience. Then, autograph session!tammypierce signed more books than I did. Well, okay, she's written more books than I have. *g* But I signed lots. Admired a splendid beaded coyote-head brooch...and its owner gave it to me. (!) Clear the room--time for Regency dancing! Susan did a great job as dance mistress. Only got in two dances, one completely new to us, before we had to dash to drop things off in the room before dinner. Where I discovered that Will had bought me the hat in the dealers room that I described as "The Wicked Witch of the West goes to the Ascot races." I wore the hat to dinner. *g* Good takeout Chinese, in excellent company, and some cloudberry liqueur, which was astounding. Then quick e-mail check before the Clam Chowder concert, which was hilarious and beautiful, usually simultaneously. France had brought her scissors with her to the con, and gave me a haircut, which means 2009 was bookended by GAFilk and Darkover, and haircuts from France at each one. Ahh, symmetry!
After that we darted back down to the first floor where most of the con membership was warming up for the Saturday night midnight performance of the Hallelujah Chorus in the lobby. A hundred people standing in a hotel lobby singing the Hallelujah Chorus, in parts, all the way through, is worth the trip all by itself.
Oh, and I met an attendee on a Segway equipped with a seat...also a stick horse head and a pair of coconut shell halves mounted on the right side near the hand grip to make hoof clops with. I forgot to ask him if he's named it.
Now I should go to bed. There's more fun tomorrow.
twistedchick delivered: a moebius shawl-scarf in the most delicious autumn colors. Just what I needed for the chilly parts of the hotel! (Thank you--it's gorgeous, and I'm so sorry you weren't able to be there.)Quick, back to programming room! for a panel on what writers owe to the audience. Then, autograph session!
tammypierce signed more books than I did. Well, okay, she's written more books than I have. *g* But I signed lots. Admired a splendid beaded coyote-head brooch...and its owner gave it to me. (!) Clear the room--time for Regency dancing! Susan did a great job as dance mistress. Only got in two dances, one completely new to us, before we had to dash to drop things off in the room before dinner. Where I discovered that Will had bought me the hat in the dealers room that I described as "The Wicked Witch of the West goes to the Ascot races." I wore the hat to dinner. *g* Good takeout Chinese, in excellent company, and some cloudberry liqueur, which was astounding. Then quick e-mail check before the Clam Chowder concert, which was hilarious and beautiful, usually simultaneously. France had brought her scissors with her to the con, and gave me a haircut, which means 2009 was bookended by GAFilk and Darkover, and haircuts from France at each one. Ahh, symmetry!After that we darted back down to the first floor where most of the con membership was warming up for the Saturday night midnight performance of the Hallelujah Chorus in the lobby. A hundred people standing in a hotel lobby singing the Hallelujah Chorus, in parts, all the way through, is worth the trip all by itself.
Oh, and I met an attendee on a Segway equipped with a seat...also a stick horse head and a pair of coconut shell halves mounted on the right side near the hand grip to make hoof clops with. I forgot to ask him if he's named it.
Now I should go to bed. There's more fun tomorrow.
- Location:Timonium, MD
- Mood:
sleepy
- Location:happy place
- Mood:?
- Music:we all shine on/john lennon
IF I HAD NOT JAMMED MY SHOULDER DURING TWO NIGHTS OF COUCH-SLEEPING FOLLOWED BY A DAY OF DATA ENTRY, BOX LIFTING, MOUNTAIN-O'-BOOKS-PRICING AND GODS KNOW WHAT ELSE, I WOULD'VE FINISHED THIS THING BY NOW!!!
O DOMINANT HAND, HOW COULD YOU BETRAY ME SO???
BUT...
I did not sleep at all last night. I must awaken before dawn tomorrow. It was all I could do to reach 48346 words tonight. That's 2343 more than last count. I'm tapped, man.
1654 words to go. One more chapter. ONE MORE CHAPTER!!! AH, MY WEAKNESS MURDERS ME!!!
Must take an Aleve. And try to sleep off stupid ache that shoots from corocoid process to rotator cuff to trapezius to scapula and all the way down arm to palm of hand and fingers. Gah.
Sleep now. Perchance to dream.
Stupid book. If only it was any good. But today it's just dumb.
(Soon, Fetch. I know I promised. Soon.)
O DOMINANT HAND, HOW COULD YOU BETRAY ME SO???
BUT...
I did not sleep at all last night. I must awaken before dawn tomorrow. It was all I could do to reach 48346 words tonight. That's 2343 more than last count. I'm tapped, man.
1654 words to go. One more chapter. ONE MORE CHAPTER!!! AH, MY WEAKNESS MURDERS ME!!!
Must take an Aleve. And try to sleep off stupid ache that shoots from corocoid process to rotator cuff to trapezius to scapula and all the way down arm to palm of hand and fingers. Gah.
Sleep now. Perchance to dream.
Stupid book. If only it was any good. But today it's just dumb.
(Soon, Fetch. I know I promised. Soon.)
It’s my second last NaNoWriMo post! Wow, that went fast. You’ve all been at it for 28 days now.1 Which leads me to suspect that some of you may be feeling quite sore about now.
Writing, like any job that involves spending hours in front of a computer, has a high injury rate. Almost every pro writer I know has some kind of neck/back/wrist problem. Carpal tunnel syndrome and other repetitive strain injury are very common.
At the end of almost every first draft deadline, when I’ve been writing every day for weeks and weeks on end, and my writing days have stretched out from four hours to twelve or longer, my upper back and/or neck packs it in. I then have to get emergency work so that I can, you know, move my neck.
Once I recognised this pattern,2 I made a whole bunch of changes to stop it happening again. If you’re serious about writing, the time to start with good habits is now, before you become a crippled wreck unable to sign books for your fans.
Here are the changes I made:
- I changed my work set up. No more writing slumped on the couch. All ergonomic all the time for me!
- I started exercising more. I now work out at the gym with a trainer3 a minimum of three times a week. I also try to fit in a long walk at the end of each writing day. And lindy hop when possible.
- I increased the number of breaks I took. I tried one of those programmes that beeps at you every thirty minutes but it kept beeping just as I was nailing a scene or right when I’d finally gotten into the flow of things that I came to loathe the bloody smiling beepy monster and harboured fantasies of ripping its throat out. So I switched to drinking even more water which ensures frequent loo breaks.
- I take a few minutes to stretch my back, neck, wrists and arms every time I get up from the computer.
- I get a weekly massage. It sounds indulgent but truly it’s maintenance. If I’m being massaged weekly as the deadline approaches my body doesn’t pack it in, which works out cheaper than getting all that work when my body is broken.
I have not been perfect at implementing my system. While on tour this year there were no massages, no exercise and I spent a lot of time slumped over my computer in hotels and airports, which led to a recurrence of my neck/upper back injury, which led to emergency cupping:
Not pretty, is it?
You’ve been warned!
Good luck with your last few days.
And don’t forget to check out Scott’s tips. His last one is tomorrow.
- Unless you haven’t started today’s writing.
- And when I say “I” I mean Scott.
- Why with a trainer? Cause I find gyms unspeakably boring and I last about ten minutes in them by myself. But three years ago I started working out with a wonderful trainer who has made going to the gym fun. I’m fitter and happier. There are much cheaper ways to stay fit. Like running. Which tragically I cannot do because of various injuries. Have I ever mentioned my sports curse? *Heh hem.* I digress. If you have not already I’m sure you’ll find a method of staying fit that works for you.
Prominent on my list of storytelling pet peeves is the Reasonless Revelation: wherein characters, unbidden or with only the slightest hint of prompting, share highly intimate details about their lives. It’s not credible! No one does that! I have been known to rant.
So today we’re in the airport waiting for our flight home, and a diffident soldier, foot in a cast, approaches. We offer him our seats, but he doesn’t need to sit down. He’d like to use one of our phones to call his wife.
As we fumble in our bags, he talks. It’s been, he guesses, the worst and best week of his life. He just had this surgery, paid for by the U.S. government thank you very much, for the plantar fasciitis that he got when the Army switched to suede boots. Didn’t look like much on the outside, just a little lump on the heel, but you step on a stone or a pecan (he emphasized the first syllable) and it’s so painful.
Yeah, it’d been bad. He’s just been realizing how much the PTSD and depression was affecting him. In fact he had an attempted suicide situation, and he was in a treatment facility for five days and they put him on antidepressants, he can’t believe the difference. He’s really glad we’re going to let him use the phone, it means a lot to make this call to his wife. Well, fiance, actually — they’ve been together five years, they have a three year old. When he had that mental breakdown, well, there was a gun involved, and the sheriff wanted to know if she wanted to press charges for attempted murder and aggravated assault, and she said Hell no! He had to go, though, they were living in a house her parents owned and her parents aren’t really supportive. He wants to get out of the Army. He’s gonna move back in with his parents, find a job doing something calm. Peaceful.
All this in about ten minutes.
Steve locates his phone and hands it over. The call is short, with a lot of I love yous. Then they’re calling us to board. He’s in first class. Gotta use those benefits while he’s got ‘em, he figures.
A short while later, we walk past him on the way to our non-first-class seats. He’s talking to his seatmate, and we can’t help but wonder if he’ll tell the whole story again.
Originally published at sararyan.com. You can comment here or there.
Seattle workshop underway! Gabriel and Kai photographing Georgia. Students completely rocking. More on Twitter most likely if you're curious about how it's going. @finallykyle
Posted via LiveJournal.app.
In the "it's always something" department, the appraiser for the refinancing called yesterday announcing that he would be by Tuesday to appraise the house. I had counted on a couple of weeks' delay; apparently this refinancer moves fast. That means that the rest of the holiday weekend, plus an emergency visit from Clutterboy Monday, will be spent making the inside of the house presentable. AIEEE! Thank God Clutterboy had the time available.
Am following the Irish priest-sexual-abuse scandal. It's following what is by now the established pattern, with the hierarchy resisting any investigation as long as possible, then doing what they are forced to do, then announcing that they're sorry, but they won't do it again, so there's really no need for any more investigation. (There have been only two limited-scope investigations, none covering the entire country.) Furthermore as usual, the Vatican has refused to comment; they wouldn't cooperate with the commission's request for information unless it came through diplomatic channels, and the commission refused to go through diplomatic channels because it was "an independent body", making a nice little knot. The Irish Times called my attention to a refinement of which I was not aware, the "mental reservation". I'd be curious to know if the Times is accurately reporting the practice; the canonical (sic) example is of a priest who doesn't want to deal with a parishioner directing the curate to say that "the priest is not at home", with the mental reservation of "to you". Here's a specific case cited by the Times.
Finally, the New York Times has a somewhat cooler-than-thou ("Does anyone really feel the need to hear “Happy Together” again?" Well, I do) review of a PBS fund-raiser, a compilation of Ed Sullivan rock performances. The review has a great peroration, though.
This entry was originally posted at http://jonquil.dreamwidth.org/903350.htm
comment(s) on that entry.
Am following the Irish priest-sexual-abuse scandal. It's following what is by now the established pattern, with the hierarchy resisting any investigation as long as possible, then doing what they are forced to do, then announcing that they're sorry, but they won't do it again, so there's really no need for any more investigation. (There have been only two limited-scope investigations, none covering the entire country.) Furthermore as usual, the Vatican has refused to comment; they wouldn't cooperate with the commission's request for information unless it came through diplomatic channels, and the commission refused to go through diplomatic channels because it was "an independent body", making a nice little knot. The Irish Times called my attention to a refinement of which I was not aware, the "mental reservation". I'd be curious to know if the Times is accurately reporting the practice; the canonical (sic) example is of a priest who doesn't want to deal with a parishioner directing the curate to say that "the priest is not at home", with the mental reservation of "to you". Here's a specific case cited by the Times.
So the Archdiocese of Dublin and Cardinal Connell were not lying when in a 1997 statement it said it had co-operated with gardaí where Marie Collins’s complaint of abuse was concerned.
A spokesman for the archdiocese put it like this “we never said we co-operated fully”, placing emphasis on the word “fully”, the report commented.
Is anybody on the flist familiar with canon law? Does everybody get to make mental reservations, or just priests? It would seem to offer wide scope: "I didn't steal the communion chalice", with the additional "On Tuesday."Finally, the New York Times has a somewhat cooler-than-thou ("Does anyone really feel the need to hear “Happy Together” again?" Well, I do) review of a PBS fund-raiser, a compilation of Ed Sullivan rock performances. The review has a great peroration, though.
And the host for the pledge breaks, T J Lubinsky, tries a bit too hard, as when he talks earnestly about “the music that just takes us back to that moment when we were innocent, and things were different.”
“Yeah, there was rough times happening around the country,” he continues. “However, the thing that got us through all these times, good and bad, was the soundtrack.”
“When we were innocent?” “Got us through?” Can we see your driver’s license, Mr. Lubinsky? Hmm, says here you were born in 1972. Trying to siphon off old hippies’ money is one thing; trying to steal their decade out from under them ought to land you in the same cell as whoever designed those hideous garments the Mamas and the Papas are wearing.
“Yeah, there was rough times happening around the country,” he continues. “However, the thing that got us through all these times, good and bad, was the soundtrack.”
“When we were innocent?” “Got us through?” Can we see your driver’s license, Mr. Lubinsky? Hmm, says here you were born in 1972. Trying to siphon off old hippies’ money is one thing; trying to steal their decade out from under them ought to land you in the same cell as whoever designed those hideous garments the Mamas and the Papas are wearing.
This entry was originally posted at http://jonquil.dreamwidth.org/903350.htm
Was talking to a friend at work last week about Alfred Hitchcock movies. He'd just the night before seen Lifeboat and commented on how un-Hollywood and grim an ending it had. Then we talked about our favorites and there were a lot. He even liked aspects of Frenzy, which I never went for. You may not be a fan of Hitchcock, but I could and have watched a number of his films again and again, pretty much anytime I can find them on the tube uncut. I was formally introduced to Hitchcock's movies when I was in graduate school at SUNY Binghamton. Being the student in the graduate program with the lowest GRE's of anyone ever admitted to the program, the English department wouldn't bequeath me a teaching assistantship (who could blame them?), something I needed to survive while going to school. John Gardner went to bat for me and got me gig as a TA in the cinema department -- marking papers and leading small group discussions about the films we watched. What a lucky happenstance. I ended up working for Maureen Turim, a film scholar and author of many articles and books. Most of the semester was spent in the dark, watching great films from every age and country. I started to see movies in a different way, started to understand somewhat the "language" of film. Turim, at the time, was big on Goddard, so we watched a lot of his influences, Hitchcock being one. It was with Hitchcock's films where I first noticed the structures and devices of film craft. I think the reason these things are so evident, especially for someone like me -- a television nurtured, semi-interested bystander -- in Hitchcock is because there is something not yet fully removed from stage drama about the movement of his characters and the lighting and the tricks. Whatever it was, I became more fascinated by the way things worked in his films than in the particulars of the dramas unfolding. I really got into this stuff for a while. I was all about the logistics of how the affect of Martin Balsam falling down the stairs backwards in Psycho was manufactured, or the long shots in Rope, or the dialogue in Strangers on a Train. Then one day, we saw Shadow of a Doubt, and as much as I wanted to give it my psuedo-scholarly once over analysis, I found I couldn't concentrate on anything but the story. Joseph Cotten, in, for my money, his greatest performance, is so wicked and darkly humorous. There are scenes that just make you cringe. The script was written by Thorton Wilder. Hitchcock reveals Norman Rockwell's America to be as petty and sinister as it actually is. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it. Supposedly it was Hitchcock's favorite. Do you have a favorite Hitchcock film? Or do you despise his films, as I know some do? Drop a line if so. 
There's going to be a lot of this over the next several days. "Nobody" is in town over Thanksgiving break, so TDF is chock-full of cool plays. Plus, we have friends with local family, who are in town, and ettling for some good theatre. Which we are delighted to provide.
Last night, it was a Professor of South American and Gay Literature and The Age of Iron at the Classic Repertory Company.
I'd have to call The Age of Iron a Frankenplay, or perhaps a simple stew: Take two parts Heywood and one part Shakespeare, dice fine, mix judiciously, mount handsomely, and serve up hot, on sand. In this case it was Troilus and Cressida and Iron Age (no, didn't know it either, although I probably read it in 1980 when I was working on my dissertation because I read everything in 1980). Troilus and Cressida is about lechery and war--and young love and disappointment and what nobility means. It's full of difficult and complicated poetry and complex emotions and spleen and interesting characters. The Iron Age (on available evidence) is about war and lechery--and noble sentiments and characters drawn from Morality Plays. It's full of rhyming couplets and some nicely-turned phrases (including "is the the face that launched a thousand ships," (which he definitely stole from Marlowe, since the play was written in 1632, but there's no shame in that--stealing from the best was the order of the day. Shakespeare did it constantly.)) and a lot of sententiae (potted moral statements), and a really good dying speech for Ajax. Put them together, you get a play about the whole course of the Trojan War, from the seduction of Helen to the fall of Ilium's cloud-kissing towers and the death of the whole cast except the doughty (and wily) Ulysses.
Yes, I enjoyed it. Lots. The production was very cool--a huge sand-pit, surrounded by audience and plexiglass sides with lights in them and red and white draperies on a framework above. The Trojans and Greeks were dressed alike in black doublets and slops and long boots. The women were all in sand colors, to blend in with the background and point up just how peripheral they really were to a war that was mostly about property and honor and the good, old-fashioned fun of a big, bloody fight. The acting was excellent (with the possible exception of Graham Winton as Agamemnon, who we saw in Man for All Seasons last year, and thought was weak there, too). Everybody could speak the verse and project--two quarrels I frequently have with Americans playing Shakespeare. Steven Skybell as Ulysses, Elliot Villar as Hector, and Steven Rattazzi as Thersites were particularly wonderful, managing to bring real human depth to the wiliness, nobility, and cynicism that dominate their characters.
Gotta say, though. I missed Pandarus. I liked the seduction of Helen and the expanded fight at the feast Priam threw for the Greeks, but the scenes at the end, though they completed the narrative, seemed anticlimactic after the harrowing death of Troilus. I just didn't care what happened to Achilles or Ajax or even Andromache--nobody had made me care enough for them, personally, to shed a tear at their deaths. And maybe that's the real difference between Heywood and Shakespeare. Heywood tried to make us care about them all, and succeeded mostly in deadening our response to the horror of war. Shakespeare made us care about two of them, and succeeded in making their tragedy stand for the general tragedy of war.
Now I have to go get dressed for brunch with more out-of-town friends, and a matinee of a play called Or. Which I'll tell you about tomorrow.
Last night, it was a Professor of South American and Gay Literature and The Age of Iron at the Classic Repertory Company.
I'd have to call The Age of Iron a Frankenplay, or perhaps a simple stew: Take two parts Heywood and one part Shakespeare, dice fine, mix judiciously, mount handsomely, and serve up hot, on sand. In this case it was Troilus and Cressida and Iron Age (no, didn't know it either, although I probably read it in 1980 when I was working on my dissertation because I read everything in 1980). Troilus and Cressida is about lechery and war--and young love and disappointment and what nobility means. It's full of difficult and complicated poetry and complex emotions and spleen and interesting characters. The Iron Age (on available evidence) is about war and lechery--and noble sentiments and characters drawn from Morality Plays. It's full of rhyming couplets and some nicely-turned phrases (including "is the the face that launched a thousand ships," (which he definitely stole from Marlowe, since the play was written in 1632, but there's no shame in that--stealing from the best was the order of the day. Shakespeare did it constantly.)) and a lot of sententiae (potted moral statements), and a really good dying speech for Ajax. Put them together, you get a play about the whole course of the Trojan War, from the seduction of Helen to the fall of Ilium's cloud-kissing towers and the death of the whole cast except the doughty (and wily) Ulysses.
Yes, I enjoyed it. Lots. The production was very cool--a huge sand-pit, surrounded by audience and plexiglass sides with lights in them and red and white draperies on a framework above. The Trojans and Greeks were dressed alike in black doublets and slops and long boots. The women were all in sand colors, to blend in with the background and point up just how peripheral they really were to a war that was mostly about property and honor and the good, old-fashioned fun of a big, bloody fight. The acting was excellent (with the possible exception of Graham Winton as Agamemnon, who we saw in Man for All Seasons last year, and thought was weak there, too). Everybody could speak the verse and project--two quarrels I frequently have with Americans playing Shakespeare. Steven Skybell as Ulysses, Elliot Villar as Hector, and Steven Rattazzi as Thersites were particularly wonderful, managing to bring real human depth to the wiliness, nobility, and cynicism that dominate their characters.
Gotta say, though. I missed Pandarus. I liked the seduction of Helen and the expanded fight at the feast Priam threw for the Greeks, but the scenes at the end, though they completed the narrative, seemed anticlimactic after the harrowing death of Troilus. I just didn't care what happened to Achilles or Ajax or even Andromache--nobody had made me care enough for them, personally, to shed a tear at their deaths. And maybe that's the real difference between Heywood and Shakespeare. Heywood tried to make us care about them all, and succeeded mostly in deadening our response to the horror of war. Shakespeare made us care about two of them, and succeeded in making their tragedy stand for the general tragedy of war.
Now I have to go get dressed for brunch with more out-of-town friends, and a matinee of a play called Or. Which I'll tell you about tomorrow.
It's been so dark today, all day -- the grey is thick and wet, and the sound of water trickling down buildings and into gutters is louder than the rain itself, sometimes. I live in a world of wet stone, cool air, and darkness, and I love it.
On days like this my voice feels lower than usual, like it rises from a deeper place inside of me, echoes more resonantly in my throat. Having been reminded of Patrick Wolf's Wind in the Wires by this post ofasakiyume's, I'm listening to the album now, singing along to "Ghost Song":
While I'm asleep
my spirit crawls out of this belly-button
and goes down to the sea
to gather the wind
the wilds and the shore
to wander the hills like a day gone before
when beauty was in season...
which cycles into "This Weather" which is possibly my favourite song on this album. The favourites change with the weather, naturally. But right now, this is too perfect.
I want to say things, quiet, thoughtful, profound things, but all that comes out is a desire to write out Wolf's lyrics.
under this weather
under this weather
such shadows are blossoming...
I wish I could show you the weather out of my window. I wish I could just bring you all to the window unmediated by cameras of any kind. There's magic in how dark it is at just shy of 4:00 PM. There's magic in how the sky looks like sea and smoke at once. There's magic in the way the rain slips down the glass and forces me to see the world through layers and layers of water.
I love it here so much.
On days like this my voice feels lower than usual, like it rises from a deeper place inside of me, echoes more resonantly in my throat. Having been reminded of Patrick Wolf's Wind in the Wires by this post of
asakiyume's, I'm listening to the album now, singing along to "Ghost Song": While I'm asleep
my spirit crawls out of this belly-button
and goes down to the sea
to gather the wind
the wilds and the shore
to wander the hills like a day gone before
when beauty was in season...
which cycles into "This Weather" which is possibly my favourite song on this album. The favourites change with the weather, naturally. But right now, this is too perfect.
I want to say things, quiet, thoughtful, profound things, but all that comes out is a desire to write out Wolf's lyrics.
under this weather
under this weather
such shadows are blossoming...
I wish I could show you the weather out of my window. I wish I could just bring you all to the window unmediated by cameras of any kind. There's magic in how dark it is at just shy of 4:00 PM. There's magic in how the sky looks like sea and smoke at once. There's magic in the way the rain slips down the glass and forces me to see the world through layers and layers of water.
I love it here so much.
- Location:Old Library
- Mood:
quiet
- Music:Patrick Wolf, "Tristan"
Chris Kammerud!
Congratulations, Chris! You've won a copy of Kelly Gay's THE BETTER PART OF DARKNESS and Alan DeNiro's TOTAL OBLIVION, MORE OR LESS! Email me your mailing address, please, so I can get those out to you!
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Berry Moon: Laments of a Muse by Kate Schaefer (ends 11/30) Cocktail hat embellished with semi-precious stones, stone beads, refrigerator magnets, star-shaped sequins, and an origami frog.
I'm away with the fairies until Tuesday . . . .
nineweaving had spam this morning containing the phrase "submersible moonphase" and asks for poetry or flash fiction.To the Aegean she tosses the moonpath,
rippling highway of silken silver
if you could walk it, if you could
take that first step, if you could
keep your balance as she rises
you could dance with Artemis
beside Apollo Eleven.
Our oceans are her cloak
tossed over her arm,
dragging behind her
glinting, glimmering,
shot through with silver
waxing, waning
tugged by her tides.
Still she stands poised
rising full over the mountain's rim
a great silver coin
as if a push would roll her
splashing coldly down at Kythera
impossible, underwater
submersible moonphase.
- Location:there
- Mood:lush
- Music:hot for teacher/van halen
which I saw this afternoon:
For starters, the Mayan prophecies are about the end and beginning of the MAYAN cycle of history around 2010, nothing to do with the world as everybody else knows it. I laughed. It took a while longer for someone in the back row to actually yell "No!" at the screen, presumably in scandalized objection to the rest of the nonsense fulminating up there.
I think it was about the time that some "sciemtist" was explaining how a whole bunch of tsunamis were going to hit and clash all at once from all the bits and pieces -- like California -- falling into the oceans -- but not for a while yet, because the story was still getting its tangle of legs under it (and no one on staff has ever heard, it seems, of the frequency of undersea earthquakes, earthslips, and volcanic eruptions even when the sun is behaving itself). The tsunamis were politely waiting for the major characters to get to China, flying from California in various planes -- with an amateur at the controls much of the time -- which suffered no adverse reactions whatever to the effects of flying through enormous explosions and upheavals and sinkholes and fires etc. Actual atmosphere doesn't exist in this movie, since everything is CGI and CGI doesn't know from breathing.
Every single cliche possible is not only displayed but milked endlessly, so that the movie is half again as long as it needed to be: as with the under water mechanical fix that's a suicide mission, except that it isn't because the nice family involved seems suddenly able to hold their breath under water for a quarter of an hour at a time; maybe twenty minutes. It made me long for that old Lloyd Bridges diving show, in every episode of which occurred this line: "Only two minutes of air left!" At least they knew about air.
There's the heroic (Russian) pilot (Sasha, who else?) who saves a clutch of major characters, then literally crashes and burns. First they are running out of fuel, having no place to land to get more, but nobody thinks of jettisoning the cargo of hundreds of brand new cars -- because they need a Bentley to drive out of the cargo bay before the plane crashes (a car which the survivors immediately abandon in favor of walking around in their street shoes and clothes on top of the Himalayas, at night; oh, did I mention the problem this movie has with concepts of air and human respiration?).
The little kds are naively brave and/or shrieking heart-rendingly for "Mommy!" or "Dad!" for however long the director chooses to drag out this or that tremendously stupid, by-the-numbers race between the parent in question and the fireball/smoke-billow/tsunami/water-fill
And here we have the slimy govt official (Oliver Platt) who has somehow secretly engineered massive fraud, theft, and murder over several years without anybody noticing, particularly the noble but apparently mentally defective African American President (Danny Glover, I hope they paid you well for this puke-provoking embarrassment). Platt is on a lot, in various "command centers" and "situation rooms" where huge screens show diagrams of destruction: this follows upon Solar flare activity so massive that it has set off melting beneath the earth's crust, yet somehow without creating any electromagnetic disturbance in the atmosphere. Except for the "nutrinos" that are said to be "creating physical effects" -- but nothing to interupt your TV reception or cell phone use or anything.
Where was I? Oh yeah, observe the Chinese helicopters carrying large animals through the Himalayan night suspended in long cargo nets so they can be safely stowed in one of the Arks (vast, remarkably ugly, sealed vessels constructed by what must be the entire work-force of China (but in secret) over a period of a couple of years. Uh-huh). Nobody ever heard of DNA. They'd rather carry giraffes and elephants, and no doubt no consideration has been given to the fate of bees.
Let's not forget the Russan gangster's whore (blonde). She's nice, but she drowns. Of course she drowns. The other major characters do not drown (although there's no good reason why not). It's okay, though: her little dog makes it.
Our geologist exclaims in horror at all the space he's been alotted in the Ark: "You could have put ten people in here!" Later, he and the (deceased) President's daughter lounge and flirt in that same space without a thought for the huddled masses, although there are all those extra passengers (but they're just Chinese workers, so who, really, gives a damn?).
I do have one good thing to say. Roland Emmerich seems to be an equal opportunity religion scorner. Not only do a whole lot of Hindus in India and an entire middle eastern country (presumably muslim) go up in flames or down in water; St. Peter's dome collapses into the multitude praying on the square and then *rolls ponderously over* their CGI asses for good measure -- and a suitably aged monk in Tibet observes one of these tsunamis heading his way and bangs his hilltop temple gong twice -- before the hilltop is bured in water, temple and all. Take that, Buddha!
Except of course there are these "Arks" -- and after managing not to crash into Mt. Everest (though there's a lot of grinding and rattling around and screaming first) they sail off into the sunrise, heading for an African landing site they have already indentified with their massive onboard computer displays. Presumably all this is powered by nuclear energy, since with all those mountains exploding there should be an ash-cloud ice-age to beat the band, so the vessels can't be solar powered -- but no! Everybody comes out on deck to look at the sun shining on the sea. Ahhh.
Except for evil, despicable Oliver Platt, who has mysteriously disappeared from the movie -- killed and eaten, perhaps, to help feed all the extra passengers who were taken on board over his strenuous objections. That exciting argument over opening the Arks and letting on the people who have been shut out by evil Oliver Platt's panicky orders (he has taken over being President by virtue of the fact that nobody smacks him in the mouth and locks him in a closet, for impenetrable reasons called "brainless plotting"): these are not the huddled masses we've seen wiped out in India and California and D.C. These are the forty thousand rich shits who have secretly bought passage on the Arks, plus a couple thousand Chinese workmen. Thanks to the geologist's idiotic eloquence, they are let on after all.
Big whoop.
And so on; there's literally no end to the nonsensical anti-science purveyed by this running, roaring sore of a film. I have to admit, though, that I had an inkling of what I was getting into when the hero (you know the actor: a pointy-chinned but otherwise characterless, weasly face, dark hair, not Edward Norton but the one who looks like him -- frankly I am not about to waste any time looking up the names of the people who permitted themselves to be ensnared in this monstrosity, thus doing each and every one of them a personal favor which they do not deserve) -- our hero rolls out of bed late and calls his boss, shouting into the phone that he is on his way in the following terms: "I am at this very moment hurling toward you!"
Really. And then he says it *again* when speaking to his ex-wife: "I am hurling toward you even as we speak!"
I sort of knew then, but was enticed to stay by all the rip-roaring destruction of the California coast, and then it was too late -- I was paralyzed by horrified incredulity for what seemed like several days. So I thought I'd provide a little glimpse here into the boundless idiocy of this vast, no doubt atrociously expensive piece of drek, just in case anyone has any interest. I consider it a public service, undertaken at some as yet unmeasured cost to myself (probably a number of the few IQ points I have left, battered right out of my skull by all the roaring and rumbling of the end of the world, only not really thanks to good old Yahweh and his Ark idea, though He gets no credit here).
I am hurling toward you even as I write. It's okay, the salmon was last night; tonight dinner was mere turkey burgers. Enjoy.
For starters, the Mayan prophecies are about the end and beginning of the MAYAN cycle of history around 2010, nothing to do with the world as everybody else knows it. I laughed. It took a while longer for someone in the back row to actually yell "No!" at the screen, presumably in scandalized objection to the rest of the nonsense fulminating up there.
I think it was about the time that some "sciemtist" was explaining how a whole bunch of tsunamis were going to hit and clash all at once from all the bits and pieces -- like California -- falling into the oceans -- but not for a while yet, because the story was still getting its tangle of legs under it (and no one on staff has ever heard, it seems, of the frequency of undersea earthquakes, earthslips, and volcanic eruptions even when the sun is behaving itself). The tsunamis were politely waiting for the major characters to get to China, flying from California in various planes -- with an amateur at the controls much of the time -- which suffered no adverse reactions whatever to the effects of flying through enormous explosions and upheavals and sinkholes and fires etc. Actual atmosphere doesn't exist in this movie, since everything is CGI and CGI doesn't know from breathing.
Every single cliche possible is not only displayed but milked endlessly, so that the movie is half again as long as it needed to be: as with the under water mechanical fix that's a suicide mission, except that it isn't because the nice family involved seems suddenly able to hold their breath under water for a quarter of an hour at a time; maybe twenty minutes. It made me long for that old Lloyd Bridges diving show, in every episode of which occurred this line: "Only two minutes of air left!" At least they knew about air.
There's the heroic (Russian) pilot (Sasha, who else?) who saves a clutch of major characters, then literally crashes and burns. First they are running out of fuel, having no place to land to get more, but nobody thinks of jettisoning the cargo of hundreds of brand new cars -- because they need a Bentley to drive out of the cargo bay before the plane crashes (a car which the survivors immediately abandon in favor of walking around in their street shoes and clothes on top of the Himalayas, at night; oh, did I mention the problem this movie has with concepts of air and human respiration?).
The little kds are naively brave and/or shrieking heart-rendingly for "Mommy!" or "Dad!" for however long the director chooses to drag out this or that tremendously stupid, by-the-numbers race between the parent in question and the fireball/smoke-billow/tsunami/water-fill
And here we have the slimy govt official (Oliver Platt) who has somehow secretly engineered massive fraud, theft, and murder over several years without anybody noticing, particularly the noble but apparently mentally defective African American President (Danny Glover, I hope they paid you well for this puke-provoking embarrassment). Platt is on a lot, in various "command centers" and "situation rooms" where huge screens show diagrams of destruction: this follows upon Solar flare activity so massive that it has set off melting beneath the earth's crust, yet somehow without creating any electromagnetic disturbance in the atmosphere. Except for the "nutrinos" that are said to be "creating physical effects" -- but nothing to interupt your TV reception or cell phone use or anything.
Where was I? Oh yeah, observe the Chinese helicopters carrying large animals through the Himalayan night suspended in long cargo nets so they can be safely stowed in one of the Arks (vast, remarkably ugly, sealed vessels constructed by what must be the entire work-force of China (but in secret) over a period of a couple of years. Uh-huh). Nobody ever heard of DNA. They'd rather carry giraffes and elephants, and no doubt no consideration has been given to the fate of bees.
Let's not forget the Russan gangster's whore (blonde). She's nice, but she drowns. Of course she drowns. The other major characters do not drown (although there's no good reason why not). It's okay, though: her little dog makes it.
Our geologist exclaims in horror at all the space he's been alotted in the Ark: "You could have put ten people in here!" Later, he and the (deceased) President's daughter lounge and flirt in that same space without a thought for the huddled masses, although there are all those extra passengers (but they're just Chinese workers, so who, really, gives a damn?).
I do have one good thing to say. Roland Emmerich seems to be an equal opportunity religion scorner. Not only do a whole lot of Hindus in India and an entire middle eastern country (presumably muslim) go up in flames or down in water; St. Peter's dome collapses into the multitude praying on the square and then *rolls ponderously over* their CGI asses for good measure -- and a suitably aged monk in Tibet observes one of these tsunamis heading his way and bangs his hilltop temple gong twice -- before the hilltop is bured in water, temple and all. Take that, Buddha!
Except of course there are these "Arks" -- and after managing not to crash into Mt. Everest (though there's a lot of grinding and rattling around and screaming first) they sail off into the sunrise, heading for an African landing site they have already indentified with their massive onboard computer displays. Presumably all this is powered by nuclear energy, since with all those mountains exploding there should be an ash-cloud ice-age to beat the band, so the vessels can't be solar powered -- but no! Everybody comes out on deck to look at the sun shining on the sea. Ahhh.
Except for evil, despicable Oliver Platt, who has mysteriously disappeared from the movie -- killed and eaten, perhaps, to help feed all the extra passengers who were taken on board over his strenuous objections. That exciting argument over opening the Arks and letting on the people who have been shut out by evil Oliver Platt's panicky orders (he has taken over being President by virtue of the fact that nobody smacks him in the mouth and locks him in a closet, for impenetrable reasons called "brainless plotting"): these are not the huddled masses we've seen wiped out in India and California and D.C. These are the forty thousand rich shits who have secretly bought passage on the Arks, plus a couple thousand Chinese workmen. Thanks to the geologist's idiotic eloquence, they are let on after all.
Big whoop.
And so on; there's literally no end to the nonsensical anti-science purveyed by this running, roaring sore of a film. I have to admit, though, that I had an inkling of what I was getting into when the hero (you know the actor: a pointy-chinned but otherwise characterless, weasly face, dark hair, not Edward Norton but the one who looks like him -- frankly I am not about to waste any time looking up the names of the people who permitted themselves to be ensnared in this monstrosity, thus doing each and every one of them a personal favor which they do not deserve) -- our hero rolls out of bed late and calls his boss, shouting into the phone that he is on his way in the following terms: "I am at this very moment hurling toward you!"
Really. And then he says it *again* when speaking to his ex-wife: "I am hurling toward you even as we speak!"
I sort of knew then, but was enticed to stay by all the rip-roaring destruction of the California coast, and then it was too late -- I was paralyzed by horrified incredulity for what seemed like several days. So I thought I'd provide a little glimpse here into the boundless idiocy of this vast, no doubt atrociously expensive piece of drek, just in case anyone has any interest. I consider it a public service, undertaken at some as yet unmeasured cost to myself (probably a number of the few IQ points I have left, battered right out of my skull by all the roaring and rumbling of the end of the world, only not really thanks to good old Yahweh and his Ark idea, though He gets no credit here).
I am hurling toward you even as I write. It's okay, the salmon was last night; tonight dinner was mere turkey burgers. Enjoy.
Well, of course we went. How could we resist? Feminist comedy about those wacky Victorians and their "modern" treatment for feminine hysteria, involving an electric vibrator roughly the size of a 12" TV set (one of the old-fashioned square ones, with tubes). And cool costumes. Also an extremely positive New York Times review--which (especially for a play by a woman) are few and far between.
And it was fine. Not brilliant, not especially profound, not the best thing since sliced bread. But fine.
I liked it better than Ellen did. It was nicely constructed, with thematic notes sounded in the first act picked up and elaborated in the second act. The characters were appealing, all of them struggling, in their various ways, with the strictures and enforced silences of late 19th Century society. If anything, it tried a little too hard to hit all the high points: the infantilization of women, class/race issues (rolled up into one rather too-neat package in the person of a black wet-nurse), domestic neglect, romance and art (represented by a mildly Luddite Brit artist called Leo Irving, who had gone to school with John Ruskin. The result was a touch breathless and (dare I say it) maybe too neat for my tastes, especially given the emotional messiness of the subject.
The acting was grand. Laura Benanti as the up-to-date doctor's wife with the inadequate milk and the stultifyingly boring life was delightfully bouncy and talkative, like a friendly puppy who doesn't get enough exercise. Michael Cerveris (who made an oddly passive and very depressed demon barber in Sweeney Todd a couple of years ago) was stiffly correct and just a little pathetic as the doctor crusading for the better living for women through science.
And the costumes! The play is set in the 1890's, which meant bustles and overskirts and underskirts and bodices with two sets of sleeves and bobble fringe lavishly all over everything. The middle-class women looked like high-end window treatments, in shades of magenta and scarlet and electric blue. I particularly liked the fact that Mrs. Givings's dresses matched her parlor until the last scene, when she broke out in screaming purple and unbridled (relatively speaking) passion.
What I didn't like so much was the playwright's decision not to give the Givingses any servants. I couldn't help wondering, as Mrs. Givings complained of how bored she was doing nothing but making tea, who cooked her dinners, washed her baby's diapers, cleaned her house, washed and mended her husband's clothes and her own, polished the family shoes, baked the bread, etc. etc. etc. I even wondered who (before the advent of the wet-nurse, hired half-way through the first act) was looking after the baby when she was serving tea in the parlor. Perhaps it's just me, being a social history geek (which I most definitely am). But it did make me aware that I was watching a costume drama when what I wanted to be watching was a historical play.
It's clever, though, and funny, and very, very pretty to look at. And the last scene is truly lovely. And the scene with the young artist and the Chattanooga vibrator is absolutely worth the price of admission.
And it was fine. Not brilliant, not especially profound, not the best thing since sliced bread. But fine.
I liked it better than Ellen did. It was nicely constructed, with thematic notes sounded in the first act picked up and elaborated in the second act. The characters were appealing, all of them struggling, in their various ways, with the strictures and enforced silences of late 19th Century society. If anything, it tried a little too hard to hit all the high points: the infantilization of women, class/race issues (rolled up into one rather too-neat package in the person of a black wet-nurse), domestic neglect, romance and art (represented by a mildly Luddite Brit artist called Leo Irving, who had gone to school with John Ruskin. The result was a touch breathless and (dare I say it) maybe too neat for my tastes, especially given the emotional messiness of the subject.
The acting was grand. Laura Benanti as the up-to-date doctor's wife with the inadequate milk and the stultifyingly boring life was delightfully bouncy and talkative, like a friendly puppy who doesn't get enough exercise. Michael Cerveris (who made an oddly passive and very depressed demon barber in Sweeney Todd a couple of years ago) was stiffly correct and just a little pathetic as the doctor crusading for the better living for women through science.
And the costumes! The play is set in the 1890's, which meant bustles and overskirts and underskirts and bodices with two sets of sleeves and bobble fringe lavishly all over everything. The middle-class women looked like high-end window treatments, in shades of magenta and scarlet and electric blue. I particularly liked the fact that Mrs. Givings's dresses matched her parlor until the last scene, when she broke out in screaming purple and unbridled (relatively speaking) passion.
What I didn't like so much was the playwright's decision not to give the Givingses any servants. I couldn't help wondering, as Mrs. Givings complained of how bored she was doing nothing but making tea, who cooked her dinners, washed her baby's diapers, cleaned her house, washed and mended her husband's clothes and her own, polished the family shoes, baked the bread, etc. etc. etc. I even wondered who (before the advent of the wet-nurse, hired half-way through the first act) was looking after the baby when she was serving tea in the parlor. Perhaps it's just me, being a social history geek (which I most definitely am). But it did make me aware that I was watching a costume drama when what I wanted to be watching was a historical play.
It's clever, though, and funny, and very, very pretty to look at. And the last scene is truly lovely. And the scene with the young artist and the Chattanooga vibrator is absolutely worth the price of admission.
I bought two spiders at breakfast, coveted silk thread and alpaca yarn, was on a panel about writing in other people's worlds, hung out in the lobby by registration talking to new friends, was on a panel about music and poetry in fiction, ate bruschetta and drank wine and talked about the movie and TV business with another new friend, coveted striped socks and silk scarves and fudge and a fabulous black witch's hat and a pair of earrings in the shape of angel wings, did a panel on collaborating with family and friends, was given three spindles, ate crab soup with friends I met at the beginning of this year, listened to Homespun Ceilidh Band, hula hooped (what is the appropriate verb for that?), and learned that chocolate, like sour cream, is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy (thank you, Cynthia!).
And that was just Friday. We haven't even gotten to the Clam Chowder Concert and the Regency ball.
Edited to add: Oh, and I was also gifted with yummy fruit leathers and two yarn ball bands in languages I can't read, including RUSSIAN. Estonian yarn shop FTW!!!
And that was just Friday. We haven't even gotten to the Clam Chowder Concert and the Regency ball.
Edited to add: Oh, and I was also gifted with yummy fruit leathers and two yarn ball bands in languages I can't read, including RUSSIAN. Estonian yarn shop FTW!!!
- Mood: sleepy
John Trudell always makes it better.
I have continued, bit by bit, to tackle the hard overdue stuff that keeps the household moving forward. I may not be great or even competent at picking up that sock on the floor, but I do take responsibility for negotiating with the insurance company, compiling paperwork, and making appointments.
P.S. After all the sturm and drama, the manicure from Talkative Life Story Lady is at least 1/4 chipped off three days later. Pah. Am deciding whether it's worth the effort to write her a stern note. See above re: to-do list.
This entry was originally posted at http://jonquil.dreamwidth.org/902947.htm
comment(s) on that entry.
- Last week, in the middle of a migraine bout, I tried to fix the TiVo unsuccessfully. Monday I mailed the Weaknees people to find out how to return the replacement parts for credit. The Weaknees people said "Oh, if that's the one with the lifetime subscription, if you mail it back we'll waive the restocking fee and recycle the parts." "Recycle" meaning, in human language, "Resell the repaired machine." I thought it over and mailed back, "If you'll cover the additional postage, it's a deal"; a TiVo series 2 weighs 8 pounds. The CS person said "I think we can do that," and mailed me a paid return label. I negotiated! It was scary, and I did it, and it worked! (Assertive people may now feel free to laugh at me.)
- Monday I tackled the most urgent overdue task, refinancing the interest-only 5-year variable rate loan into a conventional 30-year fixed-rate. I checked the company bulletin boards for refinancers other people had used, then checked three Websites and contacted two of the people recommended by the company. The best rate I could find for a
jumboconforming loan was 5.125% with $3200 closing costs; I agreed to begin filling out the paperwork.
Tuesday the phone rang; the second refinancer had tracked me down using caller ID. She said excitedly that her lender was trying to reach 70% market share (!!!! Now that's a prudent long-range strategy) and was offering 4.875% with no points. The second refinancer, furthermore, charges no closing costs -- she pays them herself. (No, they aren't rolled back into the principal; my assumption is that she simply does a high-volume business.) Having done a teeny-tiny bit of shopping paid off in a quarter point lower interest rate and a $3200 savings. There may well be an even better deal out there somewhere, but this one is quite good enough for me.
Wednesday my husband and I rustled up all the supporting documents -- interestingly, all we had to provide was proof of income in various forms; they will presumably research for themselves that we own the house in question -- and turned them in. The refinancer said cheerfully that she probably wouldn't call back unless something went wrong, but that assuming our credit rating was over 740 we should be good. This lack of handholding was something various people on the internal bulletin boards had complained about, but it's absolutely fine by me. Given that she has a track record of delivering, I'm happy to let her go perform her magic undisturbed; indeed, the less human contact, the better. I went home, arm-wrestled Equifax until it let me get a free credit report and buy a FICO score, and lay down for a nap with an easy conscience.
P.S. After all the sturm and drama, the manicure from Talkative Life Story Lady is at least 1/4 chipped off three days later. Pah. Am deciding whether it's worth the effort to write her a stern note. See above re: to-do list.
This entry was originally posted at http://jonquil.dreamwidth.org/902947.htm
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larbalestier : NaNo Tip No. 28: Take Care of Yourself [+0] - sararyan : Exceptions [+5]
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- deliasherman : In the Next Room-the vibrator play [+1]
- coffeeem : What I did at Darkover Grand Council, Day 1, by Emma. [+13]
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