Family – Page 15

Things Which Seem Otherwise

November 13, 2009 by John 11 Comments

From whiskey river:

Let me make this perfectly clear.
I have never written anything because it is a Poem.
This is a mistake you always make about me,
A dangerous mistake. I promise you
I am not writing this because it is a Poem.

You suspect this is a posture or an act
I am sorry to tell you it is not an act.

You actually think I care if this
Poem gets off the ground or not. Well
I don’t care if this poem gets off the ground or not
And neither should you.
All I have ever cared about
And all you should ever care about
Is what happens when you lift your eyes from this page.

Do not think for one minute it is the Poem that matters.
It is not the Poem that matters.
You can shove the Poem.
What matters is what is out there in the large dark
and in the long light,
Breathing.

(Gwendolyn MacEwen, “Let Me Make This Perfectly Clear,” Afterworlds)

…and:

Then there is the BIG PROBLEM — who are you? There is an endemic human tendency for self-deception. We all think we’re one kind of person when we’re somewhat different (especially viewed by others) than we imagine we are. You — the reader — no doubt feel you’re an exception.

(Alan Fletcher)

…and:

Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Can’t you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front—

(G.K. Chesterton, from The Man Who Was Thursday [source])

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Losing Our Heads Over Modest Gods

November 6, 2009 by John 12 Comments

[Above, a set of miniature Egyptian canopic jars depicting, according to the retailer, “Anubis, Horus, Monkey God, Prince.”* Click image for original.]

From whiskey river (which this week celebrated eight years of bringing to the Web wisdom about things we generally know, but generally do not speak of):

Shinto

When sorrow lays us low
for a second we are saved
by humble windfalls
of the mindfulness or memory:
the taste of a fruit, the taste of water,
that face given back to us by a dream,
the first jasmine of November,
the endless yearning of the compass,
a book we thought was lost,
the throb of a hexameter,
the slight key that opens a house to us,
the smell of a library, or of sandalwood,
the former name of a street,
the colors of a map,
an unforeseen etymology,
the smoothness of a filed fingernail,
the date we were looking for,
the twelve dark bell-strokes, tolling as we count,
a sudden physical pain.

Eight million Shinto deities **
travel secretly throughout the earth.
Those modest gods touch us —
touch us and move on.

(Jorge Luis Borges)

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All Good Stories Start Small

October 20, 2009 by John 7 Comments

A couple of stray tidbits for your daily (weekly, hourly, etc.) writerly use…

—-

First: You may have noticed agent Nathan Bransford’s recent contest, for which he invited readers to submit as contest entries the first paragraphs of their own works-in-progress. (He announced the winners yesterday.)

Regular RAMH commenter Froog has been observing Nathan’s contest as well. But Froog goes on to wonder if the contest winners would have been his own choices. He goes yet further, to solicit input from the aether: what examples can you offer of good first paragraphs from already published works?

Note that this informal survey (as Froog concedes) will not yield objective results. It’s more: what do readers (and writers) like?

I’ll drop a favorite from one book or another over there later today, when I’m closer to books I might quote from. In the meantime, if you’ve got a candidate, please do visit Froog’s “Good Beginnings” post and offer yours.

—-

Second: The Missus and I are doing some rearrangement of things around the house to prepare for *shudder* a garage sale. This involves a lot of unshelving of some things, and shelving of others in their place. The latter, in turn, requires that things potentially shelvable be examined. Many of these things have not been examined in, like, whole freaking years. Decades, even.

I came across such an object the other day: a small gray steel box with a flip-open lid. Dimensions: just about right for, oh, say, a few hundred 3×5 index cards. Guess what I found inside?

Clever, very clever, and right you are: a few hundred 3×5 index cards.

The majority of these, blank front and back, promptly found themselves being shredded. The others — all in my handwriting — recorded two sorts of information:

Bibliographic information for a book which I apparently once considered writing. I haven’t looked closely at these, because I was so distracted by #…
Notes about confidence games, gypsies, rigged carnival games, and so on. In this stack appear quotations from a strange assortment of sources — nursery rhymes, a letter from Lord Chesterfield to his son, Benjamin Franklin’s Poor Richard’s Almanack, an essay by a La Rochefoucauld (presumably this one), physicist Freeman Dyson‘s autobiographical Disturbing the Universe, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Butler…

I couldn’t quite make sense of the quotations, that is, why they’re clipped together with the con-game (etc.) notes. The best theory I’ve come up with so far says that they may be possible epigraphs, maybe even for the con-game (etc.) book — although (again) the connection really isn’t clear.

But once I thought of them as epigraphs, I started to think of other books or stories which they might inspire. So let’s consider them as found epigraphs, then: writing prompts, if you want to call them that. Story starters. Kicks in a procrastinating seat of the pants.

I’ll post one here every now and then. Beginning with this one, at the top of the stack:

The Derby Ram (nursery rhyme)

The man that killed the ram, sir,
Was up to his knees in blood.
And the boy that held the pail, sir,
Was carried away in the flood.

Thoughts? Suppose you were working on a story which didn’t depict these events literally, but still used this epigraph; what might that story be like?

The Ick Factor

September 21, 2009 by John 12 Comments

The Missus and I saw District 9 on Saturday. I’m tempted to review it in full, but fear I’d reveal too much of its plot. So I’ll just say that District 9 is one of the, I don’t know… two or three best movies I’ve seen for the last 10 or 15 years — in any genre. It raises important questions about what it means to be human, and it leaves them dangling in the air, just daring the audience to answer them. And it does so in the context of a science-fiction, summer-blockbuster, mock-documentary-cum-action film which should be a natural draw for audiences across the board.

Which may sound like a recommendation. You need to see it if you haven’t already, right? But, uh, well… No.

Why not? Because of the ick factor: surgical close-ups; exploding bodies; individual and societal violence (and threat of same)… Some people might even be put off just by the, well, icky appearance of the aliens, who look like viscous love children of THE alien from the Aliens films and H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu.

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Confuse-a-Dog

September 17, 2009 by John 8 Comments

An old Monty Python skit posits a service called “Confuse-a-Cat.” (Veterinarian to anxious elderly couple: “I think I can definitely say that your cat badly needs to be confused.”) I started to explain the whole thing but was laughing too hard to type properly; I’ll include the seven-minute routine in its entirety at the foot of this post, for those of you who don’t know of it — or just want to see it again.

I remembered this skit this morning, after an episode of complicated human-canine choreography. (A cat was involved as well, peripherally — and perhaps in confusion.)

The Missus and I share one car, which works well for us (with some periodic adjustments) maybe 97% of the time. But boy, that remaining 3% is a killer, and today definitely fell into the 3% basket. Without getting into the details, here’s what had to happen:

The Missus needed to use the car for an hour or two, starting at 8 a.m.
Our Yorkshire terrier Sophie — who normally goes to work with The Missus — had to stay home. She’s done this before, so it wasn’t exactly a crisis in itself. But there was a catch, or maybe two:
We have a housecleaning service come in every couple of weeks…
…and while Sophie is much much better at dealing with strangers than she was a year ago, she still completely loses it when a stranger first enters the house. (Translation: high anxiety for both dog and housecleaning personnel.)

The solution I came up with: I’d stay home with Sophie until The Missus got back with the car; this would help keep Sophie calm, or at least distracted. And because that part of the plan required separating dog and housecleaner as much as possible, we’d stay isolated in the upstairs offices (which we clean ourselves). And that part of the plan required that I get not just Sophie, but all her… her appurtenances upstairs with us. (This would be the same upstairs area where our dog-phobic cat lives, by the way. And where Sophie never visits, therefore, except accidentally.)

Some of the appurtenances involved:

a collapsible gate which I could set up at the top of the stairway, to keep Sophie upstairs
food dish and water bowl (and food and water, of course)
bouncy ball
dog bed (in the unlikely event that she’d want to sleep)
treats A, B, and C
the hard-rubber doggy gizmos into which we insert treat A, B, or C and thus make Sophie work for them, by God
various materials to enable prompt, sanitary handling of what we might call “dog spillage”

I also needed to take my shower and get dressed for work, pack up the various bags we bring with us each day, get a few things out of the housecleaner’s way, leave a note for her on the front door so she wouldn’t be freaked out by the footsteps and (probable) barking and yelping and reprimanding and pleading overhead, write a check for her, be sure I had a bottle of water for myself — and ditto my Blackberry, to keep me entertained (on the Web) while, as I hoped, Sophie would be entertaining herself.

I had one hour to do all the above. And I wanna tell you, I was sweating when done.

And you know what? If you want to completely reverse the behavior of a hyperactive little dog, this appears to be a great approach: disappear into the bathroom for a half hour and emerge clean and completely dressed; run around furiously, snatching up all of said dog’s everyday sacred objects and carrying them off to forbidden territory; setting up the hated collapsible gate at the top of the stairs; grabbing said dog herself and depositing her on the far side of said collapsible gate, in said forbidden territory; clamber over the gate yourself; flop (soaked and interestingly perfumed) onto the floor, alongside said dog; and there pluck from your shirt pocket a small black rectangular object which you immediately start poking at, madly, with your thumbs.

Worked great, I tell you. Instant and total physical inertia of the canine sort — the opposite of confusing a cat, in fact. And even though it didn’t last, it was thoroughly satisfying for those few minutes.

__________________

Here are the Pythons and their Confuse-a-Cat skit (and here’s the transcript, if you’d like to follow along):

Enough Is Enough! (Er, Isn’t It?)

September 16, 2009 by John 14 Comments

From Zen and the Art of Motorcyle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig:

You want to know how to paint a perfect painting? It’s easy. Make yourself perfect and then just paint naturally.

From “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote,” a story by Jorge Luis Borges (translation by James E. Irby):

[Menard] did not want to compose another Quixote — which is easy — but the Quixote itself. Needless to say, he never contemplated a mechanical transcription of the original; he did not propose to copy it. His admirable intention was to produce a few pages which would coincide — word for word and line for line — with those of Miguel de Cervantes…

The first method he conceived was relatively simple. Know Spanish well, recover the Catholic faith, fight against the Moors or the Turk, forget the history of Europe between the years 1602 and 1918, be Miguel de Cervantes.

—-

Edit to add (2009-09-17): If you’ve already read this post and the postscripts which follow it, you already know about the book Mrs. West’s Hats. The author/photographer has kindly given permission for me to use an image from the book, which I’ve added to the P.S.

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Review: How Sex Works, by Dr. Sharon Moalem

August 13, 2009 by John 3 Comments

My review of this book is now online, over at The Book Book.

Short version:

Non-fiction, written by a neurogeneticist and evolutionary biologist.
Based on fairly current research. Informative. (Especially on the question of what makes you turn your head at someone, or not — at least if they’re within sniffing range.)
Not as provocative as you might imagine, not as clever as the chapter titles might suggest…
…but not bad. Okay.

One issue has already come up, related to my review rather than to the book itself. I wouldn’t mind hearing from others about it. Which is: Did I go too far in using asterisks to hide certain keywords (including the title’s most important word) from the hungry, Google-fed appetites of spammers, link farmers, and so on?

I really don’t know. Thought about it for weeks, in fact — and finally decided to err on the side of caution, mostly since I’m not the unlucky soul who’d be responsible for scrubbing away all the comment spam, and/or turning comment moderation on.

Opinions?

Department of Unintended Consequences
(Animals & Technology Division)

June 30, 2009 by John 2 Comments

The Missus and I are not alone in having a dog who barks rabidly during thunderstorms. But alone or not, we do. She may be little, and her bark may be a mere yip! compared to the more conventional woof! of full-size hounds, but she is determined to scare the storm away.

(And you know what? You can’t argue with results. The storm always leaves.)

For the record, she also barks when dogs on TV bark, and she barks when doors slam on TV, and when she’s anxious for dinner, and when someone opens the front door from outside, and she barks when she’s happy and excited about a new toy or t,r,e,a,t being unwrapped.

Still, she was doing this new thing in the last couple of weeks which I couldn’t understand: she’d suddenly start barking for no reason. It was like her storm-barking: frantic, maddened you-better-stay-away-from-my-family barking.

I couldn’t understand it, that is, until the moment over the weekend when I just happened to— well, let me explain.

The Missus and I have new “smart” phones. I don’t know what The Missus is up to with hers, but by default, when my own phone rings it just rings. Oh, I’d done the obvious thing already — downloaded a ringtone, and aren’t I hot stuff for having figured that out?

But then my former boss was telling me about her phone, which is roughly the same model, and she asked if I’d gotten into customizing ringtones: really customizing them.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “I set mine up to ring as usual whenever someone calls, and I’ve got a different ringtone for my Mama, and one for my sisters…”

That sounded (ha, no pun intended) pretty cool to me. So I did some research. And then took action.

Now, I haven’t gone as far yet as my ex-boss. But on a lark, I did set the phone up to play my downloaded ringtone whenever a call comes in… and to vibrate whenever an email arrived in the Inbox.

That was it, you see:

Notifications from Facebook: bzzzzzzz, BarkBarkBark!

Spam arriving: bzzzzz, BarkYipBark!

E-newsletter subscriptions: bzzzzz, YipYipYipYip!

In short, the dog was being driven slowly but unambiguously mad by the male human’s flaky experiments in telecommunications.

And all it took for the male human to figure it out was to move the phone from the coffee table to his hip pocket. And then, of course, to make a connection between the bzzzz! against the thigh and the YipYipYip! in the ear. We won’t discuss how long this last step took.

29° 57′ N, 90° 4′ W

June 15, 2009 by John 2 Comments

As you know if you’ve been here for a while — even if you haven’t read the explanation of the blog’s title; just from reading the content — the mission of Running After My Hat might be summed up, sorta, like this:

Despite the inherent ridiculousness of the act, to pursue in deadly earnest whatever weird little distraction catches my interest.

You could hardly pick a more appropriate city than New Orleans for pursuits like this. And I guess the obvious place to start doing so literally would be at Meyer the Hatter’s establishment. Says my little Frommer’s guide book:

Meyer’s opened more than 100 years ago and has been in the same family ever since. Today the haberdashery has one of the largest selections of fine hats and caps in the South… Go outfit yourself like a proper gentleman caller.

(No, sorry, I didn’t go into the store. I think that word “proper” discouraged me from entering.)

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Crossing the Line

June 4, 2009 by John 10 Comments

For me, the last few days of May and the first few of June, in most years, are veined with ambivalence.

First, there’s May 29. As you may have put together by your own clever self, that’s The Missus’s and my anniversary. This has always been an easy date for me to remember, because it was also my Dad’s birthday. Somewhere around here was also my maternal grandmother’s birthday. And finally, because I have many happy childhood memories of Memorial Day — which used to fall every year on May 31 — the very end of the month always seems to carry with it an assertive whiff of celebration and commemoration.

But then we come to the small matter of June 4, 1988…

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