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July 01, 2007
What I Mean
I've been using words like "humility" over the past several days. This is something that threatens to turn into an insincere affectation if one talks about it too much, but because I'm insecure enough to be concerned with how I'm perceived by other people, I'm going to talk about it a little more.
Here are the facts. I've been told, since the fourth grade, that I'm a good writer. I've heard this from my teachers and professors, my friends and family. I've heard it enough to think that it's probably true. That doesn't mean I don't know that there's a bevy of writers with vastly superior skills, or that I haven't produced mountains of crap. It just means that I have a set of skills that I can use to create work of a certain level of quality if I make the required effort. I have a degree of confidence in those skills that it seems silly to deny.
I don't think that acknowledging this confidence is arrogant, or even close to it. I know what arrogance looks like. Arrogance is what got me an "F" in freshman English because I didn't want to produce all those stupid little 3x5 outline cards to write a paper when I'd already been told by my 10th grade history professor that I was producing undergraduate-level work in his class. Arrogance is what led me to send out dozens of pieces that weren't ready for market in my early twenties because I was, after all, a good writer, and didn't need to bother with things like revision and rewriting.
I spent the bulk of my early writing years in isolation. I didn't know other writers, I didn't have a writer's group, I didn't go to conferences. I had several poems published in various small 'zines (including the epic "Ode to Rubber," which found a home in Bad Haircut). In 1995 I had my first and, to date, only short story success when Home Planet News published "Where We Met." They were producing an AIDS-themed issue, which was the subject of the story, so it was partially just good timing. They invited me up to the issue release party in New York, and asked me to read. When the editor introduced me to folks, she mentioned that this was my first publication, in a "Can you believe it?" sort of way. I read selections from Two Accounts of the Creation of a Pornographic Film, my self-published chapbook of bad shock poetry. They went over well, largely because I was a good enough reader that I could sell the angry little obscene monologues to a live audience.
And then...nothing. It's been a dozen years since I've been in print. I've been telling people that I quit writing for a decade or so, which isn't entirely accurate. I've been writing here, for example, and there are a few abortive attempts at novels or short stories in my computer's /Writings/ directory. But I didn't submit anything, I didn't get published, and I wasn't giving my writing the kind of attention that someone who is actually a writer should. I'm not really sure why that was so, but I suspect that it had much to do with being almost entirely unaware of who I was or what I wanted to be doing with my life. It's tough to find your voice when you're in that state.
The very first thing I did when I decided to start being less of an absolute basket case at the end of 2006 was produce a new short story called "Wreckage," which I read late last week at the conference (it was the weakest of the five I read, I think, but not beyond help). The next thing I did was start a writer's group, in late December. The writer's conference is the latest, and most significant, effort I've made to move myself into the life I want.
The work that I have produced over the past six months was well received by the members of my first writer's group, people whose opinions I value and respect. It was a safe and intimate environment, just four writers total. The conference was another matter altogether, as I was reading stories aloud to rooms full of people I didn't know, some of whom were multiply-published authors and screenwriters or well known editors in literary circles. Each time I sat down in the hot seat, I was sure that I was about to read an absolute clunker, and was more than ready to take the copious notes necessary to turn it into a work which, someday, might vaguely resemble something that didn't suck.
That didn't happen.
Nothing I read was perfect. I got notes. But damned if the pieces didn't work. They're functioning stories that had an impact. I know this because people told me so, people I respect. These are my peers: creative, mad, all seeking to improve their execution of a craft that holds no real promise of reward other than the simple satisfaction of doing it well.
This is the bit where I talk about humility.
At one point during Shelly's pirate workshop I mentioned that I felt humbled by the response of the group, which got me an odd look from another pirate. I can understand that. Positive feedback, it seems, ought to puff one up, at least a little bit. I won't deny the satisfaction of it. However, for me the greater part of it is this: it is humbling to realize that the words I string together can create an effect in someone's mind and heart. It is an honor to reach someone in that way, because that person has to let my creation inside and, in a sense, this means that they have given me a kind of trust. I've heard people claim variations on the "I write only for myself" theme, and perhaps that works for some people...but if they're at a conference, or in a writer's group, or anywhere at all where other people are supposed to hear their work, they're lying. Perhaps unconsciously. But the people who truly write for themselves are never heard from, not while they're alive.
Without a reader, my work is nothing. So when readers approach me and tell me that they appreciate what I have done, I recognize my interdependence with them, and I am grateful that they have chosen to participate in my creative process through their willingness to listen, to be affected, and, yes, to judge. Forthright criticism from a reader is incredibly valuable. It is an intimacy, a partner telling me, Here is what will enable you to reach me. I want to be worthy of that.
So, when Shelly tells me that I need to turn a short story into a novel, I listen. When L. tells me I should make a few changes and send out what I thought was part one of a planned 5,000-word short story as it is, I listen. And when someone tells me I have produced the greatest ball of reeking tripe since Fester MacGee's Horse Colons I Have Known, I'll listen to that, too.
Because the work isn't about me.
It's about you.
Westercon, She Is Small
Way small. The last con I attended, back when I was...15? Maybe 16? Too long ago to remember, at any rate, and it was in a convention center. This isn't. The Marriott is labyrinthine, so I have spent a lot of time hoofing it through twisting corridors on the way to or from my room. I've attended a few panels, had dinner with (among other people) Howard Hendrix, and listened to Tad Williams read some as-yet-unpublished material in a small room.
The "Transgender Themes and Characters in Science Fiction" was interesting, although there was more of a focus on characters who switch genders (Steel Beach),or are gender neutral (Left Hand of Darkness). My interest lies more in exploring transgendered and bisexual characters in a near-future setting, capturing the moments when traditional sexual and gender roles finally collapse completely, rather than depicting worlds in which that has already happened. Still: much food for thought.
The "Modern Erotic Fiction" panel was also intriguing, as it suggested an untapped market for genuine erotica within a science fiction setting, as opposed to slash or fanfic. Publishers won't touch the stuff, and yet the Internet is full of it, suggesting that perhaps the publishers need to a) grow up a bit and b) stop being afraid that some juvenile will get a hold of something erotic and be scandalized. I blame the lawyers for that last one.
I don't know if that's a direction I want to go in, but there is rather a lot of sex involved in my recent stuff, so perhaps I'll explore that further if and when I ever manage to actually get into print.
Now, I'm going to wander the halls a look for something (or one) interesting. Tomorrow night I'll attend the BDSM BoF (for "birds of a feather"), which should be diverting. There's quite an overlap between various alternative sexual communities and sci-fi/fantasy fandom, and I'm curious to see who else shows up and why.
July 02, 2007
Put Up Or Shut Up
I am writing this post both to avoid and to describe the terror of revision.
It's easy to get attached to the way a piece is built when you've "finished" it, particularly if you've gotten decent feedback on it as it stands. Moving or cutting a paragraph or a sentence might cause the whole thing to unravel and collapse into a heap, as though it's a delicately balanced structure that is sensitive and doesn't want to be poked at.
But there are always changes that have to be made, and if the essential story is good enough it will survive being yanked around. For example, this:
On his way towards the bar, Shelley cut across one corner of the dance floor, passing through the sonic dampener's boundary.
...isn't quite as good a first sentence* as this:
One of the dancers stepped off of the sparkling dance floor and sought Shelley’s gaze from across the room, holding it for a few heartbeats before stepping up to the mahogany bar and ordering a pint glass of something dark.
In the first one, the protagonist walks up to a bar. Who cares?
In the second, a guy makes significant eye contact with the protagonist from across the room, then walks up to the bar. There's a suggestion that something is about to happen, and perhaps the reader will be more inclined to find out what that is.
The trouble is, that second sentence, along with what happens next, used to live about a third of the way down page two. After thinking about it for awhile, I realized that I was reluctant to move the original first sentence and its accompanying details because I was attached to the technology it described (the sonic dampeners). There is a dusting of near-future sci-fi in this piece, and although it's necessary to the plot, that's not what drives it. This story isn't about things, it's about people.
So I rearranged, hacked out some dialogue about opera that really had nothing to do with anything, and ended up cutting 161 words, bringing the piece down to about 2250. The technology still exists in the story, but now it's on page four.
I think these changes are improvements, but I'm not sure. I think they better serve the story and the characters. But, again, I'm not sure.
This story has already been through my original writer's group and two workshops, so it's time to stop seeking feedback. There's only one way to find out whether it's ready: it goes off to The Sun by the end of the week.
This will be my first submission since 1995.
Now: back to it. Once more unto the page, dear friends, once more. Or close the laptop and drink martinis!
*And not as good as this one, but as my story has no camels, I can't use it.
Bob On Jealousy
"'Love' is not the emotion that caused you to flee. What is 'love,' Ben?"
"What? Oh, come off it! Everybody from Shakespeare to Freud has taken a swing at that; nobody has answered it yet. All I know is, it hurts."
Jubal shook his head. "I'll give an exact definition. 'Love' is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own."
Ben said slowly, "I'll buy that...because that's the way I feel about Jill."
"Good. Then you are asserting that your stomach turned and you fled in panic because of a need to make Jill happy."
"Hey, wait a minute! I didn't say—"
"Or was it some other emotion?"
"I simply said—" Caxton stopped. "Okay, I was jealous! But, Jubal, I would have sworn I wasn't. I knew I had lost out, I had accepted it long ago—hell, I didn't like Mike the less for it. Jealousy gets you nowhere."
"Nowhere one would wish, certainly. Jealousy is a disease, love is a healthy condition. The immature mind often mistakes one for the other, or assumes that the greater the love, the greater the jealousy—in fact, they're almost incompatible; one emotion hardly leaves room for the other. Both at once can produce unbearable turmoil—and I grok that was your trouble, Ben. When jealousy reared its head, you couldn't look it in the eye—so you fled."
Robert Heinlein
Stranger in a Strange Land
What Do You Do...
...when an executive editor at Tor Books tells you in no uncertain terms that first-time novelists shouldn't attempt first person narratives, after you've spent part of the afternoon writing the second chapter of your first novel... which happens to be a first person narrative?
I had asked a question in response to Howard Hendrix's comment on the "polyvocal" nature of novels. I wanted to know how you pull that off with a first person narrative. His response was that there are always other voices in any novel--as opposed to lyric poetry, for example--and that these voices will form its polyvocal nature. I had a follow-up question about how one deals with the fact that even though there are obviously multiple voices, they're all necessarily filtered through one voice in a first person narrative. I wanted to know what to focus on so I could avoid a sort of vocal monotone, which is when Beth Meacham jumped in with tidings of first novel doom, saying that "You've really got to have your chops" to pull such a thing off.
So, I waited until the panel ended, and approached Howard with my follow-up. His more detailed response was that in order to overcome the first person filter effect, your other characters really have to pop. They must be vibrant, distinct, and interesting.
Now, when Shelly said I should press on and turn "Walk of the Night People" into a longer work, he specifically said it was because "We want to spend more time with these characters." This story is a first person narrative, with (at the moment) four other prominent characters. So I think I may have the character pop I need.
After another panel, I sought out Tad Williams and asked him his opinion. "First novel, first person narrative: do it or don't?"
His response was enlightening. "If you're writing a story that you absolutely love, that you're passionate about, and that's the best way you can get that across, then for Christ's sake write it in the first person." He told me about a first novel for which he had recently written one of his rarely-dispensed blurbs that had a third-person frame at the beginning but was, essentially, a first person narrative. There are all these rules, he said, and people come to cons looking for tips. But beyond the basic three (try not to write crap, be passionate about your story and your craft, treat people professionally and with respect) any of those rules can be bent or broken as necessary for the telling of the tale. "Now, you may get a publisher who says, 'This is great, but it needs to be in third person.' So argue with them. Make your case. Rewrite a chapter in third person and ask them if they really think it's improved."
So, to answer the question I posed at the beginning of this post, what you do first is seek further information from People Who Know These Things. Then, you weigh their responses against an honest assessment of your own skills. Beth was right: I do need to have my chops to pull this off.
But I need chops to pull anything off. So, essentially, I'm right where I started: seeing whether I've really got what it takes to do this thing.
This is a perfect demonstration of why it is so vital that those of us who are writers spend time with other writers, editors, agents...anyone who has anything to do with the business and the craft. I had one question that required input from four people before I was satisfied with my answer.
What the hell would I have done if was holed up by myself with this vast and terrifying unwritten thing before me?
Given up, I think.
Mmmm....humans. More of them, please.
July 03, 2007
Outta Here
 Soon, anyway. It's about twenty to nine and I got to bed four hours ago, but there's not much point in trying to squeeze in more shut-eye between now and my noon checkout deadline because I'm in that "simply awake" state that sometimes happens when I don't really want it to.
Westercon started slowly, but got more interesting each day. It got very interesting earlier this morning. More on that later.
Right now I've got to pack up and head south. Tomorrow's a holiday, so I don't really need to return to normal space until Thursday.
For the past 11 days, I've been barreling through new experiences, meeting new people, and, like Hansel (who's so hot right now), changing my whole perspective on shit.
I've also, apparently, got a case of the sleep-deprived goofies. I'll need to apply some coffee to my brain before driving, I think.
*yawn*
More later.
Or did I say that already?
Rules Of The Game
 First: yes, my freak remains in the box with the big DO NOT OPEN 'TILL HEAT DEATH OF UNIVERSE label on it. However, apparently I have a smaller, travel-size freak.
Then: some new house rules. My vast legions of longtime readers along with some newer ones may have noticed a new convention over the past couple of weeks, where I refer to people by first or last initials. This is because I am now interacting with many more real live humans than has been the case in the past, and it's interesting to me to write about these interactions. However, given what some might describe as the weirdward swing the site has taken over the past couple of months, I do not assume that anyone wants to be fully named unless they've told me otherwise.* Yes, some of the people can probably be identified by other people who already know them, and I'm actually fairly certain that nobody I've met would really mind being named. But it's the courteous thing to do. That said, sometimes the initials will be real, and sometimes they won't, and I'm not telling when I do and don't make that switch. So guess away, if you need to.
And now: other matters.
Consider the following scenario. Person A self-identifies as polyamorous, and has had a long term, long distance, sexual relationship with Person B (among many others). Person B has a primary partner who lives close by, called Person C. Person A knows about Person B and Person C. But Person B hasn't ever told Person C about Person A, and Person A is aware of this.
Now consider another situation. Person D and Person Q have been partners for about a decade, and also identify as poly. They have one rule: no unsupervised play, and either partner has veto power. That means that either one of them can fool around with Person X with the other partner's permission, but that partner has to be in the room or close by. Not necessarily participating, mind you. Just there.
Question: which situation would be more appealing to participate in? ("Neither. You're a loony with issues." Yeah, fine, whatever. Stay with me, here.)
For me, there is a serious ethical problem with the first situation. While everyone is, in the end, responsible for their own conduct, Person B is cheating on Person C with the full knowledge of Person A. First: why would anyone want to be involved with someone who's capable of being so dishonest, for so long? Second: what kind of person abets and tacitly approves of such deception? Certainly not the kind of person I'd want to be involved with. This is why I favor the clunkier but, to me, more accurate term "ethical nonmonogamy" over "polyamory." This situation has unethical conduct smeared all over it, not to mention boatloads of drama. Persons A and B may be polyamorous in name, but it seems to me that they're missing the point: loving behavior does not involve even the slightest deception of anyone involved in a given situation. Period.
I find the second situation to be the clear winner in terms of honesty and integrity. Permission is asked. Boundaries are maintained in person, in real time. It's simpler and, provided all participants are sufficiently self-aware, it's about as honest as you can get.
Neither situation is a hypothetical; I encountered each over the course of the weekend. There was no offer to participate in the first situation, which is just as well, because the situation and the person describing it were unappealing for the reasons stated above, among others. There was an offer to participate in the second, which I accepted. Persons D and Q happen to be men, and Q. and I played a bit while D. bustled about and did some ironing.
Now, now. I said I brought my travel-size freak. Besides, it was four AM and I was bloody tired. I'm sure that whatever you can imagine (if you're so inclined) is far more exotic than what actually happened and no, I'm not going into details, which is probably a great relief to most if not all of you.
The point is simply this: I knew just from my readings that there are a lot of people out there engaging in what they're calling polyamorous behavior who, for one reason are another, end up doing serious emotional and mental harm to themselves and to others because they're lacking in self-knowledge, integrity, or honesty. As told to me, the fallout from the first situation I described was dire and nearly deadly. It's one thing to encounter that in the realm of pixels and theory, and quite another to sit across the table from it.
That said, being on the couch with the second situation was rather nice, if a little strange in the way that new experiences can be. I woke up (alone in my own bed, thank you) with no regrets and a sort of goofy manic grin.
Now then...I must watch more Buffy, until my eyes get heavy. So very nice to be home again...
*Unless they're public or semi-public figures.
July 04, 2007
Kool-Aid For All
"Gender is a cult. Membership in gender is not based on informed consent. There is no way out without being ridiculed and harassed. There is peer pressure that is being brought to bear on everyone in this cult. There is no humor about gender. The only humor is from people who transgress gender."
Kate Bornstein
In Retrospect, That Was Kind Of Odd
July 05, 2007
transgression:
1426, from O.Fr. transgression (12c.), from L.L. transgressionem (nom. transgressio) "a transgression of the law," from L. "a going over," from transgressus, pp. of transgredi "go beyond," from trans- "across" + gradi (pp. gressus) "to walk, go" (see grade). The verb transgress is recorded from 1526. Transgressor is first recorded 1377.
 Almost everyone has a need to be normal, to be perceived as normal, or at least to feel normal. It’s a primate thing. Get too weird and the troop will kick the crap out of you and run you off, to fend for yourself and forage for your own berries. If you've got behavioral or intellectual proclivities that put you at either end of the bell curve, you’ve got two conventional choices: hide them from everyone, or find other people who live at or near the same end of the distribution. That’s it. Both choices serve the same purpose. The first normalizes via concealment. The second normalizes via association.
Most of us know what hiding looks like. It’s the closet. The pleasure wrapped with guilt. The deep dark secret that gnaws at us. In our media-saturated culture, we see the consequences of exposure almost every day. The Congressman whose pages did a bit more than coffee runs and filing. The evangelist who swears he only paid for massages from that nice young man. The teacher who’s boffing the underage student. We also see what happens to those who are pulled from hiding: shame, ridicule, jail...even death.
Why risk it?
Simple: transgression feels good, and we are creatures of pleasure, despite what the grub-like men who've twisted the words of a certain Nazarene for the past 2,000 years would have us believe.
The second choice–finding your kindred at the narrow end of the distribution–seems a better solution. You gather with other people who share your particular brand of quirk, and you've got a troop that makes the primate bits of your brain happy. There's support, and acceptance, and all of those other warm and fuzzy things that make us feel safe and content while we loll in the sun and poke sticks into termite nests for a tasty snack.
A wise villain who killed Captain Kirk once said, "Normal is what everyone else is and you are not." That was supposed to be evil and oppressive and make us feel bad for Geordi LaForge, but in point of fact it's the truth. If you're into getting wrapped up in latex, hog-tied, hung from an eyebolt screwed into a dungeon's ceiling joist, and flagellated by dwarves, you're not usual, not ordinary, and certainly not normal.
And there's not a damn thing wrong with that.
When you find yourself a group of dangling latex-wrapped hog-tied whipping boys or girls to hang out with, all you've done is stack your local deck with people like you. You've created a little bubble of normal, but that bubble remains aberrant within greater society. The normality is an illusion, and if you happen to find yourself outside of that bubble, thou art Freak once more.
There's a phenomenon of justification that finds expression in such bubbles which, I think, hints at an underlying problem of self-acceptance. For example: twice over the past weekend I heard tales of the seduction of underage males by older females, which seems more common in sensually-charged environments with an abundance of both, such as a sci-fi/fantasy convention or ren faire (and if you don't think cons and faires are thus charged, you haven't been to one). It is, in fact, so common that some SCA tournaments issue leather "Jailbait" ribbons that underage folks of both sexes are required to wear on their belts. There are liability laws to consider, of course. But what struck me about the stories I heard at Westercon and elsewhere are the caveats that accompanied them. Variations on "He was sophisticated for a 16-year old," or "We were in love." Now, these things may very well be true. What I heard, though, were attempts at normalization. Underlying them was a naked truth: it was transgressive, and that made it hot.
As a fellow whose first lover was more than twice his age, I stand in judgment of no one, and I'm not going to get into a debate about age of consent laws. I'm just picking a provocative example, and my conclusions could be equally applicable to a variety of sexual practices, kinks, and lifestyles. There is a need to make certain sexual practices OK by trying to shoehorn them into some form of social normalcy. The big one these days is "Homosexuality is OK because it's biologically determined." God forbid someone should do something just because it feels good, instead of being compelled to do it because their DNA has been coiled up a certain way or because they're in love.
Which is part of the problem. There are plenty of people who believe that God has, in fact, forbidden that very thing. To which I reply, with pith and force: fuck that. The Creator of the Universe is concerned about where I stick my cock? Please.
"Transgression," in modern parlance, carries with it more than a hint of sin and the overwhelming connotation of violation–of law, of moral codes, and so on. That's why I began with the word's etymology rather than its definition. It's the Latin root that is of greatest interest: transgredi, to "go beyond." The word, for me, has to do with identifying boundaries and moving beyond them. Obviously, I'm not talking about breaking the kind of boundaries that will result in death, dismemberment, insanity, or poor fashion choices. Punching willy-nilly through other people's boundaries and leaving a smoking trail of emotional wreckage in your wake isn't good behavior, either.
Pushing boundaries is exciting. Breaking them can be intensely erotic. The entire BDSM scene, with its carefully managed balance of trust and staged violation, is founded upon that truth. But I keep seeing people in all sorts of situations back away from it, seeking safety in numbers or in rationalizations. There's nothing wrong with seeking community; far from it. But first?
Make no apologies. Adopt no bluster. Offer no excuses.
Normalize yourself, by yourself, with yourself.
Now: if you'll excuse me, I believe someone needs to be let out of their foot locker for the evening feeding.
July 09, 2007
Noise
If there's one thing I've learned about my particular brand of loopy, it's that a sudden burst of anxious noise in the noggin and the chest indicates that something is amiss.
It takes a lot of effort for an introvert to go extro. And there's always the possibility of sailing so far out over the edge that a mere look down results in a long plummet into an amusing puff of cartoon dust on the distant canyon floor.
I worry about that. Perhaps I'm overcompensating for years of hiding by buying a ticket on the longest freak train I can find, the one with sleeper and dining cars that swings out wide into trackless vistas of sun-reddened mesas, desert scrub, and perverted jackalopes. And maybe some other metaphors about going too far and ordering too much room service and eventually plunging to my death.
Yet: none of this is really new for me. I was writing fiction about this stuff back in the early 90s. What's new are the somewhat more articulate non-fiction expressions of it that I'm squirting into this public space, with my name and photo right over there to the left, when I know that friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike are tuning in. I've said before that it doesn't make much sense to be out and anonymous. There's a certain degree of exposure that comes with that, which I embrace. Or at least shake hands with.
But I'm also aware that I'm not just out. I'm pushy. This isn't a new thing for me...I used to refer to the poetry/monologue pieces I wrote and performed in my early twenties as my "Fag power bash-you-on-the-head-with-my-cock look at me!" material. It truly was a rush to get up on stage with a microphone and just let fly. Now, instead of couching it in pithy phrases of obscenity and sexual imagery, I've wrapped it in an envelope of high-falutin' words with a gooey intellectual-style center. I don't feel particularly pretentious, because I mean what I say here, even if it's later pointed out to me that I am actually full of shit up to my eyeballs and need to rethink what I've written.
It has been suggested to me by a reputable source who shall remain nameless that there is a distinct possibility that I missed out on the whole, "Hey mom, look at me!" phase that late-toddler types are supposed to go through, wherein they get affirmation for doing important stuff like clumsy somersaults and jumping off of swings and so on. It's a validation thing, and this reputable source might be right. But, as so-called "deviants" go, I am hardly a peacock of note. I'm a dilettante at best, and there's nothing I've written here that's new or even particularly unusual.
However, as I said, the movement from introvert to extrovert requires some expenditure of mental and emotional energy, and some of that energy gets diverted, sluicing easily along well-worn pathways of neurosis, resulting in familiar bursts of anxiety and a keen desire to curl up on the couch all day with a bottle of Xanax and season six of Buffy. Which is, in fact, exactly what I did yesterday, because I needed to quell the noise. Being a self-absorbed observant sort, I also needed to spend some time figuring out what that noise was all about.
Something's wrong. Not right. In the head's thinking, or perhaps the heart's feeling.
So, I came to a conclusion. Identified what I've been avoiding. What I really want: a girl. A place of our own. Kids, even, which was a surprise.
Also, I've decided to turn my life over to Jesus.
Wait for it.
Fuck it, don't wait for it. Ya know I'm joshin'.
No, this is all about exposure. Direct from brain to page, without much filtering. Trouble is...is this me?
Or just a character sketch?
Some days it's difficult to tell. Which makes, I suppose, for good fiction. Or might, if I had the skill.
Good god! I think I've turned into an unreliable narrator.
That's a damned uncomfortable thing to be, in the real world.
July 10, 2007
sometimes
July 11, 2007
So...Many...Vampires...
 I got the 40-DVD set of the complete and utter Buffy the Vampire Slayer at some point last week, and have been watching it non-stop since then. I don't have cable, you see, and so have to buy my television on shiny discs instead. So far it's been cheaper that way, but after another six or seven series it won't be, and I don't really care so much. I picked up all five seasons of Angel today, because I'm about midway through the seventh and final season of Buffy and didn't want to go into Whedon withdrawal.
Which, truth be told, wouldn't be a problem, because the Firefly boxed set is also on its way.
I might have wee addiction here, but let's ignore that for now.
I like watching an entire series in one long marathon viewing. If it's a a good work, like Buffy, the season-long arcs take on the rapid intensity of a roller coaster. Season five and the first part of season six, for example, were real punches in the gut, particularly because I remember watching "The Body" and "The Gift" (the season five finale) in Queens with Pea, so there's all kinds of emotional weight there to begin with. There's a similar weight, I discovered, that accompanies the opening theme to Angel, which I remember telling Pea I liked as a piece of music. Very brooding with its cello and its choral vocal line and so on.
The last series I "did" with this intensity was HBO's Six Feet Under. That was back in December and January, when I was already a big ball of shattered nerves, and I would stay up all night in bed with my laptop on my chest and my earphones in my ears watching twelve episodes of this series about death, back to back. It was like emotional crack. I can honestly say that the series finale is the best thing I've ever seen on television. That might've been because I had an acute need to get absolutely wrecked on pathos, but I don't think so. I can't think of any other television series that has wrapped up in such a completely satisfying and powerful fashion.
This has actually been a tough week. I know this because I've been eating crap, and lots of it, and generally moping about the place like a lost puppy. A bit of crash, finally, from the conference and the convention, from eleven days of full-tilt boogie. I also know this because last night, for the first time in a while, I found myself in the liquor store, feeling like shit and browsing through the shiny rows of chilled wine and champagne bottles, the neatly stacked six-packs of sweet malty-style novelty beverages and the mirror-bright cans of beer.
Not only did I not have to resist the urge to open the door of a refrigerated case and get a bottle of something, I felt an active dislike of the displays. Once I actually got to the store, there was no temptation at all. There wasn't a single thing there--no dry champagne, no Chardonnay, no sickly-sweet cider or hard lemonade--that was even remotely appealing. However bad I was feeling in my head and heart, the idea that there was a drop of liquid in that place that could improve my state, even temporarily, was utterly senseless.
So I Ieft the store feeling as lousy as I did when I went in, and was quite happy about it.
It also helped that the freezer there was broken and full of many pints of cool, liquid Häagen-Dazs, thus cutting off another potential avenue of minor self-abuse.
This started off about vampires and ended up with melted ice cream. There's a thread there, I think...oh yeah. It might have something to do with changing the nature of my indulgences. I haven't managed so well on the food front this week, but there's only so much home-delivered glop I can take before, like the liquor displays, it just becomes revolting and I've got to do something else. But Buffy? I can sit on the couch all damn night and watch that, and it won't cock my head up or make me fat at all.
Vampires! That's progress, that is.
July 12, 2007
Oops
July 13, 2007
Liars
How To Write About Psychology
So far, we have envisioned a mental apparatus that has two basic parts: a big box of thoughts, and another box that contains the metathoughts (each of which refers to one or more of the thoughts). Obviously, there will need to be more. One crying need, for instance, is for some way to sort through these things and think just one thought at a time. Otherwise, we are in danger of thinking all our thoughts at once and then having nothing to think for the weekend.
Daniel Wegner,
White Bears and Other Unwanted Thoughts
I love that.
July 14, 2007
The Way It's Done
"Oh, don't go on like that!" cried the poor Queen, wringing her hands in despair. "Consider what a great girl you are. Consider what a long way you've come today. Consider what o'clock it is. Consider anything, only don't cry!"
Alice could not help laughing at this, even in the midst of her tears. "Can you keep from crying by considering things?" she asked.
"That's the way it's done," the Queen said with great decision: "nobody can do two things at once, you know."
Lewis Carroll,
Through the Looking-Glass
Project Much?
 Captain Obvious says: this isn't an independently edited publication or a peer-reviewed journal. It's a mess in progress. That's good for me, because it means I can revisit things I've written that I'm not quite happy with or that I think need further exploration. I don't have an editorial line to toe. I don't really know whether that's a good or even interesting thing for anyone else, but my statistical elves tell me there are about 200 of you that show up for this particular conceptual train wreck on a daily basis—even though hardly any of you ever say anything—and there's only a certain amount of masochism I can reasonably assume on the part of my readership.
So, with that said, let's dive back into a post of two Thursdays ago ("transgression:").
That post happened to spark an actual response from a real live reader, to which I replied. I've continued to mull over the issues raised by that brief exchange, aware of an uncomfortable gap not only in my thinking, but in my feeling. In my reply, I noted that I was "focusing on sexual rather than emotional expression." This is true. And there is a disconnection there that bothers me. As an idea, transgression for transgression's sake does not resonate in a pleasant way with me, and while I believe that pushing against and even breaking sexual boundaries is a thing to be encouraged and celebrated, it seems to me that there is a right way and a wrong way to go about it.
To explore what these ways might be, I turned first to the archetypal transgressor: the Marquis de Sade. As a comparative, there is no greater extreme to be found, and I am aware that my own petty thinking, if not thoroughly examined, leads straight to Durcet's château. That's nowhere I want to be, and nowhere I'd want to encourage anyone else to go. Surely there is a broad expanse of reason and emotion between the Victorian prude and the murderous libertine, and somewhere on that well-trod ground lies the personal boundary that caused such disquiet while I considered my reader's comment.
I gathered ideas about the nature of that boundary not from Sade's work itself, but from Simone de Beauvoir's essay "Faut-il brûler Sade?" ("Must We Burn Sade?"), first published in Les Temps modernes in 1951 and 1952. While working towards her final critique of Sade's understanding of the erotic, Beauvoir writes:
It has rightly been pointed out that there is never any permanent bond among Sade's libertines, that their relationship involves a constant tension. But the fact that Sade systematically makes selfishness triumph over friendship does not prevent him from endowing friendship with reality. Noirceuil is very careful to let Juliette know that he is interested in her only because of the pleasure he finds in her company; but this pleasure implies a concrete relationship between them. Each feels confirmed within himself by the presence of an alter ego; it is both an absolution and an exaltation. Group debauchery produces genuine communion among Sade's libertines. Each one perceives the meaning of his acts and of his own figure through the minds of the others. I experience my own flesh in the flesh of another; then my fellow creature really exists for me. The shocking fact of coexistence eludes our thinking, but we can dispose of its mystery the way Alexander cut through the Gordian knot: we must set ourselves down in it by acts. "What an enigma is man!—Yes, my friend, and that's what made a very witty man say that it's better to fuck him than to understand him." Eroticism appears in Sade as a mode of communication, the only valid one. We might say, parodying Claudel, that in Sade "the penis is the shortest path between two hearts."
The question asks itself: is eroticism the only valid mode of communication between individuals? Is the erotic, in and of itself, genuine communion? The problem, Beauvoir writes, is that while Sade's critiques of the abstractions that distract us from the truth about the human condition were undeniably concrete and authentic, they were heavily derived from his own experience. His position of privilege allowed him to project his individual experience onto humanity, and to assume that his solution to his own existential and ethical crisis was the only valid solution for everyone else. The ultimate value of Sade's work, therefore, is its ability to disturb us, and to force our re-examination of "the basic problem which haunts our age in different forms: the true relation between man and man."
The Stanford Encylopedia of Philosophy takes "Must We Burn Sade?" and places it within the larger context of Beauvoir's thought:
Centering his life in the erotic, Sade missed the truth of the erotic event. This truth, Beauvoir tells us, can only be found by those who abandon themselves to the risks of emotional intoxication. Living this intoxication we discover the ways in which the body turned flesh dissolves all arguments against the immediacy of our bonds with each other and grounds an ethic of the appeal, risk and mutual vulnerability.
The truth I excluded in "transgression:" is expressed here in two words: emotional intoxication. I've been noticeably under the influence on these pages, but lately I seem to have backed away from it, in favor of a headstrong, intellectualized, and self-involved approach to the erotic in general and sexual transgression in particular. In commenting on my earlier post, C. wrote that, "There are those in the situation you describe who would give anything for the transgression to not be there so that they could feel free to love." I don't deny the reality of such situations. The history of same-sex relationships alone is replete with these stories, and they are heartbreaking. My contention remains, however, that transgression—the exploration and breaking of sexual boundaries—bears no inherent moral burden, and thus ought not be be a source of shame or guilt. Difficult though it may be, that burden, along with the power to release it, rests with the people involved in the relationship. It is within this ethical context that I find the fullest "appeal, risk and mutual vulnerability" of our bonds with each other and of sexual transgression alike.
In Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle extensively describes the perfect form of friendship that exists between good people who resemble each other in virtue. He writes, in part:
Such friendships are of course rare, because such men are few. Moreover they require time and intimacy: as the saying goes, you cannot get to know a man till you have consumed the proverbial amount of salt in his company; and so you cannot admit him to friendship or really be friends, before each has shown the other that he is worthy of friendship and has won his confidence. People who enter into friendly relations quickly have the wish to be friends, but cannot really be friends without being worthy of friendship, and also knowing each other to be so; the wish to be friends is a quick growth, but friendship is not.
I would argue that similar qualifications apply to any erotic relationship, but are particularly important in relationships that involve sexual transgression, whether the boundaries crossed are set by society or by the individuals concerned. It is not enough for partners to be self-aware, to have integrity, and to be honest. Transgression is the exploration of a territory that may be entirely new to one or more partners. One partner might lead and another follow, and those roles can switch during the course of the journey. At times, no one will have any idea at all about where they are going, and therefore each must be worthy of the other's trust, and each must know that the other is worthy. This implies a form of partnership that transcends the boundaries of an individual's isolated virtue.
Aristotle's Greek does a much finer job of expressing this. But there are clumsy English words for that kind of worthiness. "Friendship" is one. "Love" is another.
True transgression without either of those frameworks in place feels like exploitation to me. That's a line I've crossed a few times in my life, because I didn't know it was there.
Now I do.
And that's all I've got to say about that.
Random Slightly Sweaty And Somewhat Manic Saturday Night Observations
- Reason #124 that it sucks to not have Pea around anymore: she could always find things that I'd misplaced. Not particularly high on the list of reasons, obviously. But on it nonetheless. At the moment, I can't find my wallet, and haven't seen it since Thursday. I think. Usually, I'd fly off the handle into an entirely inappropriate level of stompy rage (issues, you know), which she'd somehow manage to deal with while locating whatever was missing. Although I am not charging about my apartment shouting and throwing things, I still can't find my wallet, which makes me miss the person who'd be able to.
- The people at Fox who deliberately mishandled and then canceled Firefly need to burn in hell forever. I've finished watching all seven seasons of Buffy, and I'm midway through Angel. Buffy was uneven in certain seasons, but rocked hard once it hit its stride. Angel hit its stride right off the bat. Firefly was Joss Whedon's third effort, and would have rocked beyond all known definitions of rock had it been allowed to continue. Hence: hell. Burning. Forever.
I know, damnation over a bit of television is somewhat harsh, but it does mesh nicely with the idiom that I've been pouring into my eyeballs for hours at a time over the past two weeks or so.
- Speaking of which: after spending the entire day watching episodes of a show about a a squad of demon-killers, unexpectedly sticking your finger into a two-inch long slug that's crawled up onto the handrail of the steps outside your apartment after dark and then going for a walk produces the uncannily realistic sensation that you're about to get jumped by a mucoid monstrosity from another dimension.
UPDATE:
Found my wallet. Also, I just realized that I own a mandolin.
July 16, 2007
Hrmm
I've written over 2,000 words' worth of additional posts over the past three days, not a one of which has ended up here.
Perhaps it's a defense mechanism of some kind...keeping me safe from too much exposure, or you safe from maudlinism, or the world safe from rogue asteroids. I'm almost certain that the mechanism has repeatedly failed on at least two counts.
So I think I'll just be quiet for today, if'n you don't mind.
UPDATE:
Pleh.
July 18, 2007
Done
July 20, 2007
That Guy
"I'm not that guy. That guy is charming, and funny, and...emotionally useful. I'm the guy in the dark corner with the blood habit and the 200 years of psychic baggage."
Angel,
Smile Time
Well. That's A Little Depressing.
On this day last year, I had been on the road for nine weeks, and was enjoying some fine cornbread at Cannon Beach in Oregon. I'd arrived in Astoria two days before after a pell-mell cross-country minivan trip, and posted "I Demand Joy" from the desk of my room at the Lamplighter Motel.
As it turns out, I can demand all I want. Doesn't mean I'll get it. I wrote,
...this morning, for the god-knows-how-many'th time, I started awake with a ball of panic in my gut, as though a thunderclap had tossed me out of bed. No reason at all, it was just there, looming and full of dread, ready as always to take control of my entire day and turn it into a senseless trial.
And I'm just sick of it. Enough's enough. No more. I don't care if I've inherited a ridiculously hair-triggered fight-or-flight mechanism. Whatever patterns were softwired into my postnatal plastic brain can damn well unfold themselves. I've known for several years that my inner emotional life often had little connection to my outward circumstances, or was disproportionately intense...but at no time in my life has this been more evident than the past few days. Speeding through the landscapes of America on my way to what had been the best part of my grand plan - skipping to the dessert, essentially - I still couldn't shake out of the funk. No question: I do have some real-life Stuff going on. But until that water rolled over my bare feet, and I looked under the towering route 101 bridge out towards the widening Pacific, I didn't fully realize that I can choose whether to be overwhelmed or not.
I still haven't fully realized that. Who'd choose this state? The incapacitating chest-knot, obsession so irrational I can taste it, like copper vapor in my throat when I exhale. Watching my mind spin and spin some more like a thing unto itself, blurring on its axis, set in motion by psychological forces so deep I can't even see them. Only their effects are visible, like surface waves created by a seaquake.
So, after a year, on this day, I can look back and see...more of the same. In a lot of ways, I've advanced not a whit in 365 days. In a lot of other ways, I've advanced quite a bit. When comparing the whits and bits, on this day it's the whits that are weightier. And I'm still sick of it. Enough, apparently, was not enough.
On this day, a year ago, I took the photograph below, somewhere between Astoria and Cannon Beach. Two months spent in the company of that absolving ocean wasn't sufficient, and I still don't know what will be.
July 22, 2007
Shrunken
To lift yourself out of a miserable mood, even if you have to do it by strength of will, should be easy. I force myself out of my chair, stride around the table, exercise my head and neck, make my eyes sparkle, tighten the muscles around them. Defy my own feelings, welcome A enthusiastically supposing he comes to see me, amiably tolerate B in my room, swallow all that is said at C's, whatever pain and trouble it may cause me, in long draughts.
Yet even if I manage that, one single slip, and a slip cannot be avoided, will stop the whole process, easy and painful alike, and I will have to shrink back into my own circle again.
Franz Kafka,
Resolutions
July 23, 2007
Jeez O. Flip
Coming off of a weeks-long funk is sort of like waking up the morning after a multi-martini night face down on the carpet with your cowboy boots in the sink.
Honestly. The apartment is a disaster, the cat's upset, and I have an overwhelming sense of things I ought to be doing that I haven't been.
That means: writing and music, not necessarily in that order.
More later.
Well, That Was Fun, And We All Had A Good Laugh
So, instead of music and writing or some combination thereof, I've spent the entire evening frantically moving files over from my venerable Dell 700m laptop to my shiny new Compaq Presario V6000 laptop. Why? Because every time the subject of laptops has come up at work over the past two months, I've mentioned how happy I am with my Dell, and well it withstood traveling across the country in a pannier last year, that's why.
Basically, the power supply wire broke, which I managed to repair with a machete and some packing tape. Then it turned out that the socket the adapter plugs into had also broken...probably one two many trips over the adapter cord had cracked it loose from the motherboard. It's well past warranty, and probably not worth the time, hassle, and energy of repairing. That meant that I had whatever juice was left in the standard and extended batteries to get all of my data off of the Dell and onto a new laptop that I hadn't actually purchased yet. I've been slack in making backups, so the .TIB file on my external USB drive is several months out of date.
The situation was complicated by the fact that I don't want anything to do with Vista. I like XP, and I've got no need for Bill Gates's latest attempt to improve my life. Because all the Vista lappies have "Vista-compatible" hardware in them, there's a good chance that XP drivers might not available for some components. Which means that nuking Vista to install XP would be problematic. Thanks, Bill! CompUSA had exactly one laptop with XP installed. Fortunately, it was mostly decent.
After rebates, I paid $800 for a laptop with twice the RAM, .4 more GHz, and 50 more GB of hard drive space as (or than? whatever) the Dell, which cost $1050 two years ago. Not too bad at all. The dell weighs 4 pounds, and the Compaq weighs 6.6 pounds, which is, I suppose, the difference between the latter's 15-inch display and the former's 12-inch. I'll miss the Dell. It's small and beat to shit and I have fond memories of using it to post here from various beaches and glades during my cycling journey.
At some point, I'll dig into the Dell myself, to see if I can fix the socket and keep it as a knockaround or backup computer. For now, all of my precious data is safe and sound in its new home.
Now it's time to back up said precious data, which should occupy the remainder of my evening.
July 24, 2007
What The Hell Was That About?
The mind, it is mysterious. I woke up gasping and disoriented around 3AM this morning, feeling like I might have shouted myself awake. I've got no idea what the dream was about, I only know that for several minutes in the half-light, I had the distinct impression that I wasn't entirely human, or that such a state was at least a strong possibility.
Maybe I've been watching too much Buffy. But it took a good five minutes before I could reorient myself to being awake in this particular universe, which is always an interesting experience for me. In that hypnopompic frame of mind, all of the various irregular shapes in the room became distant mountainsides, or perhaps creatures lying in wait, before resolving into boxes yet unpacked, piles of clothes, and the like. For a brief while I was a creature of the dark, a semi-amnesiac with vague memories of who I had been before I ended up in this terrible place.
Eventually, the gasping and the pounding of my heart subsided, and I had to go into the kitchen to snack on inappropriate foodstuffs.
I haven't had something like this happen in quite awhile. I think my subconscious machinery is gnawing through some seriously dark material...which is good, that's what it's supposed to be doing.
Going to be a long day, I think.
UPDATE:
Yes, it was, and it's not over yet.
I'm calling this one for Buspar. It's the anxiolytic in my particular binary cocktail, but apparently I shouldn't have bumped it up as much as I did, so I need to kick it back down by 15mg or so. The peculiar dream last night is a possible side effect of an increased dose of buspirone, and I spent most of the day in a serotonin fog.
Which, while superior to spending the day inside a giant rubber band ball of nervous heebie-jeebie wackiness, doesn't do much for the whole functioning-member-of-society thing.
Better living through chemistry! Goddamn hippies. Although, to be fair? The Wellbutrin/Buspar combination makes for really good orgasms.
Adventure On The LCD
I've spent the last three weeks or so marathoning my way through the entire Buffyverse: all seven seasons of Buffy and all five of Angel. That's...lessee here...70 DVDs' worth of vampire-stakin', demon-slaughterin', apocalypse-avertin' Whedon mania. And I haven't even seen any of the extras yet, so the fun...just...won't...stop.
And, it turns out, it won't stop after that, either. I have discovered Buffy Season Eight from Dark Horse Comics, and on Friday the 13th at Comic-Con (where I wasn't), Joss Whedon and Bryan Lynch were on an IDW Publishing panel talking about the comic continuation of Angel as a "Season 6" kind of thing. I think I've pretty much fallen into the dimly lit freaky world of fandom at this point, as I will be hunting down and acquiring issues forthwith due to my complete inability to let these stories end.
Cramming a total of 12 seasons of television into a matter of weeks gives you a real sense of the arc and scope of the projects, their successes and failures. Season 4 of Angel was weak, and it took me awhile to figure out what was wrong with it: the writing. It just wasn't popping in the way the the best of Whedon's stuff can, so the whole end-of-the-world season-long storyline became ponderous and overwrought. Not the good kind of ponderous and overwrought, which sort of comes along with the end-of-the-world thing, but the "when will this end" kind of ponderous and overwrought. Buffy took awhile to get going, with a smattering of gems in seasons one and two, before it really kicked into gear. Taken as a whole, though, both series create a marvelously woven world full of characters who make tremendous journeys. Not just the primaries--everybody changes, in pleasingly dramatic ways that are consistent with the way that real people in extraordinary situations might evolve.
That's an essential element of good storytelling, I think. How will this character be different at the end of this story? What will this character lose? Everybody loses something in the Buffyverse, and that's always more interesting than watching people get what they want.
Next: I've got my eye on Red Dwarf. All of it! In a couple of weeks, when I've got, y'know, money of some kind, or strings of beads and shells that can be accepted in trade.
UPDATE:
My laptop. It is shiny.
My Brain. Let Me Show It To You.
Or, perhaps, not so much with the scalping and the skull-cracking and the spurting all over the carpet. There's only so many times you can do that sort of thing before it affects the hairline, you know, and I've got enough issues with that, thanks.
So if you want fresh dura mater you're just going to have to go to Wal-Mart like everyone else.
July 25, 2007
I See.
Out Of My Mind?
 I should say not. My problem or, if I’m feeling charitably self-helpish, my challenge, is that I am in fact in my mind. Desperately, irretrievably, inalterably so. That is why, while good and popular blogs point out things of interest to be found elsewhere on the web, this particular blog’s thing of interest is, generally, its author. That’s the only field of study in which I can be considered an expert without question, and there is certainly a niche for expertise-blogs. It’s just that instead of being the go-to place for information on cephalopods, philosophy, politics, or fry-cookery, this, it seems, is the go-to place for information about me.
Which isn’t to say that during the course of an extended bout of navel-gazing I won’t touch on the existential ramifications of the ready availability of decent Italian calamari to the underclass. But that won’t be the focus of the piece.
I am, for lack of a pithier phrase, settling into the crap. I’m cranky, fed up, somewhat depressed, with a mild-to-moderate case of the heebie-jeebies, and I’m actually OK with that. It’d be nice to be happy sunshine bopping around guy, I suppose, but I’m just not, and might never be, and that’s fine too. Perhaps this is the coveted steady state promised by psychopharmaceuticals: I feel like shit, but I don’t care so much. It’s a metaemotional victory!
There’s also the very real madness-creativity pairing. I don’t think I’d be nearly as inclined to put finger to keyboard if I was a shiny happy person. History is replete with creative, depressed, insane people, a long march of the eternally dissatisfied and the mentally marginalized. If that’s my lot, so be it.
Of course…it’s not enough to be merely dissatisfied and marginalized. Lots of people are like that, and it’s boring on its own. No, the fun starts when you inflict your dissatisfaction and marginalization on other people by producing art of some kind. Otherwise, you’re just sitting in the corner being mad and perhaps medicated, trying to hide. Flaunting the tweakery is the only way I’ve found to make it bearable, although such flagrancy has, on occasion, increased the tweakery beyond the limits of comfort. But even that’s a useful exercise. Pushing against the boundaries of comfort not only shows you where they are, it opens up the possibility of crossing them, and I’m a big fan of that sort of thing.
Without productivity, though, I’m just another loon crying in the dark. Which is why it’s an auspicious thing that several folks I met during the writer’s conference last month have banded together to form a writer’s group. There are six of us here in or near town, and another three in L.A. Our first working meeting is this Sunday, and I’m looking forward to it. We’ve agreed to set the bar at weekly meetings, which is phenomenal: all of us were, it turns out, thinking that very thing, but unwilling to suggest that level of commitment until S. brought it up. So, for the nonce, I’ve got the welcome pressure of a Sunday meeting. There’s another group I’m meeting with in late August down Ventura way, and yet a third, smaller contingent from the local UCSB campus that may or may not turn into a regular thing.
Thus, I have managed to surround myself with almost twenty other people who are all engaged in this odd pursuit. Their degrees of madness vary, but I know that they’ll at least understand mine, more or less, which is valuable in itself.
It feels like there ought to be more to write about this, but right now there isn’t, so I think I’ll just stop here.
July 26, 2007
I Don't Know About You...
 ...but when I think of severe mental illness and tricyclic antipsychotic medication, I think of mimes.
I mean, nothing says tardive dyskinesia and neuroleptic malignant syndrome like a flittery guy in a body stocking and whiteface, you know?
Nothing up my sleeves--this is a real ad for a real med, probably from the mid-Eighties.
Schizophrenia...mime! That's some fine marketing work there, Lou.
I Love Me Some Nixie Tubeage
 I’m a fan of vacuum tubes in general, and I’m sad that I don’t still own some of the finer examples of tube-powered hardware I acquired over the years. The best of the lot was a Dumont oscilloscope, circa 1939. It was black, weighed eight tons, and worked perfectly. I’ve currently got a nice little tube-based Philco oscilloscope from 1962 that I bought off of eBay from a guy who refurbished the whole thing, including a new complement of tubes.
The grooviest tube has to be the Nixie. It’s not actually a vacuum tube, it’s a cold-cathode tube, like the snazzy blue lights I installed on my Street Machine in 2005. Nixies were introduced commercially by the Burroughs Corporation in 1954, which means that in addition to providing us with glowy numerical displays, they also helped good old William S. pursue his smack- and wife-shooting, boy-buggering lifestyle.
The UNIVAC 1101, a 38-foot long tube-powered monstrosity of a computer, used Nixies to display its output. A decade or so later, they were still being used in some of the world’s first electronic desktop calculators. They stayed in use until 1970 or so, when they were replaced by LEDs and segmented VFDs.
 Riding the coattails of the steampunk retrofuture aesthetic, Nixie tubes have regained popularity in recent years, with “new old stock” tubes turning up on eBay. They get made into clocks, mostly, but the best use I’ve seen so far is this Nixie Watch. There are other Nixie watches out there, but Cathode Corner’s adds the niftiness of a motion-activated display to a pleasing and appropriately rugged design.
I wish I had found out about this last month, when I was all manic and thus financially irresponsible enough to spring for one. I love my TokyFlash Retrofit, but I’m in love with the Nixie Watch.
July 27, 2007
Because It Amuses Me, That's Why.
July 28, 2007
From Tang Shi San Bai Shou
 Here's a sweet piece by Li Bai, taken from the 18th-century compilation of Tang period (618-907) poetry, 300 Tang Poems.
From a pot of wine among the flowers
I drank alone. There was no one with me --
Till, raising my cup, I asked the bright moon
To bring me my shadow and make us three.
Alas, the moon was unable to drink
And my shadow tagged me vacantly;
But still for a while I had these friends
To cheer me through the end of spring...
I sang. The moon encouraged me.
I danced. My shadow tumbled after.
As long as I knew, we were boon companions.
And then I was drunk, and we lost one another.
...Shall goodwill ever be secure?
I watch the long road of the River of Stars.
July 29, 2007
More Pottery. Poetry.
 A bit from Jelaluddin Balkhi, also called Rumi:
My worst habit is I get so tired of winter
I become a torture to those I'm with.
If you're not here, nothing grows.
I lack clarity. My words
tangle and knot up.
How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.
When water gets caught in the habitual whirlpools,
dig a way out through the bottom
to the ocean. There is a secret medicine
given only to those who hurt so hard
they can't hope.
The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.
Look as long as you can at the friend you love,
no matter whether that friend is moving away from you
or coming back toward you.
July 30, 2007
In Case You Were Wondering
July 31, 2007
Oh, Yawn
I've got words. They're percolatin', they are, but it might be a bit before they end up here. I've got some reading to do before I complete a longer piece (or three) that wants to be finished.
Other than that, life is being lively. There's a mountain on fire outside my window. I can't see the fire, mind you, just the smoke, which turns the moon blood red and covers my already filthy Honda with white speckles of ash. It's quite odd, actually...I can't smell the smoke at all, which, given the volume of the plume fanning out overhead, is remarkable. If that plume ever drops, there will be problems, like coughing and itchy eyes. It'll be Mexico City all over again.
Practical needs are creeping up on me. I've finally accepted that I cannot, in fact, fit all my stuff into this apartment, and I've made peace with the notion that I need to acquire a storage unit. It's the easy way out, really. Instead of going through the bother of sorting through all the boxes, I will rent them their own place, where they can hang out and eat pizza and watch TV 'till all hours without bothering me. There will be some sorting, of course, and the eventual goal is to not have a storage unit. But I just need to get them out of here, for now, so I can finally get my place set up and put my art on the walls like a real boy.
It will be a fine thing to have the apartment presentable. Then I can have the writers group here, and hold symposia wherein we drink watered wine served by pretty boys and solve the world's problems while listening to dancing girls play flutes.
Ooo! Want!
 This is the kind of thing I would've killed for when I was ten. Now, I'd just go further into debt for it: a lightsaber durable enough to spar with.
Parks Sabers and Ultra Sabers have been around for awhile, but you can't actually fight with theirs. R.J. Iannaccone's Advanced Light Weaponry makes duel-ready sabers, and the Popular Mechanics article linked above is about them. There's video.
In addition to the zzzworrg and the kliiissssh and the hey hey hey it's glowing, ALW makes intricate saber hilts with all the internal gizmos, so that you can actually field strip them. I love that.
There's also a slew of material over at New York Jedi. If you're in NYC, stop by and they'll teach you how to bash about with a lightsaber for a small fee.
Gimme!
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