temperance14: (Default)
but blog about 100 things of...what?

I'm a hermit, getting more hermity by the day, with 30-60 minutes per week day to stop an think.
Don't read, don't watch tv, don't go to movies, don't listen to music.

What to blog?

Blog is to write about things, events, people, experiences of interest to others

What to blog?
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Posting her per request from [livejournal.com profile] labelleizzy

See, I get mail from Lemony Snicket ...well, me and every other idiot that signed up for NaNoWriMo (National Novel (or November) Writing Month.

I wisely decided to skip.
But I still get the periodic mass emails from known authors urging me to keep going. Mercedes Lackey was the first.

Most are ok or ignorable, but this one from Lemony Snicket is lovely.

* * *

Dear Cohort,

Struggling with your novel? Paralyzed by the fear that it's nowhere near good enough? Feeling caught in a trap of your own devising? You should probably give up.

For one thing, writing is a dying form. One reads of this every day. Every magazine and newspaper, every hardcover and paperback, every website and most walls near the freeway trumpet the news that nobody reads anymore, and everyone has read these statements and felt their powerful effects. The authors of all those articles and editorials, all those manifestos and essays, all those exclamations and eulogies - what would they say if they knew you were writing something? They would urge you, in bold-faced print, to stop.

Clearly, the future is moving us proudly and zippily away from the written word, so writing a novel is actually interfering with the natural progress of modern society. It is old-fashioned and fuddy-duddy, a relic of a time when people took artistic expression seriously and found solace in a good story told well. We are in the process of disentangling ourselves from that kind of peace of mind, so it is rude for you to hinder the world by insisting on adhering to the beloved paradigms of the past. It is like sitting in a gondola, listening to the water carry you across the water, while everyone else is zooming over you in jetpacks, belching smoke into the sky. Stop it, is what the jet-packers would say to you. Stop it this instant, you in that beautiful craft of intricately-carved wood that is giving you such a pleasant journey.

Besides, there are already plenty of novels. There is no need for a new one. One could devote one's entire life to reading the work of Henry James, for instance, and never touch another novel by any other author, and never be hungry for anything else, the way one could live on nothing but multivitamin tablets and pureed root vegetables and never find oneself craving wild mushroom soup or linguini with clam sauce or a plain roasted chicken with lemon-zested dandelion greens or strong black coffee or a perfectly ripe peach or chips and salsa or caramel ice cream on top of poppyseed cake or smoked salmon with capers or aged goat cheese or a gin gimlet or some other startling item sprung from the imagination of some unknown cook. In fact, think of the world of literature as an enormous meal, and your novel as some small piddling ingredient - the drawn butter, for example, served next to a large, boiled lobster. Who wants that? If it were brought to the table, surely most people would ask that it be removed post-haste.

Even if you insisted on finishing your novel, what for? Novels sit unpublished, or published but unsold, or sold but unread, or read but unreread, lonely on shelves and in drawers and under the legs of wobbly tables. They are like seashells on the beach. Not enough people marvel over them. They pick them up and put them down. Even your friends and associates will never appreciate your novel the way you want them to. In fact, there are likely just a handful of readers out in the world who are perfect for your book, who will take it to heart and feel its mighty ripples throughout their lives, and you will likely never meet them, at least under the proper circumstances. So who cares? Think of that secret favorite book of yours - not the one you tell people you like best, but that book so good that you refuse to share it with people because they'd never understand it. Perhaps it's not even a whole book, just a tiny portion that you'll never forget as long as you live. Nobody knows you feel this way about that tiny portion of literature, so what does it matter? The author of that small bright thing, that treasured whisper deep in your heart, never should have bothered.

Of course, it may well be that you are writing not for some perfect reader someplace, but for yourself, and that is the biggest folly of them all, because it will not work. You will not be happy all of the time. Unlike most things that most people make, your novel will not be perfect. It may well be considerably less than one-fourth perfect, and this will frustrate you and sadden you. This is why you should stop. Most people are not writing novels which is why there is so little frustration and sadness in the world, particularly as we zoom on past the novel in our smoky jet packs soon to be equipped with pureed food. The next time you find yourself in a group of people, stop and think to yourself, probably no one here is writing a novel. This is why everyone is so content, here at this bus stop or in line at the supermarket or standing around this baggage carousel or sitting around in this doctor's waiting room or in seventh grade or in Johannesburg. Give up your n ovel, and join the crowd. Think of all the things you could do with your time instead of participating in a noble and storied art form. There are things in your cupboards that likely need to be moved around.

In short, quit. Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it. Blow it out, so our eyes will not be drawn to its power. Extinguish it so we can get some sleep. I plan to quit writing novels myself, sometime in the next hundred years.

--Lemony Snicket
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Don't know why I posted this at FB; it's more of an LJ topic.

The humor and satire magazines of the WWI era....and soldiers starting their own, to reflect their frustrations that general public magazines didn't want to print for morale reasons.

Note: this is more of an article, so there are just small samples of the humor published in each. Sorry to say not a lot of the text or illustrations of the time. What I found of interest was early zines--The Wiper times, published by soldiers when and where they could set up printing.
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Would love to post story introductions using the daily vocabulary from 1word1day LJ community...but it's damned hard to beat their sample sentences.


omnifarious (om-nuh-FAIR-ee-uhs) - adj., of all forms, varieties, or kinds.

Borrowed around 1650 from Latin omnifārius, which is clearly omni-, all + some stem, but there seems to be some confusion exactly which. In five dictionary entries, I find the -fārius traced to fāriam, place/side; ferre, to bear; *fās, utterance; and facere, to do. It's a puzzler. You could almost say it has an omnifarious etymology ... but not really -- it's merely multifarious.

"When I opened the door, the omnifarious colors stunned me -- it as if Maddie had dipped a dozen peacocks into Lisa Frank's paint cans and thrown them across her room."
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When is it poetry?

When you write, for yourself, when is it poetry?
What do you require of your writing, to make something different from your prose? Or, for you, is there a difference among any genre of your creative and/or expressive writing (no, creative and expressive are not the same--not always).

When is it poetry for you, when you read.
What do you demand from your poets? What do you need from your poets?
What do you need, if any need, from your poetry or other writing?

Joan wants to leave, time to go!
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has got to figure out how to write a little bit each day, when she can.

Emphasis on little, as there is rarely time for those half hour or 45 minute moments suggested in writing books,

and that in truth, T14 wants to write and dump out her brains at the times when life is most hectic, stressful, or overwhelming her....and will not give her time to write.

Must learn/push/train-and-structure self to brainstorm/freewrite only for 3 minutes, write for two. Complete with metaphors, themes, focusing statements, conclusions, sound and image repetitions, and all desired devices. Everybody else can do this.

I think it's back to start and senyru. Be afraid, readers--be very afraid.
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For those journaling, and attempting to find SOMETHING to write, an exercise from my textbook:

Lists of lists
What's in my body
Signs of Winter
What to take on a journey

Things I have
Things people have said to me

Things on which I am an expert
Things I have forgotten

Things to make lists of

Create a list from one of these, then
Pick a single word/line from your list and write a paragraph about it. Germ of a memoir or a story?
Write a single line about each item on your list. Start of a poem?

Triggers for freewrites:

This journal is...
My mother used to have...
There was something about the way he....
The house we lived in....
In this dream I was...
She got out of the car....
First thing I want in the morning...
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The Washington post has periodic writing styles contests: The weekly Style Invitational. They pick the topic, and the suggested style. A recent contest was banal instructions in the style of a famous writer.

Happy to report that the groundling's best boy, Will Shakespeare, contributed. (Although I was rather fond of the Gilbert and Sullivan, e e cummings, and Ogden Nash inspirations as well.)

Scroll to the bottom dear friends

And happy poetry month.
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Among all the other homework assignments I've given myself, I want to work my way through the metrics exercises in Stephen Fry's (yes, that one) book on poetry An Ode Less Travelled.**

His aim is to get you writing, a little bit everyday. To be a hobbyist poet: to just enjoy the creation of the work, as a hobby painter would. Learn your craft, learn its techniques---but do learn to just do and doodle it.

Stephen starts off explaining accentual-syllabic meter and gets into iambic feet right in the first chapter. First writing assignment for the reader is a challenge to write ten lines OR couplets of iambic pentameter.

And I thinks to meself, Self, you'd rather start off with something more basic, more instinctual.

Anglo Saxon poetry.
Don't count the syllables. Just count the number of accented syllables. Make it four per line, and don't worry about the unaccented syllables.

There should be a casesura, a pause, in the middle of the lines. It can be noted with punctuation, such as commas, dashes, colons semi and un-semi. Or just some kind of mental pause, or a gathering of breath if you spoke.

And alliteration. A.S. poetry doesn't rhyme--its sound echoes come at the start of the syllable, not the end.
And note: Not the first letter of the word, but of the first letter/sound of the accented syllable. "BeSIDE" would alliterate on the "S" sound, not "B".

Now, here's where the opinions differ.

Stephen describes it describes the rhythm (because if it doesn't have a rhythm or pattern, it ain't poetry), as boom-boom-boom-crash. He says you alliterate the first three accented syllables and the final one does not. The first three set up the pattern (boom-boom-boom) and the final gets some attention by refusing to go along (crash).

Other books*** (try Miller Williams wonderful Patterns of Poetry) suggest an easier style: that third accented syllable alliterates with the first AND/OR second syllable. Again, the last syllable mustn't alliterate.

Or just make it easy on yourself: 4 accented beats, and get some alliteration in there. Oh, and by the way, in A.S. poetry, all vowels alliterate with each other. I at least like to do it up Irish, and divide my vowels into "broad" and "narrow" and alliterate those.


Give me a few lines, hopefully at least four. Each with four beats, Make them alliterate at least once in each line. Yes, you can have enjambments between lines and couplets.

Topic: How's your day starting out? Anglo Saxon is good for strong statements, declarations of feelings and opinions, editorials, or just plain venting.

Of course, if you are feeling a bit more mellow, you can just give me lines and couplets of iambic pentameter, if you like.

And if you just feel like staring at your coffee, observe your cup and cubicle, and give me some senyru.

The footnotes )
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From The Bard's English, by Wayne Anderson**, I've noted one of the best ideas is in the last section of the book.

Start by training yourself what not not to say.
Because many of these don't belong in proper modern speech.

1. "Ain't": per Anderson, wasn't invented yet.
2. "I'm going to..." as in "I shall". You can be going to the alehouse. You cannot be going to drink the alehouse dry.
Really silly modern syntax: "I'm going to go to the alehouse."
2a. No, "I'm gonna". Hell no. I cringe every time this has fallen out of my mouth at the office or at faire.

3. "He's all.." or "he's like..." meaning he said. Eek.
4. "Hello" or "Hi". No, I'm not banning this from my Office Speake.
5. "O.K." Oh please, Or Gracious Lord, remove this from my tongue this summer. Ah-men. And perhaps when speaking with clients, or at least their parents. It's shows up just too much, when I mean "Yes".
O.K. and Yes really do NOT have the same meaning.

**I know this book is not everyone's favorite, and there are contentions with some of Mr. Anderson's opinions about early modern English. Do feel free to post and offer corrections.

P.S. Interesting idea talked about in Rusty Sword productions: and it's very close to the idea that idea that [livejournal.com profile] fools_and_irish thought up. Only this is an attempt to involve many of the guilds. Would like to hear the opinion of SWMBFC. Will post more on Pryankster tribe.

P.P.S. I missed out on cleaning day. Are there any remaining or new projects for our guild?
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Magpies Nest / Feathers of Hope


Blog of friends of mine, whom I have lost track of for two years, despite all of us working on the same campus.

I've been lax in reading their shared blog for the last two years, despite the simple click of a mouse. And when I read it, I wonder why I dont' read it every day. It brings me back to the realization of love of place, living in/with/for nature, painting, the joy of details in life.

So, I'm going back to where it started, Oct 2003 about a year after we broke up our poetry group.
It was this blog that made me want to keep public writings.

(It does remind me of why I dont' visit with her...she's far more of an activist than I...in all meanings of the word. I never have words or deeds to bring to the table. It's like meeting a friend for lunch, and bringing no wine or fruit or flowers to add to the flavors. And yes, she's delighted to see me when we meet.)

Do yourself a favor. Scan it, pick and date, or a topic, or a tag. And explore Yolo county, the coast, Europe, or just Davis wildlife in their writing.
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Yeah. And rewind to previous weeks. Yes, I'm going to wind (wend?) my way back to a topic. If I can do this in conversation, I can do it in writing. And it's still just as annoying--but without the sound. Ain't that convenient? Onward....


I was winding up old posts and memes, and was working on the old meme (2 July), Why Is Your LJ What It Is. Read more... )
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Keep moving Looky Lous, nothing to see here. Just waiting for the body to stop twitching.


Fighting with myself all day….want to write have to keep working focus focus. Feeling aggravated with self.

Since today…yesterday….last week(s)… have wanted to write—


Virtues of vice---or at least the attraction of character flaws that people want to exorcise from my mind/actions/emotions.

My reticence? Indeed, causes me the loss of many potential friends. I’ve often been told that I come across as cool, withdrawn…shutter, putting up walls.
And these dear friends that I’ve lost, who have lamented this? Most fantastic wall builders I’ve witnessed. Emotional Masons.

Likewise, the people who have urged me to be more extroverted, to contact others and themselves---are the ones I never hear from The most glowing lights in the social firmament, the most technologically advanced mammals on the planet cannot deal with phones, e-mails or postage stamps.
Please feel free to ignore me….but do not waste my time by urging me to contact you in the first place. Just ignore me—save us both the time.


Keep waffling back and forth. Sent a letter to my instructor informing her that I wanted….no, I did not. I sent a note asking what she thought. Could I stay in the class even after blowing off the whole 2nd week and quiz.

This morning: Half wanting her to write back and say it could be done.

And this afternoon….I don’t want to. No, not even wanting this class. I don’t want to be on another schedule. It is to the point where I cannot even schedule myself to do things I want to do: set down time to write, to paint, to practice music, to crochet or knit or stitch.

Because I can’t stand having one more action, any action, as scheduled. As required,
No more mustdo shoulddo oughtto haveto. No no no. No more.

Because I can’t decide what I MustShouldOughtHave to do. All are important, all take priority, all must be done because of deadline or previous delays. Because they will never get done.

Because I can’t find any one project that is worth pursuing. That will be worth the time, as it is useless,
Or worth the effort, because I cannot do these projects, because they so often turn out badly done, feebly done, amateurish. Because they turn out so WRONG.

Time to stop. Time to go and do another ShouldOught. On schedule to leave one place with work undone, and go to another and start another attempt in a set time frame.

Later down the rabbit hole…no wait, I’m late for the rabbit hole. Or at least the rabbit.
Very late for very important epoch.
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P.S. for future reference (since I forgot to note this for this past weekend), 1st Saturday of every month, Escritores del Nuevo Sol’s writing workshop and potluck on 1st Saturdays. 11am, second floor at La Raza Galeria Posada, 1421 R st. (15th & R). Info: Graciela Ramirez, 456-5323 or joannpen@comcast.net. Spanish and English.

And I believe, normally 1st Sundays is Poetry Spirits at Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd. 6pm, refreshments, open mic. Contact: Nora Staklis or Tom Goff, 481-3312, or JoAnn Anglin 451-1372.

Terry Moore’s Access Television Show, 1st & 3rd Tuesdays, 9pm, Channel 17 (depending on cable provider). Co-hosted by Regina High. (Sacramento viewing only.)

Dr. Andy’s Poetry and Technology Hour, host Andy Jones, 5pm, KDVS-90.3 FM. Info: www.culturelover.com. Every Wed?

12 Thursday
Poetry Unplugged presents TBA. Open mic before/after. Hosted by Narbara Noble. 8pm at Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St. Info: 441-3931 or www.lunascafe.com. Free. (OK, I believe ordering the minimum would help).

And most of all, Rebecca, Eskimo Pie Girl: http://www.eskimopie.net/
The girl ain’t vanilla ice cream filled.

I miss this shit, I miss words. I've spent too much time in 2005 focused on my feet, in dance or running after things I couldn't catch.
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Rather concerned from some feedback that some folks thought I had hit a funk. Again.
Wanted to assure people that I am fine. The update on what happened the last few was meant to be just that....so no one had to sit through my boring feedbacks on what I've been doing. They are posted here, you can read them or skip them. The only bummer part was that last bit with my Dad, and everything seems ok for the now. They may not be in the future, likely not with demential. I can't fix that part of the news, other than leaving it out, or flagging it better.

But yeah, if you check the rest of it, I was fine. I really had a good time for the holidays.

The post about the writing sounded down, I agree. I should not have posted it. It was early in the morning, and I was just....writing about writing. I will have to warn you about this, but a small portion of my journal will be about writing. It's my addiction. Or it used to be, and hopefully will be again. That post started out to be the end/start of cycle writing that we all do at this time (or at least think about, if we do not confess it). I realized I was too sleepy to write on any of the topics I wanted, in the way/manner that I hoped I could achieve.

Instead it dribbled off into what I hoped to write in the upcoming year (yes, I regard some of these as projects), and, unfortunately, what some of this writings meant to me emotionally and ethically. And I should have left the emotional part out.

Yes, I'm fine. I'm not crashing. I'm serious when I say I'm sorry if I cause anyone any concern. That was not intended, nor did I think there would be such an impression in the posts. I love you, and I would never yank your chains for the sake of drama.
For those of you annoyed by possible/perceived depression, melancholy, emo, or LJ drama...sorry if I annoyed you or made you uncomfortable..
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It’s late. I should be asleep, but the insomnia, the inner rattling is running.

I should write. I want to: the real things. I wanted to write the fin de siecle things. The love letters were supposed to be written this weekend/vacation days; love letters to all who woke me up this year. The memory of this year…and others. The resolutions, the wishes…the book list (not books that I want, but books I am resolved to finish or remove from my view). The looks into the future.

I needed to write letters. There are two letters to be written about my father: one to my Aunt Maxine, another to my oldest friend, Deb. Two part / two sided letters, in truth. One side to explain what happened to my Dad since my Mom passed away (the last either of them has really had an encounter with my Dad or myself). The other is to say why I have not written; why it was difficult to discuss my father’s fading so soon after dealing with my mom’s. Not for the expected reason; trying to decide what to write, and what to bury.
I hate burying the words and thoughts; they need to be said, they are just sitting there, outlined, but no one says them. But it may be best, and just too late, to say anything else in this family. Truths don’t always do much good.

Notes to friends at another, old Bboard, who guided me through crashes in past years…and who were left out of my life this year, due to changes in myself that I could not yet explain to them. So many people I have known for a few years, or over half my life…and I cannot explain all of who I am. I don’t know if they will see all these scatter parts as a total of that same person.

Will leave off. This is no good. Just a quick run down of the last few days, and release the thoughts. Then sleep.

No….sleep first. Update tomorrow.
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while there is time. Following is on the same theme. Was written Sept 22 Thurs? at 11:30pm. This has been the first chance to post it. Nothing profound. Pathetic or pathos, and better for 15 than 45. But I wanted a chance to let move on in the world. I wanted words read before they disappeared.

It happens )

Quick notes before I have to get ready for class

LJ ettiquette query )

Diary note )

Have to get ready for class. One place where I'm in control, and on top. For the moment. Will see how long that lasts.
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1. Fri, 7:45pm. Ever waste time reading someone else’s LJ? I mean, going back in their archives a few years to see what they are like, what they are going through?

And sometimes, it’s not really a waste of time. Sometimes, you run across folks who are saying what you wish you could, but you are too dippy to write it as well as they do—or too nervous / self conscious to let yourself do so.

And good goddess, sometimes you find yourself reading exactly what is going on in your head and heart. Even the negative, hurtful things. And they done it, thought it, worried it, guilted it, raged and ranted and funked it.

And then they wrote about it.

And I’ll continue in these tales, and see how the princes and princess turned out in their adventures.
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Just to write as I want, in small spurts at my desk, instead of when I can get away at break. Sorry for all this. Was thinking about writing today--in LJ, in private journal, in assigned pieces. And not having the time to think the process through, properly---let alone the time to write, proof, and edit. But you have to write---it's like blood flow---your head and hand need to write, to muse on random thought, and get those concepts down as chosen words on paper, to keep. Or with light/electricity/magnetism, to share.
Yeah, I know---clutter.

9:45am )
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Caution: lanes of logical thought merging into babbling )



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December 2015



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