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goofery-offery

Short day. I dislike short days! Actually, we drove for much of the day. And during the drive we spent some good family time reading aloud. That was certainly enjoyable. But it didn’t leave much time for work once we returned home.

I did get some work done today, but it was the kind of sloggish work that I don’t enjoy doing. I’ve been over the same webpage twenty times, fiddling and cajoling to try and make it look right. Unfortunately web design is a mysterious art, and I am still a relative novice, not a master. I’m sure even the masters have difficulty creating elegant designs that work in Internet Explorer. I feel as if I’m farther behind at the end of the day, after all the work, than I was at the beginning. I’ve made negative progress. Lovely.

So, given my low estimation of today’s work, I’ve decided to meditate briefly on the opposite of work: play.

Those familiar with my shady past know that I have a particular fondness for pen-and-paper roleplaying games. My current career probably arose out of that proclivity.

Pen-and-paper roleplaying games (RPGs) are great. They are creative, communal exercises closely related to theatre. They are a tool for strengthening human relationships. Great. They are also a lot of fun to play, like any good game.

I don’t get to play much anymore, unfortunately. But I do have a list of things I want to play.

First priority: Fate. I don’t even care what form I play it in, I just want to play it (more than I have already).

I want to play all sorts of things by VSCA Publishing. Basically, the company is one guy, Brad Murray and his gaming group. And they develop great games. Diaspora is a set of game rules designed for a hard science fiction setting, with science that makes sense. We’ve played it a little. I want to pick it up again. The setting is very appealing.

Soft Horizon is another game from VSCA, this one in the works. Its setting is inspired by the fantasy novels of authors like Roger Zelazny and Michael Moorcock. I love those kinds of imaginative, philosophical, world-spanning novels. Exploring such worlds, drawing connections from subconscious and conscious relationships between ideas, reminds me of playing the Glass Bead Game. And the streamlining of the rules is appealing.

And finally from VSCA I’d like to play in the Deluge setting. It’s just a setting, not a rules system. The concept grabs at me immediately: A hundred and fifty years ago it started to rain. It hasn’t stopped since. Woo! The author suggests you use your home town as the setting of the game, using a topographic map to find out where the water lies. Woo again! I don’t know, the idea just really appeals.

Yes, it appears that most things I want to play are VSCA publications. I’d love to play The Riddle of Steel someday as well. Someday.

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2010 02 02 archive Diary Comments Off Permalink

tired, but there's quiche

You’re not going to get an opus tonight, because I’m tired, but here’s a picture of some quiche.

It’s bacon, cheese, spinach, and the flakiest, loveliest, healthiest cream cheese crust ever.

I believe the recipe was simply: cream 2 sticks butter and a package cream cheese together. Mix in 2 cups of flour (add a little cream, milk, or water if it’s too dry). Roll out and…you’ve got crust! You can find more accurate recipes on the Google, I’m sure.

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2010 02 01 archive Diary Comments Off Permalink

early has benefits

I’m not very punctual.

Being late used to cause me intense embarrassment. Mortification. I would leave early to make sure I got there on time.

Somewhere along the line my feelings changed. Now, though I still feel some embarrassment if I’m late, the threat of that feeling is not enough to get me out the door on time every time. Bad habit! Or lack of a good habit.

Today we were on time. In fact, we were nearly forty-five minutes early. That’s alright when you’re driving two hours in the winter.

And if we hadn’t been early we wouldn’t have had time to go to the cafe and enjoy this:

That’s an broccoli, cheese, and artichoke soup…

With fresh-baked sourdough bread on the side. Yum!

Now, even if we’d been late we would have seen this:

But I probably wouldn’t have had time to take a picture of it. Or two pictures.

No need to worry about it melting. The high up north today was 11° F.

2010 01 31 archive Diary Comments Off Permalink

i hate tv

Egh!

I was going to write a post about how much I hate television. But what can I say that my soul doesn’t say to me every time I sit down in front of the Damnable Box? True, it’s not really a Box anymore. More of a Plate. Or Slate. Anyway… Ah yes, my soul! Goodness, it cringes away from the vapid visual verdance of that Sinful Screen. I wish my body would better mind the soul in this circumstance. I know that there’s nothing I want to see or hear from the dreadful depths of digital cable. So why do I stare at it for hours on end when the opportunity presents itself?

Uh oh, it looks like I am writing a post about how much I hate television. Leave now while you can!

Look, if there’s a fine show — and by fine I mean a show that you want to see badly enough to buy it — why not just wait for the DVD? The psychological bombardment that goes on during the commercial breaks is numbing! Even when I realize how stupid advertisements are I can feel them rotting my mind.

Whoo! I just need to cool down a bit. This whole TV thing is getting me way too excited. I am about ready to get one of those “Kill Your TV” bumper stickers. Or at least “Kill Your Cable Box.”

But no, maybe the TV itself, whole hog. We have one. We use it to watch films. Though there’s nothing wrong with watching a DVD on a laptop. Why don’t I just chuck the TV? How many films are there that I really want to see anyway?

Here’s some I’ve decided I don’t need to see: Sherlock Holmes, The Book of Eli, Edge of Darkness. Actually, the preceding are films I thought (last week) that I would like to see. Now, having watched TV tonight and seen Avatar several weeks ago I’ve decided I don’t need to see any of those films. I don’t have the time. And I certainly don’t have the money. I could spend the nine hours or so it might take to go to see those films reading a book. Probably an entire book. Maybe two. I could spend those nine hours making money. I could spend those nine hours educating myself. I could practice guitar, or piano! I could memorize my lines for Hamlet (eee! only one month left).

In short there are so many things I would rather be doing that it begins to disgust me. Why have I spent so much of my short short life going out to see movies?

I’ve got seventy-five years left, if I’m lucky. I don’t have moments to spare watching films I only enjoy.

Wow, sorry for the ranty-ness. Take it all with a grain of salt. I’ll probably see Harry Potter when it comes out…

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2010 01 30 archive Diary Comments (2) Permalink

situation of the green door

The situation of the green door

Beneath the yellow lintel
Between yellow jambs

Next to the window that looks out on the red tree

Under the roof
It stood during the rain
and the snow

Behind a mat that said:
“Welcome

home”

Unless you’re going out, in which case

Behind nothing

“It’s cheery”:
The explanation of the green door.

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2010 01 30 archive poetry Comments Off Permalink

cold cold day

Yesterday we had a fine dusting of snow in the mid-morning or early afternoon. It settled softly over the entire world like a comfy blanket. When it was done, I went up to the house to burn out the creosote in the woodstove, and as I brought wood in from the porch I noticed that the world was muffled. Or maybe the world was echoing. It seemed as if I could here each sound I made reflected back at me with strange clarity and closeness. It was all very still.

It’s very still now, too, but yesterday the stillness had warmth in it. The snow had fallen with the temperature right around freezing, and there wasn’t any wind. Tonight’s stillness is the aftereffect of the great wind that swept through later in the afternoon yesterday.

It whipped the new-fallen snow into a frenzy in the air. We looked outside to see that everything had turned white, as if with fog. The snow was so fine and light and the wind so strong that it got into every crack, deep onto the porches, into the rugs in front of the doors. And on top of that this dry, dry, cold snow is harder than wet soft stuff to get off your boots. It squeaks and sticks right to them, afraid to move. Then there’s snow inside the house because you can’t spend any more time knocking it off your boots, you have to get in. And later you realize that you came in half an hour ago and the snow all over the floors hasn’t melted yet because it’s that cold inside.

The wind yesterday sucked the warmth right out of the air. This morning when I awoke the temperature was 5° F. I went downstairs and stoked the fire in the stove, then tried to let the cats out. Harvest, the hardy one, stepped halfway out the door, shook her shoulders several times, and (I swear), said “Brr!” It was that kind of “PHhhrr” noise that people make when they want you to know how impossibly cold it is, and how very silly it is that any living thing should be outside on such a day. After demonstrating thus Harvest turned right around and came back in. Crescent (the other cat) didn’t even move from under her blanket, where the heating pad is.

It got up to 25° today! But now the thermometer says 1°. It is terribly still again, just as it was yesterday before the wind. The moon is nearly full, and the night is so quiet. I can almost forget how cold it is. But it’s the sort of subtle cold that will make your fingers numb without hurting much, so I didn’t stay out long. The moonlight off the snow is making the world bright. It’s like daytime on a strange world where the sun is distant and cold.

The only sound is the squeaking of snow.

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2010 01 29 archive Diary Comments Off Permalink

yoga tonight

Though Phoenix and I haven’t been doing Insane Clown Yoga as much as we should be lately, we have been going to a yoga class on Thursday nights. Tonight’s class focused on a kriya for the Heart Chakra. Heart and lungs. I’m still very unfamiliar with the terms. This is Kundalini yoga, taught by a friend of a friend. I know very little about the school of practice, but I’m enjoying the classes.

Tonight we were instructed to do the Breath of Fire, which I understand is a common part of yoga. I understood it to be a quick panting through the nose. We also did a lot of work with the diaphragm which was familiar to me, perhaps from acting classes. But I did for the first time have the curious sensation of creating a palpable vacuum inside my respiratory system. We expelled our breath fully, then held the breath and expanded the chest cavity, raised the diaphragm, etc. I suddenly felt the skin at the hollow of my throat being sucked down into my chest cavity by the vacuum! A little disconcerting, because I’d never felt it before, but fun for all once I was used to it. It was like I could have turned myself inside out if I’d wanted to.

Not that I wanted to.

A beautiful moon, if you’re in the same area I’m in. Just bundle up if you go out. Goodnight!

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2010 01 28 archive Diary Comments (2) Permalink

where's the Turtle?

It’s been so long since I posted that Wordpress no longer remembered me and I had to enter my username and password. Oh, horrors! I apologize to all those (three) who were waiting to baited breath for my next post. I also want to apologize to those (eleven and a half) who were hoping against hope that I had finally stopped posting for good.

In fact it’s been over a week since I last posted. That’s scary. I had assumed it was a few days. Which is also scary. It means I’ve been losing track of Blog Time.

I don’t remember where I was when I last posted. It could have been here or there or anywhere!

Thank you Katy for jolting me back to Blog Reality!

I’ve missed writing here, and didn’t even realize it! Of course, we’ve been very busy, but life seems somewhat slapdash when one forgets to blog every night. I’ve been productive, but I like the touchstone of a daily post, whatever topic it may be on. I’m officially welcoming myself back to the habit. Please, Loyal Readers, help keep me on task. Or at least ridicule me maliciously if I fail.

I hope everyone enjoyed the bits of fiction that I published last week. I’ll be publishing more soon. They are drafts for a project Phoenix and I are working on. More on this at a later date.

We’ve been dashing around the state and down into MA. We went to a Michael Chekhov acting workshop taught by Scott Fielding. Check him out if you’re in the Boston area.

Advice to the Players is up for several New Hampshire Theatre Awards so we’ve been invited to perform a fight routine from last spring’s Henry V. That’s involved some last minute rehearsing and fight choreography.

And we’re on a roll with Harvest to Market. We’re doing a stylesheet redesign now. Soon we’ll be looking for people to test and use the website. If you have any interest in buying local food online, or if you have connections to farmers’ markets or to individual farmers interesting in expanding their local sales, or if you just like testing websites, please let me know.

Woo, that’s what I’ve been up to. I’m sure it’s not super-exciting, but it does answer the question “Where’s the Turtle?” fairly thoroughly. Of course, right now I’m sitting in the secret base typing busily. Therefore, more from me later.

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2010 01 28 archive Diary Comments Off Permalink

a woman under a tree (part 2, draft 1)

Previous: Part 1
Next: Part 3

The rain turns to a fine mist. The mist lasts till twilight. Then a wind comes with the cycle and takes the clouds away.

The last daylight of the firmament passes over and the stars come out between shifting sheets of color.

The woman shifts, stretches. She works the kinks out of unused muscles, and leans back against the tree trunk.

Through the leaves she can see the stars. The temperature is dropping rapidly and the firmament is very clear. Above her is the Lion, roaring rampant in the dark. Ahead of her, edgeward, the Chorus has just come into view.

The night is quiet. Even the birds and insects have fallen still. Their small bodies lie, stonelike, in the dark.

The woman stands. She shakes herself awake. She takes up a pack and a staff.

The last of the day’s rain drops from the tree. It patters on the ground, carrying on that rain’s sound. Puddles lie still, showing the stars through the world.

Her trek begins north and east. Edgeward.

The only light comes from the shimmering curtain of the firmament. Great spaces of dark come between the ephemeral fires, casting shadows on the land. She sticks to the shadows, watching the firmament carefully to try and gauge where darkness will pass.

The firmament is like the surface of a great sea, but she looks up from beneath the waves. The stars wink from beyond, and she could be at the bottom of the ocean. The firmament’s lights are of all colors, but the light they cast is not white daylight. The night light is different. Quiet and peaceful. She has always liked the night.

When she was twelve she fled the destruction of a city. She walked in a long line of weary people. They had nothing but the clothes they wore. Their hope was far ahead of them, west, towards morn. Behind them: death.

As they trudged mile after mile they became aware of the beating of hoofs. The horde was behind them, and coming up fast. The city was burned, but the day was not done for those on the horses. They took the stragglers a few at a time, slaying and laughing. Then they came up the line. They didn’t bother to swing their swords. They trampled in blind fury and sickened joy, ready for their lives to end, taking other lives instead.

She heard the screams behind her and she knew her life might soon end, but the line was long. It was hours before the raiders drew near her place in the line, and the cycle had passed into night. It was a bright night. As the swords and hooves bore down she looked up at the firmament and began to pray, as she had been taught by the now-gnarled father in the one-room house.

Then she saw the green flame in the sky above, and the darkness that followed after. She read its speed, judged its slow-shifting dance, and when the shadow came fluttering across the ground she slipped into it, around a corner, between some boulders, and out of sight.

The raiders passed on, keeping to the light. And she lived out the night.

Now she passed from shadow to shadow, walking with the aid of her staff, eyes on the firmament. Eyes on the lights that gave her darkness in their absence. Eyes on the darkness that gave her life.

2010 01 20 archive Fiction Comments (3) Permalink

a woman under a tree (part 1, draft 1)

Next: Part 2

The rain is soft. A green tree sits on a hillside. Covered with dew, the branches grow heavy.

She is sitting under the tree, sheltering near its bulk.

There is a bird in the branch above her. It peers out into the rain. Its head is shrunk down onto its shoulders, keeping the cold out, keeping the rain off.

The creak of unoiled wheels as a cart comes round the corner. Mud splashes out of ruts and pockets in the road. There is a driver. He hunches down within a cloak. He is old and grey. His hands, gnarled, grip the reins, and the weary horse plods on, lonesome.

As the cart passes, the woman looks up briefly.

The man on the cart looks. Their eyes meet.

Long ago, in another place, they were father and daughter. The little girl laughed and listened to her father’s stories. He was young then, spry, strong. She was young then. Her hair was yellow like corn silk and she wore it in fancy braids.

His hands were strong and straight. Now years, or cares, or something else have twisted his fingers. He can barely grip the slick reins with the rain dripping off them. They (his fingers) harden into claws, grasping, grasping.

He sees her, but does not recognize her.

She sees him, she knows him, but her cares are not with him. Not yet. She’ll let him go about his business for another day or two. Perhaps she can give him longer.

It’s been so long since she walked through this town that not even her father recognizes her. Her own mind works feverishly, and she never forgets. First comes recognition, then the memories themselves flood in, of golden childhood, of the man looking over her, watching her and her sisters. He kept her safe from harm until the day the strangers took her away.

What did he think, so long ago? Did he search for her? Did he know who had taken her? If he did, did he care? It would have been impossible to get her back. Little wonder he did nothing. Little wonder she heard nothing of him through all the rest of her childhood, if it could be called that. Now she was a woman with a lost childhood, looking at the father she had not know since she was six. He would be well into his fifties now, surely. He was ancient. It was a wonder he was still alive.

His bored gaze passes on, the cartwheel creaks. He’s gone.

The rain pours down. The bird above takes flight suddenly. It flies to a nearby bush and takes shelter there.

Why did it move? She wonders.

She sinks back into reverie, lowering her head again, pulling her hood down low to let the drops form a curtain in front of her eyes.

2010 01 19 archive Fiction Comments (1) Permalink