Look at who I found hanging out in the tunnel at the hospital!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
The (edited) Meanderings of a Snuffled up Brain
The (edited) Meanderings of a Snuffled up Brain
It is four in the morning and there is little on the television and it is too much work to surf the net; one must be able to come up with a search worthy topic before actually googling anything. Three or four pointless forays showed that to be true.
So, high on cold medicine and probably too much caffeine from the mint and green tea, I figured it was a worthwhile project to create something that someone else might someday google.
First let me point out something: I should know better than to mix caffeine and decongestants; my body rebels almost every time. It feels like, if my sinuses were any drier I would end up with a bloody nose.
I remember a commercial that showed people with medicine head and it had their heads attached by a string like a balloon; that is not what I feel like. I feel like I had a quad shot depth charge with a mocha back. I think if I were any jitterier I would be able to feel my skin, this is not a sensation I recommend.
*Time out*
In the above sentence I had written more jittery and the spell/grammar check said no! you must use jitterier so I changed it. Now the spell check is telling me that is not a word. Would someone clarify this for me?
Footnote to the above aside: grammar check liked it this time.
I was wondering about stream-of-consciousness writing the other day. Is it easier or more difficult to just write and write on a computer than it was on paper? Did a writer ever get blocked when they had to look for a new note pad or change the page in the type writer? Now, you are only ever faced with the blank page once. Sure, page breaks are incorporated but they do not really break up the stream of writing. It is easy to move through a range of topics and never stop typing.
I used to write in spiral notebooks of 70 or 100 sheets but never needed to start a second volume to complete a story. I never drafted on a typewriter, I jumped from pen and paper to computer. Now, instead of more boxes of journals and notebooks I have discs of files.
But let’s get back to the good old days (mid-century). Legend has it Kerouac wrote On The Road on a single roll of teletype paper so he could keep going, what would he have thought of this paperless writing?
Personally, I can ramble for hours and not really pay attention to the number of “pages” I have filled. Rereading it can get dicey. Then again, I can simply delete the file and no one, short of a computer geek, would know it had been written.
One other question on this subject: Does the stream of consciousness refer to the writing process or the narrator’s telling of the story? Or could it be both?
PS - I wiser person would have deleted this.
It is four in the morning and there is little on the television and it is too much work to surf the net; one must be able to come up with a search worthy topic before actually googling anything. Three or four pointless forays showed that to be true.
So, high on cold medicine and probably too much caffeine from the mint and green tea, I figured it was a worthwhile project to create something that someone else might someday google.
First let me point out something: I should know better than to mix caffeine and decongestants; my body rebels almost every time. It feels like, if my sinuses were any drier I would end up with a bloody nose.
I remember a commercial that showed people with medicine head and it had their heads attached by a string like a balloon; that is not what I feel like. I feel like I had a quad shot depth charge with a mocha back. I think if I were any jitterier I would be able to feel my skin, this is not a sensation I recommend.
*Time out*
In the above sentence I had written more jittery and the spell/grammar check said no! you must use jitterier so I changed it. Now the spell check is telling me that is not a word. Would someone clarify this for me?
Footnote to the above aside: grammar check liked it this time.
I was wondering about stream-of-consciousness writing the other day. Is it easier or more difficult to just write and write on a computer than it was on paper? Did a writer ever get blocked when they had to look for a new note pad or change the page in the type writer? Now, you are only ever faced with the blank page once. Sure, page breaks are incorporated but they do not really break up the stream of writing. It is easy to move through a range of topics and never stop typing.
I used to write in spiral notebooks of 70 or 100 sheets but never needed to start a second volume to complete a story. I never drafted on a typewriter, I jumped from pen and paper to computer. Now, instead of more boxes of journals and notebooks I have discs of files.
But let’s get back to the good old days (mid-century). Legend has it Kerouac wrote On The Road on a single roll of teletype paper so he could keep going, what would he have thought of this paperless writing?
Personally, I can ramble for hours and not really pay attention to the number of “pages” I have filled. Rereading it can get dicey. Then again, I can simply delete the file and no one, short of a computer geek, would know it had been written.
One other question on this subject: Does the stream of consciousness refer to the writing process or the narrator’s telling of the story? Or could it be both?
PS - I wiser person would have deleted this.
Monday, October 18, 2010
“You have reached the voice mailbox of Gretchen Miller. Do not take this as an indication I am on the phone or occupied in any way. If I did not recognize your number, I did not answer your call. If I recognized your number, but was not in the mood to talk to you, I did not answer your call. If I am not within reach of the phone, I did not answer your call. You are welcome to leave a message. Doing so does not obligate me to return your call or even listen to your entire message. If you have left multiple messages and I have not called you back you should take the hint. If you are trying to sell me something, do not bother with a message; I will come looking for you if I really want to buy it. If you have listened to this entire message, and still feel there is a chance I will call you back, keep it brief, this voice mail only allows you thirty seconds to say everything you think I need to know. Have a nice day.”
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Promenade
Joseph and Maribel met, as they always did, under the elm her grandfather had planted. Wordlessly they linked arms and strolled down the promenade. Once upon a time there was a thrill and anticipation now it was habit; it was expected even anticipated by the regulars of the boardwalk.
Their walks started in the days of parasols and gas lamps, chaperones and carriage rides but times had changed and the slow easy feel of a Sunday afternoon has been lost. But still they stroll and the passers by smile and nod, a small piece of yesteryears acknowledged.
The day will come when one or the other is no longer able to make this walk, but until then Joseph and Maribel will find their way to the old elm and each others company.
Their walks started in the days of parasols and gas lamps, chaperones and carriage rides but times had changed and the slow easy feel of a Sunday afternoon has been lost. But still they stroll and the passers by smile and nod, a small piece of yesteryears acknowledged.
The day will come when one or the other is no longer able to make this walk, but until then Joseph and Maribel will find their way to the old elm and each others company.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
I need a place to post my mental meanderings.
The Day Room
The gentle sounds of a distant memory danced freely above the upright piano in the corner. A woman, lost in another place and time, caressed the ivory of a long ago baby grand. The out-of-tune keys could not hide the talent of she still possessed. But this impromptu concert was marred by the conversations of elderly men, none of whom would admit their deafness and each shouted to be heard.
A wreck of a man sat hunched over in his wheelchair alternately wheezing and cursing; a small existence made empty by his own contempt. Holding court in the center of the room, seemingly oblivious to the others surrounding them, were The Ladies; three women who wore their house coats and orthopedic shoes with dignity. A life time of back fence gossip spilled forth as they clustered together around a jigsaw puzzle that never quite got finished. These spurious stories of people long past were the thread that help them together but separated them from the possibility of more.
An outsider looking in might wonder at such a place. At first glance the social atmosphere seemed pleasing but the harsh fluorescent lighting and institutional furnishings quickly brought even the most casual observer back to focus. This was the dayroom and these were the Forgotten.
The Day Room
The gentle sounds of a distant memory danced freely above the upright piano in the corner. A woman, lost in another place and time, caressed the ivory of a long ago baby grand. The out-of-tune keys could not hide the talent of she still possessed. But this impromptu concert was marred by the conversations of elderly men, none of whom would admit their deafness and each shouted to be heard.
A wreck of a man sat hunched over in his wheelchair alternately wheezing and cursing; a small existence made empty by his own contempt. Holding court in the center of the room, seemingly oblivious to the others surrounding them, were The Ladies; three women who wore their house coats and orthopedic shoes with dignity. A life time of back fence gossip spilled forth as they clustered together around a jigsaw puzzle that never quite got finished. These spurious stories of people long past were the thread that help them together but separated them from the possibility of more.
An outsider looking in might wonder at such a place. At first glance the social atmosphere seemed pleasing but the harsh fluorescent lighting and institutional furnishings quickly brought even the most casual observer back to focus. This was the dayroom and these were the Forgotten.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
