Category: Art

  • I Have Returned

    I am a marginal Luddite. My friends tease me about it, not without justification. “What do you mean you don’t know how work that? YOU’RE A SCIENCE FICTION WRITER!”

    A rather uncharitable way to look at it, but not without some merit. It is, however, like telling a scientist he’s an idiot because he can’t program his VCR (!). Or maybe criticizing an engineer because he can’t solve a Rubic’s Cube.  Be that as it may, I have a rather antagonistic relationship to modern tech and I do not feel entirely unjustified. The last time I was upbraided for being unable to deftly wend my way through a computer problem and the science fiction writing came up, my retort was “Dammit, it wasn’t supposed to work this way!”

    (Dammit, Jim, I’m a writer, not a software engineer!)

    Constant upgrades, byzantine interfaces, labels on functions that do not make intuitive sense…it’s easy, perhaps, to decipher a language if you already speak it.

    Anyway, I was recently blocked from the internet by virtue of aging equipment.  One morning I simply had no access.

    I’ve been with Earthlink for years now. Partly, this is because I have little patience for shopping for this kind of thing. I had a bad experience with an ISP when I first connected and Earthlink has been reliable. As time passed and I did more things, they have been far more helpful than not, so I stuck. I am a loyal customer given a bit of useful attention, courtesy, and spoken to in English (this is to say, not talked to like I’m a 15-year-old digital nerd who lives and breathes this stuff).

    So I called them. Turns out, my DSL modem was over nine years old. Well past the average life expectancy of such things. Back and forthing, finagling, and communing with the service techs, I opted to purchase an upgrade to a fiberoptic connection with a new modem and higher speed.

    Then I discovered that my router was also ancient and decrepit and may have been the culprit all along. No matter, I had a spare, which worked fine.

    Until last weekend, when I lost all connectivity and had to simply wait till the install guy showed up.

    Which was supposed to happen today.  But instead, he knocked on my door yesterday, just as I was about to leave for work. After a moment of panic I chose to go with it, because who knew when the next available time would be?  After two hours, I am back online.  The connection is faster. No, really, I can tell.  It is.

    Which then prompted going around the house re-entering passwords and upgrading the other machines, etc etc etc.

    And going through the sixty-plus emails that had stacked up in my inability to access my online world.

    But it also means my distractions are back.

    Oh, well.  What is life without distractions?

    Just in time, however, as the final notes from my agent on my new novel are about to pour down the pipeline into my lap for me to tend to and get back to her so she can start pushing it to all the people who don’t yet know they want it and want it badly.  Timing.

    Which also means I have to get back to work on the other projects sitting here.

    I am, unfortunately, easily distracted, but I’ve come to understand that the thing that distracts me most, more than anything else, is when things don’t work. It nags at me when something of mine is broken. Nero Wolf once described rancor as a “pimple on the brain” that muddled his thought processes. In my case, it’s knowing I can’t do something I ought to be able to do but a glitch is blocking me.  Pimple on the brain.  Annoying.

    But for now, problem solved, and one hopes I can glide through all this unperturbed for another nine years.  At which time, some other something that shouldn’t be a problem (and wouldn’t be in one of my stories, where technology works as it should, unless its not working is a plot point) goes wrong. Meantime, a bright day ahead.

    I would say something about other things, but I don’t want to spoil my mood.  I am back, my window (pun intended) to the world is open once more, and I have what is in this modern day and age the All Important—Access.

    I will say that Coffey, my dog, was delighted to have the technician here. She followed him around, scrupulously checking his work, making sure he was doing everything according to standard—her standard, which may be higher than my standard in some things—and enjoying having me around an extra couple of hours.

    The pimple has cleared up, for now. I’m back working on…things.  (I’m writing this instead of what I should be writing, grumble-mumble…)

    To close, I will offer up a staple of the internet realm, something I seldom indulge mainly because I don’t have the subject on hand with which to indulge it.  I have to borrow one for such purposes, but…

    I give you a cat picture.  Have a good day.

     

  • Needful Rest

    We took a long weekend and headed to Jefferson City for a few days with our good friend John. Away from the office and the nattering requirements, we shared good food, conversation, music. There were a couple of side-trips and opportunity to make a couple of new images.

    I like these.

     

  • Down The Wrong Alleyway

    Between drafts of the current project, I thought I’d relax a few minutes and do a new image.  Played with this a bit…making an otherwise ordinary scene just a wee touch creepier.

     

  • Winter Comes

    In lieu of an impulsive screed on the latest inanities, some images from this January past.

     

     

     

     

    From a day of wandering on an icy January before…well, before everything seemed to change.

    Peace.

  • …And The Year Begins In Fog…

    I’m giving my office a thorough resort (long overdue).  Also, I’m attempting to catch up on sleep (likewise long, long overdue) and taking the first few months to relearn the art of short story (so overdue as to almost not be doable).  In the meantime…the other night, coming home from work, the city was ensconced in a thick fog, and for once I pulled over to do some images.  So while I am endeavoring to straighten out the physicality of my existence, for your edification…

     

    Let us hope for more clarity as the year goes on.

  • Day After

    Still not ready to post about the year, so…

    I hope everyone had a Christmas Day of comfort, some joy, and a bit of doing what you wanted to do. I hope this will find you all well.

  • December

    I’m still ruminating on the events of this year. There will be a lengthy post sometime before 2017.  I confess to being about as stunned by events as I have ever been.

    The good news, personally, is that I’m working on new short fiction. If my office weren’t so damn cold I could do this all day.  But to fill the gap till I pull ideas together for some kind of analysis, here’s a new photograph.  Something to sort of sum up, visually, my feelings about this month.

    May you all be well.  Season’s best.

  • Lake

    I should be working on the short story I’ve been struggling with, but instead I want to say a few words about art and talent and memory.

    Greg Lake of King Crimson and Emerson, Lake, and Palmer and (briefly) Asia has died. He was 69 and he had been fighting cancer.

    The first time I heard a piece of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, it was Knife Edge, from their first album, and a bolt went through my brain.  This was the “other” band that mattered to me–suddenly and thoroughly, the cadences, the depth, the compositional holism, the instrumental proficiency, the temerity of three young guys to challenge Bartok, all of this displaced the light-hearted, Bazooka Joe triviality of so-called pop music that saturated the airwaves a the time.  We had that or the  in-your-gut near-chaos of Jimi Hendrix and the grime-laden street patina of the Rolling Stones, and now, above it all, musicians who not only had the chops but the historicity and grasp of the psychological possibilities of infusing contemporary rock idioms with the incision and deep-boned depth of what we often mistakenly call classical music and make it speak to a new generation.  They elevated what was in so many ways a toy in musical form to something that could take us out of ourselves in the way Beethoven or Mozart did for people so many of us neither knew or respected at the time.

    The period lasted from about 1967 till 1975 or ’76.   In that less-than-a-decade near geniuses made musical pronouncements we are still responding to if only to try to deny or reject, and the best of them were represented by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer.  Condemnations that they were “pretentious” mean little in an era where pretension is embodied more by attitude than talent.  A major “star” styles himself by not smiling and mouthing polemical inanities better known than the music he produces, this is a form of pretension, but one that elevates nothing, reifies nothing, establishes nothing beyond a sullen narcissism.  Perhaps ELP was pretentious, but those who criticize them for that understand little about real pretension, which is a mask hiding an empty space.  Maybe ELP were pretentious, but if their pretension masked anything it was a room filled to bursting with ideas and exuberant joy in musical experimentation.  It contributed.  If it made some feel inadequate or small, well, that was not ELP’s fault.

    Greg Lake, in his ELP years, possessed a magnificent voice, a gift for phrasing that bordered on the operatic, and deftness of interpretive innovation that was a match for Keith Emerson’s volcanic expressionism and Carl Palmer’s controlled hyperkinetic rhythmic adventures.  They were evenly matched and magnificent and I am ever so grateful to have grown up to the soundtrack they provided.

    Take note.  Brilliance has moved on.