More Than a Bumblebee, More Than an Ant

I’ve been busy cleaning and writing. The cleaning part is because we are moving houses, but staying in town. Our realtor wants the house to look empty, not staged, so I have been trying to keep the house apparently pristine while we really cook, poop, shower and do laundry here. This would probably be tough to do on its own, but I am doing it with a toddler and a 7 month baby who just decided to go mobile on us. It’s been a challenge.

The writing is in preparation for a new blog we are planning. It’s a classic mommy blog, except I'm a daddy so the classic complaints about normal housewife stuff gets the male perspective, and in my voice which might be entertaining to some audiences. The idea is to actively pursue site hits, meaning social media presence, communication with other blogs, and hopefully, product reviews and advertisements because let’s face it, I am a sellout. Except I haven’t sold anything yet. I’m an aspiring sellout, the lowest of the low, but while my former classmates snub their noses in my general direction for failing to live up to my literary potential, I will be drawing checks. Hopefully. My recent writing is an attempt to build a backlog of posts so I have time to work on improving new posts, and have some padding for unforeseen events that could keep me away from the word processor.

This does not mean that I have given up my ambitions in fiction. I still want to finish First Monday, but lying is really hard so that is coming along very slowly and lately, not at all. Telling the truth in a fun way is a lot easier, so I can create more content in a shorter time. I will definitely link to the new blog if it ever gets off the ground.

Whining and Complaining

I should be talking about books, but the last one I tried to read was "Catch 22" and I got bored, and then realized that I don't have to read boring stuff any more. Instead I'm talking about films, some of which are also boring but only for an hour and a half rather than days. It seems the collective talent, genius, and monetary wealth of Hollywood can’t seem to come out with anything quite satisfactory, and I have three possible explanations.

1. They don’t make films like they used to.

2.   Good films have always been tough to find and the only reason we look with nostalgia on “the good old days” is that we only remember the really great ones (Terminator 2: Judgment Day, Hook, City Slickers) and forget about the poop nuggets  that came out that same year (Chopper Chicks in Zombietown, Hudson Hawk, Rover Dangerfield). 

3. I'm too picky.

I think the most accurate may be the last one, because we have watched three films recently, two of which have been making people swoon/ squeal with delight, and I’ve had problems with all of them. In a cheap ploy to get you to read the whole thing, I’ll start with the least surprising critique.

Divergent. We could probably write a book at least as long as the novel pointing out all of the problems, but for brevity’s sake let’s just say that the entire narrative is lousy with spotty character development and unearned payoffs. Speaking of which…

Gravity. This is an exquisitely ambitious film that baldly attempts to win all of the Oscars, and came away with eight so I guess it was a success. As far as cinematography, sound, etc. goes I suppose it earns them. I’m not qualified to comment on that to be honest, but in terms of narrative it was spectacularly boring. It was essentially 2 minutes of really annoying music and inane banter over the radio followed by 89 minutes of Sandra Bullock almost getting killed. The only part I couldn’t predict was whether they were going to go with Stephen Crane style futility or keep the feminists happy with some grrrl power, which was silly of me because first, Naturalism lost popularity somewhere in the early 20^th century and second, grrrl power has been steadily gaining popularity, though I hesitate to place an estimate as to the starting point.

We had no reason to care about (whatshername? IMDB…) Ryan Stone, so I didn’t spend any time pondering the meta reasons why she would survive.

Also, despite all of the feminine empowerment this film supposedly carries, we still get to see Bullock stripped down to her skivvies. Twice.

The Lego Movie: I know, I’m just as surprised as you. About half way through the film I said aloud, “If they just keep this up this will be the best movie I have ever seen in my life,” and then they had to show Will Farrell’s ugly mug and it was downhill from there. It would have been far less disappointing if they hadn’t already proved they are capable of delivering complex and insightful observations without saccharine sentiment and heavy handed moral badgering. They even skillfully navigate the “everyone is special just like everyone else” conundrum that nobody seems to get right, but they couldn’t find a way to show values prioritization within the familial structure without going all Lifetimey on us?

As it stands the movie is brilliant, but it was almost and could have been perfect, if not for 75% of the live action scenes they shot.

Invisible Itch Monsters of Malevolence

People have a funny attitude toward nature. There is a brand new subdivision being built behind my house, and the first thing they did was knock all of the trees down. It was quite a tangle back there, but they dozed, blasted, mowed and dug a great big pit, I suspect for an artificial pond. They ran their power lines, laid down gutters, poured the concrete streets and erected light posts. Finally they built houses, two of them so far. Foundation, studs, drywall, fixtures, the whole shebang, and you want to know the last thing they did before plunking down their “For Sale” signs in the freshly sodded yards? They planted trees. We like nature just fine, but we like it on our own terms, which arguably isn’t nature at all.

This is for a very good reason.

If nature is a mother, she’s the kind that spends all of her time playing candy crush and watching “Days,” with parental responsibility extended strictly to yelling, “don’t set your brother’s pants on fire.” Nature hates you. With all of the things out there that bite, pinch, sting, poison and maim us, nature makes it resoundingly clear that she pretty much prefers us to be dead, so that she can feed on our organs and use the rotted cavities to breed her young. If nature isn’t trying to drive us away, it’s exploiting our bodies for its own benefit. Case in point, the harvest mite.

Harvest mites are arachnids, related to spiders and ticks. They are harmless to humans, and are in fact mildly beneficial as they eat the eggs of pests such as mosquitoes. The mites themselves are not a problem, but their larvae are. These demonic offspring go by the folk name “chigger.”

At 1/150^th of an inch, chiggers are invisible to the naked human eye (for some reason our eyes like to run around in the buff). After they land on you, they wander around and seek an opportune place where they are unlikely to be brushed off, but also have access to thin skin they can sink their mandibles into. Then they bite. Contrary to popular belief, chiggers do not burrow into the skin. They just tear open a hole in your tender epidermis and drool their corrosive saliva into it, turning your skin cells into soup. That’s all. The saliva somehow also hardens the edges of the hole, creating a long tube in the skin that can take weeks for your immune and lymph systems to break down and heal.

The itch is that healing process, and it is maddening. It’s one of those things that is, if you are not currently suffering, not that bad. It’s survivable. Yeah, you vaguely recall that it sucks and sympathize with the victim, but whatever. However, if you are currently suffering, there is no power on earth that will prevent you from scratching. “Don’t scratch,” friends, family doctors and the Internet sagely advise, “you can get a secondary infection.” Well, friends can give themselves a swirly, family doctors can shove a speculum up where the sun don’t shine (top left drawer?), and you know what else is on the Internet? 4chan, which is just as bad as chiggers. It doesn’t matter that you risk secondary infections. It wouldn’t matter if it were medically proven that every scratch removed six months from your life; you will use your fingernails, loofa sponges, sandpaper, rusted hypodermic needles, ANYTHING to relive the itch. People have been known to bathe in turpentine to get the itch under control, and as a current chigger victim, I have no problem believing this.

By the time you notice the itch, you have probably already brushed the offending beast away and there is no way to end it. Nail polish helps because it seals the hole, preventing air from being an irritant. However, over the counter medications such as calamine are more effective, at least that’s what Big Cala wants you to believe. In truth the best way to solve the problem is to prevent it from happening in the first place, so they advise wearing long sleeves, tucking your pants into your boots, and avoiding long grass. I would like to note that the easiest way to do that last one is to not go outside. Ever.

Another One Bites the Dust

I am a quitter. I became one when I withdrew from the athletics course at the local private school mid-season. I had my reasons. Some would and did argue that I should have stuck with it, gutted it out, put on my big boy undies and finished the season. After all, that’s part of what sports are about. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for cutting your losses, and the first law of holes. Now I’m thinking about quitting again. Maybe not outright quitting, let’s call it placing something on the shelf, because we can’t justify leaving it out all of the time.

Writing is hard. This might sound strange to some people. Writing is a lot like talking, and few things are easier. Unlike talking, however, writing gives us the chance to slow down and choose the best words, not merely reach for the adequate ones we keep on hand, or tongue, as it were. Writing allows us to organize our thoughts, to be precise in the way we present them. When done carefully, it mitigates the chances that we will be misunderstood. When done hastily, however, it is worse than talking because it has the same jumbled words and free association that talking carries, without the benefit of voice tone and facial expression to help clarify the broadcaster’s intent. Consequently, my rule is “at least try to write well or don’t write at all.” It’s been hard to write well, lately.

Maybe I’m not trained well enough, or maybe I don’t love the craft enough to find a workaround, but I find I can only think of the next few lines in advance. It sounds different in my head than it looks in Times New Roman, so I usually scrap anything more than two lines thinking ahead. After that I’m following the thread to see where it goes, tweaking and fiddling along the way. Sometimes I go off and write the wrong thing. Then I have to backtrack to find where I went wrong and try to fix it. It’s a time consuming process, a thought intensive process, one I need to work at continuously to get somewhere. My current position in life does not allow for many huge blocks of time to be alone with my word processor, and when it does, I find myself fleeing to a mindless game to clear the head instead of trying to fill it with genuine dialogue and apt metaphor.

I like writing. I may even love it. I like the rhythm of the keyboard, and trying to see how long I can go before I have to hear the sound of the backspace, distinct from the other keys and a slightly awkward reach for my right hand ring finger. I like to see a sentence that isn’t quite right, then place a comma or rearrange the words, or pick a better one and fix it. I like to read what I have written and think, “this guy is smart, I could be his friend,” which is not a little narcissistic but I am being honest with you and this is the way I feel. Perhaps what I like most is when I nail it, and I write something that tricks the reader into thinking they are in another universe. That makes me something of a magician, and that is what I want to be when I grow up. But my stream of thought is interrupted a lot and this is nobody’s fault.

My family needs me. They need my time, they need my attention, and they need it in periodic bursts. When the kids are awake they have diapers that need changing, tummies that need feeding, messes that need to be cleaned up, and most of all, they need to know they are loved. Writing doesn’t tell them they are loved. Writing tells them that daddy loves the computer. Same goes with my wife. She works all day and is recovering from surgery. We only have a few short hours to be with one another while the kids are asleep (one of them sleeping in her arms). I need these hours to take advantage of having both hands free and knock out some cleaning, make sure she’s resting, catch up with her with conversation that is not interrupted by the latest toddler/infant crisis. Writing doesn’t clean the dishes or the clothes. Writing doesn’t tell her she is loved. Writing tells her I love the narrative, that I want my “me” time, that there are other things that are more important than she is, which really isn’t true.

These obstacles are one of the reasons why I haven’t made any progress in about a month. I do some planning, get excited to write, then get stymied by my real life which makes me cranky, then I am rude to people and have to apologize later and in the meantime, nothing got written. It’s a net loss for everyone, and this is not what writing is supposed to do. Writing is supposed to bring joy, hope and wonder to the people, not frustration. So that’s why I’m thinking about quitting. Or shelving. For now.

More Legos!

Life flows faster at some times, and this is one of those places where mine has reached narrower banks, creating a back pressure and increasing the flow rate because volume hasn't really reduced at all. You know, Bernoulli and all that. I am sure you know what I am talking about. Anyway, an esteemed colleague of mine asked for some help with a narrative to accompany his custom Lego dinosaur collection. He needed an excuse for dinosaurs and humans to interact without either cloning or magic time portals involved. Since I have nothing else to blog about at this time, I am sharing my idea with all of you.
___

Deep in the heart of darkness*, cloaked by layered canopies of trees from above, shielded by acres of tangled undergrowth, sleeplessly guarded by billions of disease carrying insects, a race of titanic reptilian creatures have dwelt and thrived for millennia unbeknownst to all but the most indigenous of tribes. Recent changes in temperature and humidity have driven these gargantuan beasts from their ancient home, triggering a frenzy in the fields of paleontology, herpetology, and wildlife photography as experts leap at the opportunity to observe and study what we formerly believed to be extinct creatures.

At the forefront of the venture is the newly formed International Dinosaur Investigation and Observation Team (name subject to change) led by the bold, square jawed, stubbly chinned Conrad Charles. Together they seek to photograph, classify and catalog living dinosaurs, the most exciting and significant biological event since the discovery of dead dinosaurs.

It isn’t long, however, until Charles and Company discover that they, well, they have company, and not the welcome kind, either. Hoping to line their pockets with sales to traditional Chinese medical practitioners and multibillion dollar playboys, poachers are in a dead heat with the Team to find the dinos! Then again, maybe these giant lizards don’t need I.D.I.O.T. to keep them safe…

*In the bicuspid valve to be exact, between the left atria and left ventricle