Tuesday

Tuesday, named for the Norse goddess Tew, who did who knows what. We good Nordic-Teutonics don't know our old gods anymore except in remnant names. Thor has a hammer in his hand, like John Henry, who we know by having a catchy song--no song, no memory. Thor didn't get a song, at least in English. Perhaps the Swedish children grow up singing songs of Odin, Thor, Loki, and the rest. Sort of a Swedish childhood of Wagnernian proportions. It's easy to imagine when far away in time and space, even though time and space may simply be constructs to make sense of the senseless. A lot like writing. Why do we write? Why do I write? Because I have words and a love of words with words making sense, if not sense then micro-electrical synapse between brain cells. Crossing the cortex of imagination. I've now reduced us all to electricity which is a transposition of subatomic particles which are ruled more by chaos than design (at least that is what the collider in Switzerland hopes to teach us). Then I am a bundle of sub-atomic parts piled atop the other. A rather handsome pile in my own way.

Magic Moments

Once in a while writing provides a few magic moments, like this morning when I started to see one of the stories I've been working on in a different light. Perhaps this is a step taken in which rewriting will be less of a chore and more of a moment of excitement. The first rush of a story is nearly always fun and the words and ideas and characters unfold, like falling into infactuation with the pretty girl I sit next to. Infactuation isn't love, however. Love comes in the revisions, that is seeing deeper and getting to know the story on more than the superficial level. (I fear superficiallity.) I hope for the more in the future.

Lethargy

What to do when lethargy strikes and I don't want to do anything, when writing this is a chore. Chore is a horrid word. A word of dullness, of repetition, of mindless task, of routine. Work becomes a chore, at times, as does life. Could it be any other way since most of what keeps us going bears elements of chores: eating, sleeping, bathing, brushing teeth, etc. To live fully under spontaneity is impossible. Ah, but where's the dancing?

'Tis late, 'tis late

Late indeed and I should be in bed. Yet, the urge to post arises, the urge to reach out and communicate with fellow... I was going to say humans but what if this goes out, via electronics, out of our control, out into the ether, to worlds beyond? Then who is watching or listening or even responding to our blogs? We assume we know. But on the other hand. Unlike snail mail, our posts and email become public extra-terrestrial property open to all sentient life forms that may come across it. While I'm in the purely speculative mode: what if the world did end each time the end was predicted and instead of ending in a great cataclysmic disaster, was simply and calmly rebooted, with all past memories erased and we started over anew. No memory of the past would exist, would it? Memory would start over where it began, somewhere in the middle. Therefore, don't worry about 2012. If the world ends, no one would notice.

Tomorrow's Normal

Tomorrow will come soon enough, before.... and it will demand being normal (as tomorrow always does) and I don't want to be normal. Does that mean I don't want tomorrow to come? No. The two are not identical, an error in coincidence. What is wanted is what isn't for it was then it wouldn't be wanting. But normal? Who decides? Black and white or shades of color? Does blue declare that green is odd and therefore lacking? Or maybe yellow? Or a mixing of many; or a palatte.

Running hot and cold

Without the sun comes the danger of lethargy. Perhaps I am more lizard than I want to admit. Or is it the uncreative chores that beg to be accomplished, like the whole grading business. Meg didn't like the term binge grading when I sit for prolonged periods getting numbers on papers. Abstract concepts laid upon abstract linguisitic constructions. And the students beg for them (like I do when in student mode), setting their self-portraits by the mere particles of ink laid upon the paper in a particular pattern. One slip of the pen would create a different pattern. How easily ink controls us. Ink on assignments, ink on tests, ink on contracts, ink on legislation, treaties, ink on all the licenses we carry from driving to teaching to marriage. Such is the power of the pen.

Not all is gold

Not all that comes out of the pen (or the keyboard) is gold. I've discovered that while working through the novel and discovered a scened that doesn't work. When I first wrote it, under whatever inspiration, I beleived in it, but now, I have serious doubts. Elements of it will be used later on, but not at the current development of the character. She hasn't matured enough to be doing what I had her doing. Perhaps, I'm learning how to write. Taken long enough to get here. It's too easly to slip into maudlinisms. The good point is that I have been able to see it , and to work to contain it.