...picking up further into the study of the Seqoi. Here we pick up with Tekawa's work alongside linguist Dr. Jaxon Nikolai.
Abridged audio notes of Tekawa and Nikolai on Panel 10 Wall 2 through Panel 3 of Wall 4 of the Queen's Temple.
[GT:] The Vizier, Maliq, had started his Narratio Tabulum within the Queen's Temple several years before Seqoi's Fall. It's primary purpose was simple: to adore the Queen in all aspects and worship her for ages to come. The peoples of the valley were induced to comply to the wants of the Vizier and had to be the only employ of the Temple and the Cave constructs. There would not have been much labor in the region, particularly at this time, and we don't have indications from my colleagues that slaves were kept. At least not in apparent bondage, nor do we have indications that there was spoils of war during much of the Queen's reign (not yet in this narrative, at least). [At this point, they were about 60% of the way through the Tabulum.]
[JN:] And, as we see variants in the construction of the language, I have a growing opinion that the Vizier is piecing the language as one who had any formal desire to standardize the Seqoi language. My guess at this point is even the Queen may not have understood the designs that Maliq had started, outside of building a functional structure, perhaps by his use in court.
Key symbols remain fairly consistent, but transitional and conceptional symbols do shift, though Maliq does make repeated attempts to keep the story intact. At this point in the Tabulum, I feel he has at least one person helping him (dubbed 'Btopon', Russian for 'second'). The language surrounding the Queen are refined from the original block at times, apparently where the Vizier is correcting what Btopon may have originally cut into the stone. It does settle over time, so they are learning together.
We find this in many early cultures, where the psychology of those struggling with a language, 'feel' their way through it. Language is organic, no more proof than this.
[GT:] As there was a lack of paper, we assume they used clay, which is plentiful enough in the cave lakes of the region. The Tabulum would have connected a commonality in language for several years, and more had the Seqoi survived the attacks that ultimately destroyed them.
[JN:] Ironic that Maliq foreshadows this destruction in a similar city that we have yet to find:
"Not unlike the fallen temples of Amarifa, and their limbless statues that no longer reach
They scattered with the stones, as if they were the mountain's bones
Felled by the enemies' triumph
Their eyes turn inward, and the brightness of the stars are lost to them
The frozen winds of the night give them no comfort
The rocks become lesser rocks
And I am alike with out my Queen
I am the empty desert by lack of her embracing arms
The bare stones of the mountain's head
The extinguished fires of the brazier
In the still of the night the animal's rest
But no comfort for I from you"
- P13 W2 to P5 W3
[JN:] Working with an ancient musician team a year later, we pieced parts together in a temporal piece, attributed mostly to Janice Collins:
"The statues laid bare upon the ground, the promise and illusion dead
And so am I
My tears are cold as the nightly wind on the desert sands
No comfort now
I lack you and the stones provide little in your wake
Shattered me
When all is lost and all is gone, memory serves little
And I cry once more"
...
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Professor Tekawa and the Lost Civilization of Seqoi
FORWARD
What I relate here is nothing of my own opinion, or is it embellished in any way. As a historian in the purest sense, we must always look for fact. Unadulterated fact - not swayed by the opinions of the person, or worst, by the fashions of the contemporary - which are filled with dangers. Historic half-truths, which are what fashions unabashedly reveal, luckily do not stand the test of time. As long as there are historians who prove the purpose of their calling and only duly purport a mirror of an age.
Professor of Sociology, Dr. Gale Tekawa, Ph.D. UW Madison, of California State University at Fullerton, outlined a series of lectures as part of her curriculum, "The Curious Pre-Romanticism of the Ancient Seqoi"*, which included several artifacts she acquired in her discoveries of the site in the very early 1980s in the region of south-east (present day) Algeria, about two hundred miles SEE of the city of Tamanrasset. Dr. Tekawa worked along side Drs. Blake and Willowby, Professors of Archaeology, at the site in its infancy.
The site, first thought to be a derivative culture of the Berber, was discovered by Tamanrasset militia in 1976. Funding proved a chore for UW at the time, but it was finally meted out by interest by Pan African groups seeking more solidity to studies of Africa as the 'birthplace' of civilization. [I use quotes very sparingly. In this case, I seek to use the language of the grant, but flatly point out the disingenuous proposition of the term.]
The site found the three doctors working four weeks out of the year, for several years, as scouting expeditions. Opportunity was with them each trip, successive discoveries abounded. [As this is the story of Tekawa's journey, and my interest in her hypothesis, I will merely outline those that are the focus of this paper.] As monies consolidated for the team, the University felt enough was collected that a full expedition and study could be made for at least the first year. The doctor's were so excited they left for Africa before formal arrangements were made.
The first year was slow work. The indigenous peoples of the area proved unreliable so men from Cairo and Baghdad were brought in at three times the amount - but five times the amount of work was had. The first year was primarily for the archaeologists - they discovered an ancient kingdom that flourished only for a brief period of time thousands of miles west from Mesopotamia. There were underground lakes and rain-collecting cisterns. There was some cultivation of barley. There is evidence of crude metallurgy, but nothing approaching the bronze masterworks that would frame much of the time.
...
It was the discovery of a temple, built intentionally underground, as part of a center of worship where the site took a turn of its own. Tekawa found there a series of works written in the stone of the chamber that appeared to be an extant story, untouched by time and most elements. It was crude and it was fragile. If it was what it could be, it would predate the work of Beowulf by some 1200 years.
As Tekawa turned the next two decades to this work, she sought to turn them into a meaningful whole. From it she found, not a fictional tale or a religious sect's search for meaning: it was a story of the Queen of the Seqoi, and the Minister that loved her until the temples were toppled by a wandering army sometime in 2435 BC.
It was a tale that possibly alluded to by Dionysius Periegetes in his De situ habitabilis orbis:
That began Tekawa's proposition that this kingdom, so infant to other civilizations, masterful of little but the crudest instruments, found purpose in extolling the stories of a man we know little about. We know that he was in love with the Queen and outlived her. The man (dubbed Seqoi Alpha, or the Vizier, or Maliq) who saw his own civilization crumble, and a fragment of time that no one could recall but through his story.
...
Upon once of her travels to and from the States, Tekawa had stopped in Spain, to the University of Barcelona, studying the manuscripts and of the symbol the Seqoi Alpha had made. It was a symbol of a woman, in the crude valuation of a dress, characteristic bosoms, and a disk behind her head. The waiter of the Spanish tapas bar remarked, Reina? Queen? So began the tale of the man who loved Reina, the Queen of the Seqoi, the Single Civilization, the Invenimus Mortuum of Dionysius.
..
* The Seqoi Culture: A Study of Pre-Bronze Time in Their Words, Dr. Gale Tekawa, Azalee Press, 1992
What I relate here is nothing of my own opinion, or is it embellished in any way. As a historian in the purest sense, we must always look for fact. Unadulterated fact - not swayed by the opinions of the person, or worst, by the fashions of the contemporary - which are filled with dangers. Historic half-truths, which are what fashions unabashedly reveal, luckily do not stand the test of time. As long as there are historians who prove the purpose of their calling and only duly purport a mirror of an age.
Professor of Sociology, Dr. Gale Tekawa, Ph.D. UW Madison, of California State University at Fullerton, outlined a series of lectures as part of her curriculum, "The Curious Pre-Romanticism of the Ancient Seqoi"*, which included several artifacts she acquired in her discoveries of the site in the very early 1980s in the region of south-east (present day) Algeria, about two hundred miles SEE of the city of Tamanrasset. Dr. Tekawa worked along side Drs. Blake and Willowby, Professors of Archaeology, at the site in its infancy.
The site, first thought to be a derivative culture of the Berber, was discovered by Tamanrasset militia in 1976. Funding proved a chore for UW at the time, but it was finally meted out by interest by Pan African groups seeking more solidity to studies of Africa as the 'birthplace' of civilization. [I use quotes very sparingly. In this case, I seek to use the language of the grant, but flatly point out the disingenuous proposition of the term.]
The site found the three doctors working four weeks out of the year, for several years, as scouting expeditions. Opportunity was with them each trip, successive discoveries abounded. [As this is the story of Tekawa's journey, and my interest in her hypothesis, I will merely outline those that are the focus of this paper.] As monies consolidated for the team, the University felt enough was collected that a full expedition and study could be made for at least the first year. The doctor's were so excited they left for Africa before formal arrangements were made.
The first year was slow work. The indigenous peoples of the area proved unreliable so men from Cairo and Baghdad were brought in at three times the amount - but five times the amount of work was had. The first year was primarily for the archaeologists - they discovered an ancient kingdom that flourished only for a brief period of time thousands of miles west from Mesopotamia. There were underground lakes and rain-collecting cisterns. There was some cultivation of barley. There is evidence of crude metallurgy, but nothing approaching the bronze masterworks that would frame much of the time.
...
It was the discovery of a temple, built intentionally underground, as part of a center of worship where the site took a turn of its own. Tekawa found there a series of works written in the stone of the chamber that appeared to be an extant story, untouched by time and most elements. It was crude and it was fragile. If it was what it could be, it would predate the work of Beowulf by some 1200 years.
As Tekawa turned the next two decades to this work, she sought to turn them into a meaningful whole. From it she found, not a fictional tale or a religious sect's search for meaning: it was a story of the Queen of the Seqoi, and the Minister that loved her until the temples were toppled by a wandering army sometime in 2435 BC.
It was a tale that possibly alluded to by Dionysius Periegetes in his De situ habitabilis orbis:
in hac regione est oppidum ab antiquis invenimus mortuum
sed melius est, et ex lapide sepulchra, quae superne rotundata sunt Caeli
multis nota picturae et fecit
sed qui apud nos est, non possint?
it was in this region from the ancients that we found a dead city
they preferred the rounded tones of stone and tombs
many a picture and symbol made
but who among us could decipher it?
That began Tekawa's proposition that this kingdom, so infant to other civilizations, masterful of little but the crudest instruments, found purpose in extolling the stories of a man we know little about. We know that he was in love with the Queen and outlived her. The man (dubbed Seqoi Alpha, or the Vizier, or Maliq) who saw his own civilization crumble, and a fragment of time that no one could recall but through his story.
...
Upon once of her travels to and from the States, Tekawa had stopped in Spain, to the University of Barcelona, studying the manuscripts and of the symbol the Seqoi Alpha had made. It was a symbol of a woman, in the crude valuation of a dress, characteristic bosoms, and a disk behind her head. The waiter of the Spanish tapas bar remarked, Reina? Queen? So began the tale of the man who loved Reina, the Queen of the Seqoi, the Single Civilization, the Invenimus Mortuum of Dionysius.
..
* The Seqoi Culture: A Study of Pre-Bronze Time in Their Words, Dr. Gale Tekawa, Azalee Press, 1992
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Communication Failures and Pearl Harbor (07DEC13)
In a 1969 interview with Commander Etta-Belle Kitchen, Captain Joseph J. Rochefort, USN, said accurately, "I have often said that an intelligence officer has one task....to tell his commander today what the enemies are doing tomorrow."
To what would attribute to the failure of Pearl Harbor? Offering little excuses, Rochefort explains the ones that are typically burdened upon Signal Units: lack of equipment, lack of effectiveness, lack of coordination and a lack of successful cryptoanalysis. These led to failure. The intelligence and communication effort on the island of Oahu suffered for it.
There was a lack of wired communication lines between forward signal sites. Messages were biked or jeeped to respective command buildings. This alone is a failure, especially in light of the attack: the Japanese flanked the island in two successive waves, each massive wave less than an hour apart. The attack itself is well known: the Japanese were to stun the American Navy in the Pacific and hopefully delay retaliation by the US for six months. Radio or telegram is key, in the least, for alerting defensive units.
I would offer that the shape and topology of Oahu should have accounted for this as well. Signal units with proper radio communication should have encircled the island with at least twenty minutes to rally and mount a defense at Ford Island. Having to physically move messages from a site to command, you lose the ability to rally. The wave will already be on top of you before you can respond. Considering that the average Japanese bomber airspeed was around 250mph, you would need sufficient time to signal ahead.
Considering the topology of the island, I would offer what wasn't being done, and fairly similar to what was being done on the Continental Pacific Coast. Close alignment with defensive units, a hub of radio networks, centralized signal command, and close alignment of scout balloons or planes.
Unfortunately, the centralized command at Wahiawa, near the middle of Oahu, was not to be completed until 1942. Most of the radio equipment that could have been deployed in the Pacific was being moved into Europe. Worst of all, the Japanese rightly changed their cryptography on 12/1/41. This proved highly to their advantage. The US would be months away from re-cracking their codes - much less be of any use before the 12/7 attack.
Mobility of stations, not brick and mortar, will always prove invaluable when creating a scheme of operability in a new theater. Camouflage of equipment and periodic cover changes across the face of the island, in coordinated cycles, would have seen a highly integrated and effective network. Extension of the network would have been in the form of scout towers, balloons or planes.
As to equipment, there should have been no excuse. If military equipment is unavailable, the beauty of radio communication is that you don't have to necessarily rely on perfect hardware. Civilian equipment, in the form of existing radio stations, HAM and other readily available types could have, in the least, prevented the situation that the USN saw themselves in prior to the attack.
A logistical issue that Rochefert encountered was relying on crypto-analysis from DC, with very little resources in the field. Of course, there is a reason to keep your best analysis away from a theater of operations, but stations in San Francisco and Los Angeles would have been ideal. If we take Rochefert's mantra to heart, as soon as the code of JN-39 was changed, all efforts should have been made to get some traction on the new codes. From a signal standpoint, a change in codes should have also put a higher alert status in all forward stations.
By the time the Japanese attacked with their first wave (49 bombers, 40 torpedo bombers, 51 dive-bombers and 36 fighters) it was too late. Signal traffic coming at the start of attack does little good when bombs are falling. [The second wave came with 54 bombers, 78 dive-bombers and 36 fighters.]
Strategy would have centralized at Ford Island until Wahiawa was up and running. Five mobile forward sites in Oahu would have called into repeater stations mid-island, pulling in traffic from scouting units. Routing of messages should have gone to both Wahiawa and Ford Island. Forward mobile commands would proven somewhat worthless, so emphasis on scouting units, with a comfortable range of 20 miles out to sea, forms a virtual line of intelligence away from the island (northern islands of the Hawaiian chain prove to hard to defend adequately). This would account for about three scouts to each forward site, or fifteen overall radio units, two repeater stations, and simultaneous command at Wahiawa and Ford Island.
Crypto-analysis should be done on a four hour cycle, with intelligence gatherers collecting data on such a shift, parsing through it and sending off in similar cycles to the mainland for analysis. Gathering would be done repeater stations and at command (adequately done, this would have you looking at twelve trained analysts and a field division office of no more than two captains and a commander).
In such a configuration not only would the attack have been weakened by defensive units on Ford, it could have been repelled. We would assume to that the counter attack by our own air units could have been guided to the correct location of the Japanese, instead of heading to the south as was done.
A view of post-war operations in USEUR (US Europe Command) shows the start of a highly integrated network of telegram communications as an example of how such a network should look.
To what would attribute to the failure of Pearl Harbor? Offering little excuses, Rochefort explains the ones that are typically burdened upon Signal Units: lack of equipment, lack of effectiveness, lack of coordination and a lack of successful cryptoanalysis. These led to failure. The intelligence and communication effort on the island of Oahu suffered for it.
Considering the topology of the island, I would offer what wasn't being done, and fairly similar to what was being done on the Continental Pacific Coast. Close alignment with defensive units, a hub of radio networks, centralized signal command, and close alignment of scout balloons or planes.
Mobility of stations, not brick and mortar, will always prove invaluable when creating a scheme of operability in a new theater. Camouflage of equipment and periodic cover changes across the face of the island, in coordinated cycles, would have seen a highly integrated and effective network. Extension of the network would have been in the form of scout towers, balloons or planes.
As to equipment, there should have been no excuse. If military equipment is unavailable, the beauty of radio communication is that you don't have to necessarily rely on perfect hardware. Civilian equipment, in the form of existing radio stations, HAM and other readily available types could have, in the least, prevented the situation that the USN saw themselves in prior to the attack.
A logistical issue that Rochefert encountered was relying on crypto-analysis from DC, with very little resources in the field. Of course, there is a reason to keep your best analysis away from a theater of operations, but stations in San Francisco and Los Angeles would have been ideal. If we take Rochefert's mantra to heart, as soon as the code of JN-39 was changed, all efforts should have been made to get some traction on the new codes. From a signal standpoint, a change in codes should have also put a higher alert status in all forward stations.
By the time the Japanese attacked with their first wave (49 bombers, 40 torpedo bombers, 51 dive-bombers and 36 fighters) it was too late. Signal traffic coming at the start of attack does little good when bombs are falling. [The second wave came with 54 bombers, 78 dive-bombers and 36 fighters.]
Strategy would have centralized at Ford Island until Wahiawa was up and running. Five mobile forward sites in Oahu would have called into repeater stations mid-island, pulling in traffic from scouting units. Routing of messages should have gone to both Wahiawa and Ford Island. Forward mobile commands would proven somewhat worthless, so emphasis on scouting units, with a comfortable range of 20 miles out to sea, forms a virtual line of intelligence away from the island (northern islands of the Hawaiian chain prove to hard to defend adequately). This would account for about three scouts to each forward site, or fifteen overall radio units, two repeater stations, and simultaneous command at Wahiawa and Ford Island.
Crypto-analysis should be done on a four hour cycle, with intelligence gatherers collecting data on such a shift, parsing through it and sending off in similar cycles to the mainland for analysis. Gathering would be done repeater stations and at command (adequately done, this would have you looking at twelve trained analysts and a field division office of no more than two captains and a commander).
In such a configuration not only would the attack have been weakened by defensive units on Ford, it could have been repelled. We would assume to that the counter attack by our own air units could have been guided to the correct location of the Japanese, instead of heading to the south as was done.
A view of post-war operations in USEUR (US Europe Command) shows the start of a highly integrated network of telegram communications as an example of how such a network should look.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
do = c, re= d, mi = e, fa= f, sol = g, la = a, ti = b
The inventor of solmization was Guido of Arezzo (995-1050), who used the six syllables of ut re mi fa sol la located on three degrees of the diatonic (C major) scale (e.g. c d e f g a). Guido derived these from an 8th century hymn to St. John the Baptist, the melody of which has six lines starting successively on c, d, e, f, g, and a: Ut queant laxis, Re-sonare fibris, Mi-ra gestorum, fa-muli tuorum, so-lve polluti, la-bitt reatum ("So that your servents may sing at the top of their voices the wonders of Your acts, and absolve the fault from their stained lips"). In essence, Guido created a system of designating the degrees of the scale by syllables rather than by letters.Guido theory of the hexachord, where there a group of six consecutive tones with a half tone in the middle is based on the diatonic scale, the first, outlined before, of 'c', or the hexachordum naturale.
After his contributions, the Guidonian hand was developed where the topology of the hand could be used as an aid of memorizing the scale, from tones of G (at the thumb) to e" (at the tip of the middle finger). c d e f g a b would be derived by the bottom of the pointer, across the ridges at the top of the palm up through the pinkie.
So, when Dame Julie Andrews says she's 'making it easier', what she means to say is that is was manufactured over 800 years prior by a monk who grew tired of the monotony of Gregorian chant.
So, when Dame Julie Andrews says she's 'making it easier', what she means to say is that is was manufactured over 800 years prior by a monk who grew tired of the monotony of Gregorian chant.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
...42212 and stretches home 25nov13...
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| Nigel Tomm at nigeltomm.org |
THE PASSING by: Arthur Conan Doyle It was the hour of dawn, When the heart beats thin and small, The window glimmered grey, Framed in a shadow wall. And in the cold sad light Of the early morningtide, The dear dead girl came back And stood by his beside. The girl he lost came back: He saw her flowing hair; It flickered and it waved Like a breath in frosty air. As in a steamy glass, Her face was dim and blurred; Her voice was sweet and thin, Like the calling of a bird. 'You said that you would come, You promised not to stay; And I have waited here, To help you on the way. 'I have waited on, But still you bide below; You said that you would come, And oh, I want you so! 'For half my soul is here, And half my soul is there, When you are on the earth And I am in the air. 'But on your dressing-stand There lies a triple key; Unlock the little gate Which fences you from me. 'Just one little pang, Just one throb of pain, And then your weary head Between my breasts again.' In the dim unhomely light Of the early morningtide, He took the triple key And he laid it by his side. A pistol, silver chased, An open hunting knife, A phial of the drug Which cures the ill of life. He looked upon the three, And sharply drew his breath: 'Now help me, oh my love, For I fear this cold grey death.' She bent her face above, She kissed him and she smiled; She soothed him as a mother May sooth a frightened child. 'Just that little pang, love, Just a throb of pain, And then your weary head Between my breasts again.' He snatched the pistol up, He pressed it to his ear; But a sudden sound broke in, And his skin was raw with fear. He took the hunting knife, He tried to raise the blade; It glimmered cold and white, And he was sore afraid.
 |
| Ernest Barlach |
He poured the potion out, But it was thick and brown; His throat was sealed against it, And he could not drain it down. He looked to her for help, And when he looked -- behold! His love was there before him As in the days of old. He saw the drooping head, He saw the gentle eyes; He saw the same shy grace of hers He had been wont to prize. She pointed and she smiled, And lo! he was aware Of a half-lit bedroom chamber And a silent figure there. A silent figure lying A-sprawl upon a bed, With a silver-mounted pistol Still clotted to his head. And as he downward gazed, Her voice came full and clear, The homely tender voice Which he had loved to hear: 'The key is very certain, The door is sealed to none. You did it, oh, my darling! And you never knew it done. 'When the net was broken, You thought you felt its mesh; You carried to the spirit The troubles of the flesh. 'And are you trembling still, dear? Then let me take your hand; And I will lead you outward To a sweet and restful land. 'You know how once in London I put my griefs on you; But I can carry yours now-- Most sweet it is to do! 'Most sweet it is to do, love, And very sweet to plan How I, the helpless woman, Can help the helpful man. 'But let me see you smiling
 |
| Hermann Max Pechstein "Kopf eines Seemannes" |
With the smile I know so well; Forget the world of shadows, And the empty broken shell. 'It is the worn-out garment In which you tore a rent; You tossed it down, and carelessly Upon your way you went. 'It is not you, my sweetheart, For you are here with me. That frame was but the promise of The thing that was to be-- 'A tuning of the choir Ere the harmonies begin; And yet it is the image Of the subtle thing within. 'There's not a trick of body, There's not a trait of mind, But you bring it over with you, Ethereal, refined, 'But still the same; for surely If we alter as we die, You would be you no longer, And I would not be I. 'I might be an angel, But not the girl you knew; You might be immaculate, But that would not be you. 'And now I see you smiling, So, darling, take my hand; And I will lead you outward To a sweet and pleasant land, 'Where thought is clear and nimble, Where life is pure and fresh, Where the soul comes back rejoicing From the mud-bath of the flesh 'But still that soul is human, With human ways, and so I love my love in spirit, As I loved him long ago.' So with hands together And fingers twining tight, The two dead lovers drifted In the golden morning light. But a grey-haired man was lying Beneath them on a bed, With a silver-mounted pistol Still clotted to his head.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Give to the Red Cross - Typhoon Haiyan
Please consider giving to the Red Cross to support the tens of thousands affected by Typhoon Haiyan today:
https://www.redcross.org/donate/index.jsp?donateStep=2&itemId=prod4650031&campname=donatetyphoon&campmedium=aspot_unassigned
https://www.redcross.org/donate/index.jsp?donateStep=2&itemId=prod4650031&campname=donatetyphoon&campmedium=aspot_unassigned
The Daily Mail article puts a face on the destruction. The most heartbreaking of which is a distraught father carrying his baby girl through the streets, her lifeless body limp in his arms:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2501471/Philippines-Typhoon-Haiyan-Bodies-piled-streets-makeshift-mortuaries-overrun.html
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2501471/Philippines-Typhoon-Haiyan-Bodies-piled-streets-makeshift-mortuaries-overrun.html
Thursday, November 7, 2013
...10,033 thank you's...
The site hit 10,033 unique users today (with an aggregate of 14628 across the site): a milestone I was looking forward to reaching since July. My humble gratitude to you who visit. In the end, it makes the site richer and makes me work harder; it pushes me to the brink of exhaustion. Your visits set sparks from pen and paper, and the worlds in my head grown on the never-ending plane of imagination.
I am in the middle of NaNoWriMo, so Wattpad and Pace are taking a backseat as I finish "Filipino Cookbook" this month. Head winds are with me and I dedicate a big portion of it to 10,033 of you that show me your interest - it is, for me, what it is all about. I hope that the time I put into stories - in the form of blog entries, to pictures, to the three short books and the longer ones come over the next year - that you find a sliver of pleasure, or camaraderie, or whatever it is that makes us kindred spirits.
Thank you and I can guarantee more is on its way. Support is simple for me: keep popping in from time to time. As always, this is a font that cannot exhaust.
http://www.redcross.org.ph/donate - just read about the terrible super typhoon that left the Philippines, please donate, anything if you can.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
...Comikaze 2013...Saturday Pass...
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| Avenger Props outside the "Mega Museum" |
 |
| Artist sketching at the Topps booth. Bought a few Wacky Packages postcards. Fun111 |
Comikaze is open. It's for the fans. It's for the creators. It was what Comic Con used to be. I wouldn't go to far as to say a joyous celebration, but it is a celebration for what we enjoy consuming. If I'm into Attack on Titan right now, be sure that I can get dollar pins with a Titan on it. Adventure Time is all over the place still. Star Wars is an open staple, but you can see the tow of Avengers taking root for children and adults alike.
It's almost all here. The only thing lacking, and I see that with the smaller conventions, is they need a unifying effect to it all.
They are on the right track. The MC at the Hot Topic stage, located at a focal point in the main hall, is used well. It directs the horde to goings on, occasional guests arrive without notice - these play well with it. What they need is an element of the floor. They have screens, they have cameras - pump some production into a roaming reporter that can update you from the main stage that the Ghostbusters are over by the Mega Museum, that Weird Al is signing right now. That, and some music, would make the event much more unified.
I use the old Shriner auditorium monthly comic weekends as an example - it was small, homey, but full of humor and use of what they had. They were scrappy to the extreme.
There are definite signs of finding that groove, but the venue is expansive, which is a problem with many conventions. This year, the gaming tables were put at the extreme ends, with the signing booths on the opposite pole. Again, they didn't have enough room, in my opinion, around the main stage, which puts the booths nearest it at a weird disadvantage. The shops were the heart of the show, as for foot traffic, but they should be interspersed with the artists - it'll draw folks to the tables as they hunt for merch.
A welcome addition this year was the Video Game Historical whatever, that put an Atari VCS near an old couch, on an old tube television. That was pure genius. All of the consoles were on display, which were a particular fascination for my boys, who asked questions and saw the fun of retro. They even bought an old Kirby cart for the original Game Boy. That 8-bit sound is just too wanting.
All in all, Comikaze is just a great communal place for geeks to come out and let their inner being come out. For that I'm appreciative - the first cosplay I saw was a Poison Ivy that looked like she painted on her clothes, I mean, wowzers, lady. Way to commit.
Everyone has their spice: these guys over here like Ghostbusters, these guys are R2 D2 hobbyists who love that folks want to touch their creations and take a thousand photos in the day. Twenty years ago, you would barely see a girl at the Shriners, but, I almost want to say that the geek girls were represented in wild numbers, I felt like it was 50/50.
It really is just a nice, inexpensive way to check out new stuff, bring cash, and go nuts. The boys and I saw Stan Lee, Edward James Olmos, Louis Anderson, Weird Al Yankovic, Lou Ferrigno, James Hong - all without even having to struggle. They were just there - smiling and enjoying the smiles around them.
It's almost all here. The only thing lacking, and I see that with the smaller conventions, is they need a unifying effect to it all.
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| J-Cool abounds the floor. |
I use the old Shriner auditorium monthly comic weekends as an example - it was small, homey, but full of humor and use of what they had. They were scrappy to the extreme.
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| Marvel Toys - handsomely displayed. Bravo! |
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| The touch here is the O-G TV set: swank! |
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| Where Stan Lee pitches his never ending font of ideas. |
A welcome addition this year was the Video Game Historical whatever, that put an Atari VCS near an old couch, on an old tube television. That was pure genius. All of the consoles were on display, which were a particular fascination for my boys, who asked questions and saw the fun of retro. They even bought an old Kirby cart for the original Game Boy. That 8-bit sound is just too wanting.
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| I did wait for them to turn around, but alas... |
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| R2 still stays cool, among the people, he is. |
It really is just a nice, inexpensive way to check out new stuff, bring cash, and go nuts. The boys and I saw Stan Lee, Edward James Olmos, Louis Anderson, Weird Al Yankovic, Lou Ferrigno, James Hong - all without even having to struggle. They were just there - smiling and enjoying the smiles around them.
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| A wallpaper of the Ghostbuster-mobile, Ecto-1. Enjoy my geek-peeps. |
Friday, November 1, 2013
...November is Nanowrimo...and Apparently Torturous Endevaors...2013
So, aspiring writers, you may also desire to glom onto the sadistic sub-culture of NaNoWriMo (National something and Writing something) over at http://nanowrimo.org/ and go for the attempt of 50,000 hastily hashed out words - ultimately being considered as a 'novel' in the most technical sense of the word. That's 1666.66 [repeating] words per day. 1666 awful, putrid, banal words a day. So, I have my own participation page to completely lie about my progress http://nanowrimo.org/participants/edwardianjackal. For example, I'm already at 1,000,000 words on day one. America, f*ck yeah!
Here's a few tool kits for you aspiring souls that want to cobble together the next YA (young adult) series about the lonely outsider teenager struggling to find acceptance at middle school, but comes to find out she has powers granted by the Ancient Egyptians, Cleopatra's Amagination Diagrammatica: Book 1: The Clique Astounding. Links abound:
- http://lifehacker.com/5863688/tips-for-editing-your-nanowrimo-novel
- http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/nanowrimo-tip-1-establish-a-writing-schedule_b79612
- http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/30-nanowrimo-writing-tips_b41295
- http://yabooknerd.blogspot.com/2013/11/nanowrimo-tips.html
- http://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/nanowrimo-online-editor
Happy writing and 29 days to go!
Here's a few tool kits for you aspiring souls that want to cobble together the next YA (young adult) series about the lonely outsider teenager struggling to find acceptance at middle school, but comes to find out she has powers granted by the Ancient Egyptians, Cleopatra's Amagination Diagrammatica: Book 1: The Clique Astounding. Links abound:
- http://lifehacker.com/5863688/tips-for-editing-your-nanowrimo-novel
- http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/nanowrimo-tip-1-establish-a-writing-schedule_b79612
- http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/30-nanowrimo-writing-tips_b41295
- http://yabooknerd.blogspot.com/2013/11/nanowrimo-tips.html
- http://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/nanowrimo-online-editor
Happy writing and 29 days to go!
Sunday, October 20, 2013
...La mort et le bucheron...art by MarcSimonetti...io9 writing prompt...
The woodsman stared at Death for a spell. Death simply stared back. Despite being a collection of bones and rags, lacking a tongue and any flesh all together, Luthric could read his movements as if he were speaking, You summoned me. Its tone was nonplussed. The woodsman could make out that he was wasting his time. A bout of consumption was making the rounds in Castle Arthrias and the courts nearest its high walls. Serves them right. He grimaced for a second, his right eye a flash of temper. He stocked it away when he realized that Death couldn't make the distinction - the hatred was in his heart. But here Death was and he would rather die than be wrong.
"I summoned you, that is true. Yet, you did not have to come to me. Figuring you are a busy man in high esteem in your world and all afraid of you in this one, I'm thinking you're wasting my time. At least both of our times, then."
Death broke the intent of his gaze, appeared confused, looking over Luthric at the woodpile, somewhere the light fell into the endless shadow of his sockets. His head cocked and straightened up to his full height, You...you mean to say that you called me and I'm wasting your time?
Indeed did Luthric mean it: somewhere in the peanut that was his brain, he absolutely believed, to the core of his being that his time was being wasted, "I called you when the wood shifted from my shoulders, I called you when I needed you to help set it aright. You did not come. You came after the load fell. What good does it do me then?" He waved his hand at the mess. "You understand how long it takes to set a load and to get it half-way home. It will take the same time to load it again. I don't need you now, you may go." He waved his hand again, this time at the tattered robes of Death.
The latter could not take it anymore. He rose even higher, as if he was holding some of his power back. He appeared to grow girth where he did not have it before. Even his scythe seem to thicken. His skull, devoid of the emotion of men, took on the colour of anger at least. He stabbed the staff into the earth and the entire forest shook. Animals broke from the thickets and the birds from their branches. Luthric couldn't but shield his head with his arms.
"What's all that for, man?"
I am no man, Luthric Selrach of Arthrias. I AM DEATH.
"Aye, I know. I figured by yer wont that you are who you say: bones and all that guff. And yes I'm of the guild Selrach, but don't say'n that I come from Arthrias." He spat. "I don't hold no cause for that town that disdained me."
Listen...
Luthric turned his crooked back and sighed, "Nay, you'd not understand. I'm a woodsman that no one even knows is here. I could have died there, that's why I may," he turned and gave Death his right eye, "...may have called upon you in a moment's whim."
Death sighed and seemed to understand Luthric. He nodded his staff to the lot of wood. "You're going to help me? After I've wasted your precious time."
Death sighed once more and rolled his head. He nodded again to the wood. Luthric staggered over to it and bent over, awaiting the load. The shrouded figure hovered toward him and made motions with his hands.
"I'd thank you, but I could have done this myself, you know." He scowled with the self-satisfaction that all boors hold for themselves when they believe they've gotten over on someone. Luthric Selrach of Loneliness, I never came here to take you away.
"Yer damn sure of that." Luthric scowled and waited under the load that slowly fell upon him. He grabbed out to both ropes that evened its load across his back. His knees bent with it. His knees bent even more. Then Death let the load go. Luthric felt his back's bones crack under the weight. The load was made more by thrice. It's as if he took an entire old beech and laid it across his back. He saw Death float away from him, ne'er turning back once. Luthric stumbled forward with the weight: it wouldn't matter which way he leaned, the load was perfectly upon him to crush him if he let it out. He would die soon.
Death turned and began to fade away. If a skull could wink, Luthric felt this one would.
"I summoned you, that is true. Yet, you did not have to come to me. Figuring you are a busy man in high esteem in your world and all afraid of you in this one, I'm thinking you're wasting my time. At least both of our times, then."
Death broke the intent of his gaze, appeared confused, looking over Luthric at the woodpile, somewhere the light fell into the endless shadow of his sockets. His head cocked and straightened up to his full height, You...you mean to say that you called me and I'm wasting your time?
Indeed did Luthric mean it: somewhere in the peanut that was his brain, he absolutely believed, to the core of his being that his time was being wasted, "I called you when the wood shifted from my shoulders, I called you when I needed you to help set it aright. You did not come. You came after the load fell. What good does it do me then?" He waved his hand at the mess. "You understand how long it takes to set a load and to get it half-way home. It will take the same time to load it again. I don't need you now, you may go." He waved his hand again, this time at the tattered robes of Death.
The latter could not take it anymore. He rose even higher, as if he was holding some of his power back. He appeared to grow girth where he did not have it before. Even his scythe seem to thicken. His skull, devoid of the emotion of men, took on the colour of anger at least. He stabbed the staff into the earth and the entire forest shook. Animals broke from the thickets and the birds from their branches. Luthric couldn't but shield his head with his arms.
"What's all that for, man?"
I am no man, Luthric Selrach of Arthrias. I AM DEATH.
"Aye, I know. I figured by yer wont that you are who you say: bones and all that guff. And yes I'm of the guild Selrach, but don't say'n that I come from Arthrias." He spat. "I don't hold no cause for that town that disdained me."
Listen...
Luthric turned his crooked back and sighed, "Nay, you'd not understand. I'm a woodsman that no one even knows is here. I could have died there, that's why I may," he turned and gave Death his right eye, "...may have called upon you in a moment's whim."
Death sighed and seemed to understand Luthric. He nodded his staff to the lot of wood. "You're going to help me? After I've wasted your precious time."
Death sighed once more and rolled his head. He nodded again to the wood. Luthric staggered over to it and bent over, awaiting the load. The shrouded figure hovered toward him and made motions with his hands.
"I'd thank you, but I could have done this myself, you know." He scowled with the self-satisfaction that all boors hold for themselves when they believe they've gotten over on someone. Luthric Selrach of Loneliness, I never came here to take you away.
"Yer damn sure of that." Luthric scowled and waited under the load that slowly fell upon him. He grabbed out to both ropes that evened its load across his back. His knees bent with it. His knees bent even more. Then Death let the load go. Luthric felt his back's bones crack under the weight. The load was made more by thrice. It's as if he took an entire old beech and laid it across his back. He saw Death float away from him, ne'er turning back once. Luthric stumbled forward with the weight: it wouldn't matter which way he leaned, the load was perfectly upon him to crush him if he let it out. He would die soon.
Death turned and began to fade away. If a skull could wink, Luthric felt this one would.
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| La mort et le bucheron by MarcSimonetti on DeviantArt |
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
...Five Pop Horror Short Story Anthologies I Tripped Over as a Child...
Where I survey collections of short stories and drift from the overly popular...
I dug deep into the way back machine for horror books that I read as a child. I read everything. Horror really had no particular appeal to me, as it was, and still is, not my schtick. What did intrigue me with horror, and why I returned time and again, was the thrill of the craft. Horror, as a genre, has to find that fine line between reality and insanity. Too often do authors slip into the latter, borrowing little from the former, and you end up with a mess that cannot pretend to keep you interested. But when it's good - it's thrilling.
The first foray that I remember was drifting from paranormal books, which is a natural interest, then lapsing into horror via mystery. The first mystery stories I read in grade school were the ones that centered around a picture, then you had to figure out who the culprit was based on the combination of the graphic and the prompt. It was a back door into a reading comprehension quiz. But, not being a gifted problem solver, really, I appreciated the lengths of logic that threaded out to arrive at the resolution.
Before I could buy my own books, I had to find them at garage sales with my mother, or, if I was with my dad for a weekend, it would be at the used book shops near Huntington Beach. There I discovered Alfred Hitchcock, before I had ever seen a movie or TV show, with his anthology series. The most memorable was "Haunted Houseful". There was also "Ghostly Gallery". continued below...
I dug deep into the way back machine for horror books that I read as a child. I read everything. Horror really had no particular appeal to me, as it was, and still is, not my schtick. What did intrigue me with horror, and why I returned time and again, was the thrill of the craft. Horror, as a genre, has to find that fine line between reality and insanity. Too often do authors slip into the latter, borrowing little from the former, and you end up with a mess that cannot pretend to keep you interested. But when it's good - it's thrilling.
The first foray that I remember was drifting from paranormal books, which is a natural interest, then lapsing into horror via mystery. The first mystery stories I read in grade school were the ones that centered around a picture, then you had to figure out who the culprit was based on the combination of the graphic and the prompt. It was a back door into a reading comprehension quiz. But, not being a gifted problem solver, really, I appreciated the lengths of logic that threaded out to arrive at the resolution.
Before I could buy my own books, I had to find them at garage sales with my mother, or, if I was with my dad for a weekend, it would be at the used book shops near Huntington Beach. There I discovered Alfred Hitchcock, before I had ever seen a movie or TV show, with his anthology series. The most memorable was "Haunted Houseful". There was also "Ghostly Gallery". continued below...
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| Even in death you would have to imagine Alfred trying to scare people as much as possible. |
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| Short stories was a normal route for early King. |
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Years later, while in the Army, I turned to Stephen King books, more than likely because the small library we had in the Menden (Germany) barracks, which was nothing more than a large room in the attic of the building, had very few popular fiction choices but King. Luckily, I read Misery first, then moved on to his master work, The Shining. Both were tremendous reads, but, I think many of us would easily consider Shining such an artful balance of character, pacing and story. I read it twice while on a 'field problem' - where we had to spend at least a week or two in the field simulating a war exercise. One night was particularly eerie while trying to get through it, as a wind storm blew through an old farmhouse we were sleeping in. The attic was well over two hundred years old and full of dust. Its dark corners wouldn't lighten up even in the day.
From there, and the purpose of this post was short story, so Different Seasons. King's short stories are a hoot and, in his style, very quick and enjoyable.
Post-Army, when I could start buying my own books, I got into Clive Barker's shorts including In the Flesh. Barker is much more of a sadist than King, infusing his stories to cringe-inducing effects. However, it's when he lapses into the more subtle forms of horror do we feel that he understands this world very well.
In The Further Adventures of the Joker, which was a cross-over for me, as comics were a hot commodity from '88 through '95, of moving from graphic renditions of the Batman and Joker and to the written rendition. Of note was a particular story where, as the Joker was a child, he would lure kids into the forest and leave them dying in a water tower. Creepy stuff.
Lastly, and fairly recent, was an anthology of stories as part of The Twilight Zone. These original stories were in the spirit of what Serling did best: stories that are in the transcendent, rarefied air. Since I couldn't get enough Zone on television and probably watched each episode at least five times each, this anthology gave me 18 new stories to cull over. Interesting take away wasn't so much the stories, but the forward. It gives a brief story about Serling's Korean War experience that probably set the tone for his take on storytelling. Fascinating stuff. What will you read yourself this Halloween?
From there, and the purpose of this post was short story, so Different Seasons. King's short stories are a hoot and, in his style, very quick and enjoyable.
Post-Army, when I could start buying my own books, I got into Clive Barker's shorts including In the Flesh. Barker is much more of a sadist than King, infusing his stories to cringe-inducing effects. However, it's when he lapses into the more subtle forms of horror do we feel that he understands this world very well.
In The Further Adventures of the Joker, which was a cross-over for me, as comics were a hot commodity from '88 through '95, of moving from graphic renditions of the Batman and Joker and to the written rendition. Of note was a particular story where, as the Joker was a child, he would lure kids into the forest and leave them dying in a water tower. Creepy stuff.
Lastly, and fairly recent, was an anthology of stories as part of The Twilight Zone. These original stories were in the spirit of what Serling did best: stories that are in the transcendent, rarefied air. Since I couldn't get enough Zone on television and probably watched each episode at least five times each, this anthology gave me 18 new stories to cull over. Interesting take away wasn't so much the stories, but the forward. It gives a brief story about Serling's Korean War experience that probably set the tone for his take on storytelling. Fascinating stuff. What will you read yourself this Halloween?
Monday, October 14, 2013
..."The Most": A Cavalcade of Ingenious Halloween Candy '13...
What can be said about the joyous cacophony of colored treats that is Halloween? It brings back memories of what was possible as we would go around a gaggle of stranger's houses doing exactly that which were told explicitly not to do. In fact, unheard of today, is that one of my favorite scores on Halloween was this older lady that lived on Aristocrat Street in Garden Grove. For at least the two times I was able to hit my best friend's street, she'd have freshly made caramel balls. I mean, fresh: dripping with caramel and butter and a wee bit of salt, they would spot mark the paper bags they came in. And, get this, she would complain that kid's didn't like it. Didn't like it?! I can still taste them in my mind today. She didn't know that she was a queen among dross. That thing was gone by the end of the walk, including my little buddies that didn't know heaven in a paper bag. That doesn't sound right, does it?
Here's candy that I try to round out each year with my boys: interactive candy is the bestest. Yes Virginia - each picture links to where you can order! HTMLroolz<<<!
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| Oriental Trading's Interlocking Skeleton Candy Not always anatomically correct, but fine trying |
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| Oriental Trading's Realistic Gummy Earth Worms Sprinkle in some Oreo cookies for 'dirt' |
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| Groovy Candy selling Ghost Peeps Saw one site have these on a stick and choco-dipped |
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| Groovy Candy selling Round Up Candy Cigarettes There's a time when smoking was cool - oh, yeah now |
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| Tower of Sour's Urine Sample *tss tss whatever urine to - get it? |
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Candy Warehouse's Giant Gummy Skull ~ >$50Perverse eating, my teeth are ready |
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| Lik-m-aid's Fun Dip - got one on a Halloween, once. They really ought to go back to this packaging - how else did you know the flavor? |
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| Chocodiles, but not necessary Hostess' Oh man were these the bomba back in '81 |
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| See's Candies Orange Krispys Showing some love for my peeps at See's |
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| Starburst Fruit Flavored Candy Corn I'm thinking I can hit the entire bag |
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| Hershey Reese's Peanut Butter Pumpkin The schools would go nuts if this made it's way on campus - call the National Guard |
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| Jelly Belly's Gummy Rat The boys got one from Michael's the other day, they love animals |
Sunday, September 29, 2013
...Eulogy of the last Father of Earth...(io9.com concept art writing prompt)...
The solemnity of the day would be lost on many. There were very few in attendance, although there shouldn't have been one person in the System that would not have heard that Gerald Sivly had died.
We had risen early. His body had been prepared the night prior. He was stripped of his clothing, but for a loin cloth out of modesty. Interred in a lead casket, the only items that were allowed were reactive rods. One symbolized intrinsic hope, one was regeneration and the last was for humanity. Even after only two generations since we fled to the oceans, the young were already forgetting the last one. That is why I wrote into the Law: that we never forget.
We once inhabited a world with land. We were able to run in fields of grass, under trees. There was life teeming on the planet. Gerald Sivly was the last to see all of this in its last grandeur. I stared into his eyes after he had passed it I felt the heavy pull of loss - loss at the man and loss of his memories. His eyes had seen streets, and cars. He ran among them. He was a child when they ran into the oceans to escape death. It was seventy years ago now. The eyes had lost its light. He was no more.
I held his hands for a time. Even as a child his hands were cut and calloused as humanity pulled together to build what would now be called the System. If it wasn't for him and the 400,000 strong force, there would be little left of the human race and the handful of land species still alive here. We were three million strong now. Three million strong and still petty, still selfish.
That many stout and strong people in the massive structure we had worked on daily, and only a handful to pay tribute. It makes me sick to think on it. The casket topped the rise and my closest family and friends came with him. I had come earlier. I needed time where I can be alone. It was quiet here in the fields. Only larger predators would pass through here, so it was relatively clear. The sharks knew to leave us alone now. But only thanks to Sivly and the strength of the frontiersman. It could have appeared, at the tail of the last century, that the strength of humans was abandoned to technology. But the cosmic dance brought us a storm of comets. Unrelenting, they came bringing fire and water. The world finally tipped and water took the place of the remaining land.
Billions succumbed. Sivly would tear up at that: the waters were filled, for months, with the bodies of the dead and dying. Families tied themselves together. Children, clinging to life, found floating on them. Ultimately they became a part of the sea.
The pallbearers stopped at the foot of the grave. This place was for the distinguished. I turned on the intercom. Anyone inside would be able to hear if they wanted. I had a feeling they would not.
"Gerald Sivly said, of himself, he shouldn't have lived. I paused when he intimated this to me, one quiet night years ago, when the power had blown during the typhoon of '46. I didn't know what to say - I know now, of course. I would have said if it wasn't for you we would not be a federation of peoples, but dissolved into tribes. The great Improvement made forty years ago now. The survey corps. Life. What things would I attribute to you now." I paused when I spoke of him directly. Why would I do that?
"Sivly can be directly attributed to our ability to stay alive. More importantly, we thrived. We have all felt that pang: the too familiar pang we share when events sour, when life makes us dig through hardscrabble to just get by. But we have thrived. Just a few years ago, we formed a library. Our children, in the first time in decades, can feel safe enough to create art: in my lifetime, in Gerald's lifetime.
As we lay him into the soil that once was Earth, where he was born, where he once played," I nodded to them and they put him into the soil. The light dust blew upwards with the weight, clouding the sea around us. "We should remember to keep our heads up, as he taught me. He never flagged. I wouldn't say that he didn't fail, we all do - but he showed, in action, to keep driving forward. He worked until he died." I paused. I didn't do it out of dramatics, we knew nothing of them anymore - I did it because it felt right to pause and think of him again.
The thousands of times I visited his workshop, but I would remember this singular time: he stood in a shaft of light that had drifted through dozens of feet of clear ocean. The light stayed still long enough to be queer to me. It was as if he was lit by some entity far above us. It was lit for me to remember him, I knew that much. He smiled at me. The light made his ears translucent. His skin was frail even then. But there was a glow. He had animus, he was creating a new tool at his desk. Another tool for us. A tool he remembered or divined. Either way, it was for us. I will not forget this.
"It was an honor to know him. We commit him to the ocean. He will become part of that which he fought so desperately to avoid. But so shall we all."
I stood behind as everyone left. Their figures blurring in the distance, the ever present rise of bubbles from their masks. The dust had settled some time ago. Most of the disruption we caused had already smoothed here. The light was fading. I touched his grave stone and didn't want to leave, like I was a child again.
May my life be even a pale reflection of yours. May I lead these people to a better place. Thank you, father.
I turned and walked quickly, the dwindling dancing light slowly fading in the afternoon, the angular lines of broken cities in the periphery of my vision.
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| Vitaliy Shushko - io9 Writing Prompt |
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
...Where I Am...9/26/13...
I stood alone, although she with me, and the silence cooled the air
What I had said, could not be caught, it steeled her glance
A thieving quip had stole my love and stole her shine for me
She was fair and fairer more with her love subdued
And I loved her more for hating me: for what else then could I do?
Patience is not the suit of men and less the crown of me
I've waited long, I've waited fair that she would come to me
And there she was and the ground did swell about
Proclamations in a glance and declarations in a breath
None before or since, none since or before, I say again
Again I say it, to linger in the air that it may to her abate
Her mood. Can such a thing be said by the very few
Before or since could say the same could stand the same
Yet here I am and here are you, before or since.
If I have not proved, let me prove with the only
Forms I have: not fancy but form and not just form but this:
enticements perhaps, but think them not of me, for that is
Falsity assured; dismiss me still, hate me, reject me
For fade I shall as all shall fade and memory will it too
But none of me retain (reject assured) but retain at least what is left
Then that is all, and all and all, when you uncover it
What you believe you know will not be so and the
Falseness dissolve and bitter cold and night and dark
Will resolve all else and prove '---'
What I had said, could not be caught, it steeled her glance
A thieving quip had stole my love and stole her shine for me
She was fair and fairer more with her love subdued
And I loved her more for hating me: for what else then could I do?
Patience is not the suit of men and less the crown of me
I've waited long, I've waited fair that she would come to me
And there she was and the ground did swell about
Proclamations in a glance and declarations in a breath
None before or since, none since or before, I say again
Again I say it, to linger in the air that it may to her abate
Her mood. Can such a thing be said by the very few
Before or since could say the same could stand the same
Yet here I am and here are you, before or since.
She left, she went to adorn the halls of palaces
With pretty boys, they prate and whisper draughts
Distilled of wantonness. Twisted pillars arise
And art is left to settle its score with time and easy fancy.
And art is left to settle its score with time and easy fancy.
Though don't doubt that I doubt where I roamed
In cover and concealment in camouflage
Trudged in rain on mud in cold Balkan winds
To arrive here as if I knew and knew tragedy
Is it too late it must be I know it is late
For winds they come only once and storms are
Frightening and glorious and beautiful all at once
As you, before or since.
Forms I have: not fancy but form and not just form but this:
enticements perhaps, but think them not of me, for that is
Falsity assured; dismiss me still, hate me, reject me
For fade I shall as all shall fade and memory will it too
But none of me retain (reject assured) but retain at least what is left
Then that is all, and all and all, when you uncover it
What you believe you know will not be so and the
Falseness dissolve and bitter cold and night and dark
Will resolve all else and prove '---'
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| Face 67 - 25sep13 JE |
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
...of yellow pads and foolscap...
In The Oxford Companion to the English Language, the term for foolscap puts its origin at "[17c: from a watermark showing a fool's or jester's cap and bells]", in Britain this would be about 17 x 13.5 inches, whereas in the Colony, we are used to the yellow writing paper of 8.5 x 14, also commonly known as 'legal size'.
Why yellow? There may not be an exacting reference to the use of yellow, but, if we are to follow common sense, the yellow, and a darker one with brown accouterments, is to ease laboriousness on the eyes. Those over the age of 27 will remember that most paper is seldom stark white. The brightness of the paper is harsh for any long period of study or writing. With yellow, especially in the litigious arts, the color enables feeble-eyed law students the ability to pull an all-nighter. I also find that the size, with that added 'height' of 3 inches, is just enough to keep even the largest hands the ability to rest on the pad without tiring. Either way, it has lasted over 100 years in its current state (low grade paper, in the larger size, bounded, with a left margin drawn on its side).
Why was it named foolscap? If we are to take the "unsubstantiated qualifier in wikipedia, it was introduced by a 'Sir John Spielmann' in 1580 at his established papermill in Dartford, Kent. Having the name spielmann basically means "wandering fool" in German, so it could be attributed to his surname. However, wikipedia than pushes the date to a "firm" 1479. Either way, the size and the watermark became one and the same. This 'folio' size and the imprint, fantastically done with thread sewn into the paper, became matter mixed.
The beauty of the pad is its ability to be scratch and/or finery, depending on what context it is. It can be torn away, or all pages saved like a functional journal. The tried and true yellow, with its light colored blue lines is ingrained in our tactile memories. They have paved the way for the tablet, which roughly follows the form and its function.
Why yellow? There may not be an exacting reference to the use of yellow, but, if we are to follow common sense, the yellow, and a darker one with brown accouterments, is to ease laboriousness on the eyes. Those over the age of 27 will remember that most paper is seldom stark white. The brightness of the paper is harsh for any long period of study or writing. With yellow, especially in the litigious arts, the color enables feeble-eyed law students the ability to pull an all-nighter. I also find that the size, with that added 'height' of 3 inches, is just enough to keep even the largest hands the ability to rest on the pad without tiring. Either way, it has lasted over 100 years in its current state (low grade paper, in the larger size, bounded, with a left margin drawn on its side).
Why was it named foolscap? If we are to take the "unsubstantiated qualifier in wikipedia, it was introduced by a 'Sir John Spielmann' in 1580 at his established papermill in Dartford, Kent. Having the name spielmann basically means "wandering fool" in German, so it could be attributed to his surname. However, wikipedia than pushes the date to a "firm" 1479. Either way, the size and the watermark became one and the same. This 'folio' size and the imprint, fantastically done with thread sewn into the paper, became matter mixed.
The beauty of the pad is its ability to be scratch and/or finery, depending on what context it is. It can be torn away, or all pages saved like a functional journal. The tried and true yellow, with its light colored blue lines is ingrained in our tactile memories. They have paved the way for the tablet, which roughly follows the form and its function.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
In the Dispersion of a Web
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| Face XV ~ DeviantArt |
Powder Blue Gentleman:
The unfortunate story is that of a forgotten movie, Powder Blue, of which its only claim to fame is that Jessica Biel strips in it. Great. But, this first compendium has gotten some through-put:
The unfortunate story is that of a forgotten movie, Powder Blue, of which its only claim to fame is that Jessica Biel strips in it. Great. But, this first compendium has gotten some through-put:
Of course there are more than a few books with the same title. One is a collection of erotic short stories. Another from a gentleman who writes horror. Mine is neither erotic or horror, but what an intriguing genre that would be.
- iTunes
- iTunes
Sunday, September 8, 2013
...insanely early geek Christmas list...because now...
Not only the DeLorean, but the < BTTF 1, with retractable tires for flying over Hill Valley. How precious is mini-fig Doc and Marty?
AMAZON: LEGO BTTF DeLorean Time Machine
AMAZON: LEGO Minecraft Original Set
Star Wars has had lots'o success with their miniature 3D flight games. Time for ST to take wing. If only I had time to geek out for a few hours drinking strawberry soda and eating Zingers with the buds...those days are long gone.
Teetering between cool or whah?! Jury's still out in my mind. Actually, I'm wondering if they can be used to...what?! Boy, do you have a dirty mind. I was thinking of oven mitts. (On a dog? NO you sick bastard.)
Latest Mindstorms incarnation will take it through the next five years for sure. $350? That's just a drop in the bucket for you rich boy.
Comes with an ARM9 processor, USB, wifi, micro-SD reader and 4 motor ports. I'm thinking I can make a robot that can store my pictures. Although that may not be the best design. I suck at this.
Doesn't come with a figure though? Have to figure out which one will fit correctly. Yeah, they come out with one of these every couple of years, but it comes in the classic 'Kenner' design from 1978. How can you not crack the thing open and run around the house shooting womprats? Well, that's just racist.
Not sure how this will work, but I love the premise. You take the pieces of cardboard props and move them around I suppose. I think it could come off right to an imaginative kid, but then I think you could spend the time making a real movie. Please use landscape mode people.
'nuff said! Had to read it twice to believe it. Working FM in a little Bakelite. Hang it on a tree, hang it from your backpack. You'll be the life of any office party.
FATBRAINTOYS: Water Games
So, like, pre-Gameboy we had these 'pocket' toys to have fun with on the road. Hours of fun when you have absolutely nothing else to do. How much time was spent watching the swordfish swing back and forth. How do you win? IT'S NOT THE POINT.
{no picture}
WACKYPLANET: Pocket Weather Station
Never thought I'd need one, then I saw it.
Solar power is the way of the future - for, how long do we need a UL-listed plug to keep your lucky cat movie it's little paw? It's 2013!
Who doesn't love tin signs, especially one that hearkens back to when Vegas was a series of block-colors. Love the colors though: I suppose it's 'reminiscent'.
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