Wednesday, August 13, 2014

It is the 13th of August. For as long as I've been posting anywhere, "journal" or "discussion board" or "blog"

dating all the way back to the Compuserve days, on the 13th of August I report that "On this date in 1969, Class 70-01 of USAF Officer's Training School at the Medina Annex of the Lackland Military Training Center in San Antonio Texas, pinned on its gold bars and became Second Lieutenants (2LTs) in the USAF."

And we really did throw our hats in the air, and we really did all manage to find them, and then we got salutes from enlisted men for the first time (and we did tip the first enlisted person to salute us $1.00, as is - or was - customary). My first salute came from TSG Jack Adams, who had been one of my TIs in Basic Training. He had a bunch of former Airmen Basics in that class, and we were proud to get the first salute from him in particular - in fact we sort of lined up in front of him. He was one of those movie-type TIs with the smokey bear hat and razor-edge creases in his suntans, and a stogie, nearly always cocked at an angle such that the end of it almost made a right angle with the severely tilted-down brim of his campaign hat. He was all tough talk and yelling and so on, but a sweetheart underneath and did a good job getting such a bunch of weenies as us through Basic and into uniform with a minimum of pain & agony. I have a scan of a photo of him saluting me, somewhere. After Basic, OTS was not such a big deal; when you've been screamed at by professionals, upperclassmen aren't even in the ballpark. OTS also had the benefit of our own club, where we could actually drink beer (alcohol is prohibited to enlisted trainees). It was in the OTS club that a couple hundred of us stood around on 20 July, 1969, and watched Apollo 11's triumph.

A little less than four-and-a-half years later (December 13, 1973) I was a civilian again, never having been shot at. Imagine that.

Friday, June 20, 2014

I've had the DVD from Netflix for a month or more, but I finally watched "Inside Llewyn Davis"

I think I put it off because I've read mixed responses to it from a variety of sources, and I'm a fan of the Coen Brothers' work - at its best there is no better filmmaking. But I also find their work uneven and unreliable. I think this is largely because they're willing to give lots of different ideas an outing and don't feel the need to produce a steady stream of nothing but blockbusters. Hence the population of films like "Fargo" and "No Country for Old Men" and "Miller's Crossing" (than which there just ain't any better movies, nowhere no-time) are peppered with "almost but not quite as great" titles like "The Big Lebowski" and "The Man Who Wasn't There" and "Barton Fink" and "A Serious Man" (all of which I like a lot but which aren't in the "Whoa-what-a-great-movie" exhaled over the closing credits category as are the first batch.) And then there's "Raising Arizona" and "The Hudsucker Proxy" (maybe a couple of others as well) which I just plain don't get. (I haven't seen the entire oeuvre, holding out on "True Grit" and a couple others for some reason).

So I was hesitant about "Llewyn" - also because of the subject matter. As a dyed-in-the-wool folkie, survivor of The Great Folk Scare as Dave van Ronk is credited with styling it,  and a huge fan of Christopher Guest's "A Mighty Wind" I couldn't figure what the CoBros might make of the period and the personalities (and the music) that wouldn't be either parody or hagiography.

Well it's neither. And the Great Folk Scare is pretty much wallpaper - there are allusions to the major personalities (a few of them anyway - Dylan, Paxton, Jim & Jean (I think the only ones actually portrayed & named) and Peter, Paul & Mary (though the allusion is to them as a project that Grossman is putting together).

The protagonist is not a nice man, and he's only moderately talented. There's plenty or reason to agree with "Jean" (and his sister) that he is, in fact, an asshole. There's nothing in the film, neither in his actions nor his words, that kindles the slightest bit of sympathy for him, except that he is pretty good to the cat. Two cats, actually. But he's an insufferable shit to just about all the people he comes in contact with. It's a rare experience for me to reach for the "Stop" button any number of times after the first hour and not actually hit "Stop" but give in to the "Wait, let's see, something might develop here after all" - I forbore because it was The Brothers working, and they've pulled things out before.

But they didn't. "Inside Llewyn Davis" is a well-made film; the music could be more; most of the performances are sturdy, the script is certainly well-crafted. I didn't like the movie, mostly because the protagonist is, after all, a narcissistic asshole.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

According to The Writer's Almanac today, Gloria Steinem said

"Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else."

How interesting; for me, the struggle is to overcome the feeling that I should always be doing something else than writing. Time writing feels like time stolen from "better things to do" and yet it's the only endeavor in which I don't feel that I'm poaching on someone else's territory.

Monday, March 24, 2014

Dream journal 3/24/14



The space between getting up to let the dogs out, sometime between 2:30 and 3:30 AM, and hitting the final snooze, usually around 5 or 5:15, has become filled with very odd dream snippets. I suppose dreams tend to be odd by their very nature, but I’ve begun to be more and more aware of the dreams as they’re happening, and remembering more than usual afterward. So this morning there were dreamlets in which I was driving the old highlander and the brakes failed and I rear-ended what looked like a pickup truck full of Okies and their worldly possessions piled high on it; I may have pranged some kid’s bike. In another I was without my wallet for some reason, then found it on the grass. 

My favorite from this morning (I do remember thinking (in the dream) “I must remember this one, it’s good!”) 

So I was (in the dreamlet) standing talking to Neil deGrasse Tyson, and though I don’t remember specifically I’ve no doubt I was fascinated and thrilled because I admire the guy enormously. He was wearing a cape or academic robe of some sort, very dashing. Some nut job came up to us (apparently either a creationist or a Plutonian) and brandished a long knife (or a short sword, coulda been either, the dream wasn’t terribly clear on that point). Tyson whipped off his cape (or robe) and without missing a beat, in matador fashion whirled it around the attacker, enveloping him totally, rendering his blade useless. Then he (Tyson) looked at me and I looked at him and we laughed, and laughed and laughed, and I said “and you didn’t even need a veronica!

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Well I really didn't intend this to become a "Hey look who just died" blog, but

Pete Seeger followed in rapid succession by Shirley Temple and Sid Caesar shouldn't go by unnoticed, I guess. The word "iconic" is grossly overused, mostly by people who don't really know what it means, so I won't use it. These three folks really are "classics" in their fields - in the sense of defining a class, of things or people or works of art. Feel-good 30s musicals, the Great Folk Scare of the 40s through the 60s, and early TV comedy, all summed up in three names, and all gone within a few weeks of each other. So maybe we can say the cultural 20th century is finally over?

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Wasn't that a time? Pete Seeger's gone, The Great Folk Scare must surely be over.

Whatever one thought of his politics (or his music) it's undeniable that Pete Seeger summed up a great deal about a generation of us, and in a way was the conduit for us of the best from an earlier generation, and inspired us with it. I can't help thinking we're all very much better off for his influence, however it exerted itself on us - musically, politically, spiritually. His intrepid wife & partner Toshi died a few months ago - I suppose some will be gratified that "now they can be together" and maybe that's true, but at least it's a sure bet that Pete won't have to endure any more of this life without her.

So long, Pete, it's been good to know ya. (And yes, that'll show up all over the place I'm sure)

Saturday, December 7, 2013

In (yet another) creative lull - not sure what to call it/them

Not "blocked" really since that implies - to me at least - sitting down to write and being unable to. In other words making the effort to make the effort but generating no product. My "stuck" seems to take the form of not sitting down to try - not as a conscious decision, not as a result of circumstance, simply as a result of me. I did well for a couple of years, produced a lot of text (for me) much of it fodder for later rewrite/revise sessions when I progress that far. So I'm happy with progress, but stuck again, though with a different attitude since now I'm pretty sure I can actually produce more than wee snippets grasped from thin air and leading nowhere. in particular. Need a renewal of the discipline, need to stop the internal grumbling about not being able to devote full time to it, as planned all these years.

Odd little sequences of dreamlets in the segments between eruptions of the snooze alarm; none recordable, but they're really odd. How can I know that without knowing what they were?

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Well yesterday was George's 102nd birthday, so I guess it's safe to say

he'd have died quite some time ago even if he hadn't died in '68. And I myself have, as of today, realized that I'm almost old enough to be inappropriate with impunity.

Monday, October 21, 2013

Well I've just finished reading my first piece of Stephen King's fiction, and

I liked it. It was not a horror story. It was The Colorado Kid a short(ish) piece, perhaps for SK a novella; too long for a short story at just under 200 pages according to amazon, but I read it on the Kindle which doesn't do page numbers, so who's to know?

It's a mystery story. But it's not a "detective" story, there's no detective involved, and there's no resolution - no scene in the library of the country house (or courtroom) where some brilliant Sherlock rolls out the clues and what they mean and finalizes the whole thing by wheeling on the culprit and shrieking "But it was YOU...."

The only available spoiler is that in The Colorado Kid you will not only not find out whodunit, you won't find out what there was to be done, nor why.

King very cleverly sets up a frame story around a completely "told" mystery plot - we never meet ANY of the characters involved in the actual mystery - that whole story is "told" by two old downeast geezers, to their young midwestern associate. The true cleverness King displays is in getting us fascinated by the "mystery" that the old farts relate to the young woman, as a means of grabbing & holding our interest in the three "real time" characters, whom he portrays very cleanly & economically.

King's handling of "voice" is brilliant, especially in his handling of downeast dialect. Dialect, as most writers will tell you, is very dangerous territory (in fact I think SK mentions it himself in "On Writing") - an attempt to render any extended passage in accurate representation of any regional or ethnic accent practically dooms the dialog thus attempted. But King manages to suggest to the reader how these folks sound, then judiciously (and sparingly) reinforces it with occasional phonetic renderings, and the magic is done - every time Vince and Dave speak, I hear the down Maine twang as clearly (cle-ah-ly) as if I was listening to the geezers myself, somewhere up (down?) the coast, perhaps in the vicinity of Wiscasset.

I enjoyed The Colorado Kid immensely, and I recommend it for anyone who likes a tale well told, but who doesn't require resolutions to their mysteries (like real life).

Thursday, August 29, 2013

What does anyone think of these notions?

(Assuming anyone's reading, which may be a totally unwarranted assumption). I seem to be forming better defined principles with which to approach my new-found "life's work" (i.e. writing fiction).

It is art. I am almost to the point where I can say that without blushing and feeling pompous. (Almost, it still feels pompous and self-aggrandizing, but it's what I've secretly (almost guiltily, I don't know why) believed for a long time - I am an artist, or at least an artist-in-training).

The point of art (in my opinion only, this is a hugely contentious assertion, I'm aware, but it works for me) is to observe, examine, contemplate, and report on "what it means to be a human being." Whether any of the many art forms that are apparently unaware of the human race beyond the artist are therefore "not art" or are "bad art" I don't know and I don't care. I'm only concerned with my own notions here (it's MY blog after all). Let's say "The point of MY art is to observe, examine, contemplate, and report on WIMTBAHB." Any "self-expression" on the part of the artist that is not employed in this, is superfluous. It's perfectly fine of course if an artist uses his own feelings in a particular situation to communicate some generalities that apply to "What it means" and more importantly to make me feel what he's feeling in pursuit of identifying with the generality of la condition humaine. (Or whatever). But unconnected, incoherent blurts, whether visual, verbal, or aural seem not to do this.

Fiction is Truth unconstrained by Fact. More ruminations and cogitations on this later, but it's a phrase I came up with some time ago and have been turning over in my mind for the past 3 years or so that I've been pursuing this fiction-writing endeavor seriously. The capitalizations in that phrase are intentional and significant, BTW.