Vignette: Nonsense

"Let's sit over there."

"On the grass?"

"You did say a picnic."

"A picnic doesn't have to be on grass. It can be on a picnic table."

"It's not a picnic if it's on a table."

"A meal on a picnic table isn't a picnic?"

"Right."

"Did you miss the name?"

"It's not my problem if they mislabel a piece of furniture. A picnic requires that you sit on a flat surface. Preferably with a blanket. A meal eaten on one of those tripping hazards is a cookout."

"Tripping hazards?"

"You have to climb over that support thing when you sit at a picnic table. I always trip."

"After how many beers?"

"None. Your burger's getting cold."

"They could use that as a sobriety test."

"I have to be back at work in an hour."

"The cops stop you, the breathalyzer's out of batteries, they pull the portable picnic table out of the trunk."

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Rambling: Rambling Rambling

OK, so the daily blogging thing kind of fell down.

I got busy.

Then I caught a cold.

Which is still present.

So I'm feeling whiney.

Those three lines seem vaguely haiku-like.

Now that I've re-read everything by Josephine Tey, I'm starting over with Ngaio Marsh.

Um.

That appears to be all.

Television: Halt and Catch Fire

I wanted to like this. I really did. AMC's advertising tried to tie it emotionally to Mad Men, and I think that was a mistake. Because Mad Men has the alien vibe of being truly in the past. People think and do things that seem inconceivable or unforgivable ("Do you belong to someone else?") but we're convinced. And we even like those people. Eventually.

Sure, I've only seen two episodes of Halt and Catch Fire. But it doesn't have that feel of a foreign country, of alien beings built from the inside out. There's a self-conscious awareness of the contrast between the past and the present. The outrageous statements seem to know they're outrageous. The predictions of the future are far too accurate. The pretty characters choose clothes that we could wear today, while the unpretty ones look as if they dressed out of their own parents' closets.

I wondered if I was being unfair, demanding too much. But Mad Men isn't the only recent-past period drama that works. The original British Life on Mars, for example,  was entirely convincing, despite having a character who knows all about our present right in the middle of it.

Maybe it'll get better.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Daily Ramble: Uh.

Also, uh.

My brain is not particularly operational today. But it's not as if it's depressed or sleepy or tired. It's just sort of empty.

I seem to vaguely kinda recall this emptiness, in the past, preceding a creative period. Maybe. Like a sort of prodrome. So maybe I'm going to create something.

Or.

Um.

Maybe not.

I might just eat chicken.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Daily Ramble: Portland Carbs

St. Cupcake is back.

Blue Star has a new location that isn't going to do the close-when-they-run-out-of-dough thing.

We're going to be spending a fair number of weekends in Portland. That's not cause and effect, it's just an additional fact.

Increased roundness looms.

Daily Ramble

Have you heard the actor who plays Orphan Black's Felix speaking in his real-world American accent? It's surreal.

Helena remains my favorite character. ("White Russian?" "Pork rind?")

Since I cut out Coke, I keep having a kinda-sorta-almost migraine. I'm tempted to cut out all caffeine and blast music while staring into a spotlight just to get the bleeping thing to come and go.

I read that migraines are often preceded with food cravings. Is that the reason for, well, the food cravings? Or is it just normal chicken gluttony?

Mmm, chicken.

That seems to be all.

Rambling. Poetry. Reading update. Gluttony. Stuff like that.

Why don't I write poems?
I like to write conversation, and it's much the same.
He said, she said, new line, new line.
In my narrative, they say, I have too many new lines.
Destroys the impact, they say, too many new lines.

Too many new lines.

Why don't I write poems?

OK, I'm not sure if that counts as a poem. I prefer my foot Haiku.

I've been reading:

In This House of Brede, by Rumer Godden.
Blue Plate Special, by Kate Christensen.
I'm still working on American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. I like it a lot, but for some reason I keep reading a few pages and then putting it down for a while.
The Blood Royal, by Barbara Cleverly.

I'm also reading Peopleware, by DeMarco and Lister.  It's unusual for me to find a "business" or technical book this engaging.  It's making me all opinionated about programming and corporate policies.

There are more chicken wings in the kitchen.

You may recall my determination to stop eating out of worry.  I do seem to be successfully worrying less, though in a "Meh; if I'm doomed, I'm doomed, no point in worrying about it" sort of way. The difficulty is that I'm also worrying less about what I eat. Oops.

I have maintained my no-Coke-drinking progress, but there's a lot of butter getting consumed. And an occasional doughnut. And when we spend Saturday in the park the candy store with the toffee is really nearby. I ate all these things in a cheerful and worry-free manner. This was not the plan.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Slacking! I'm slacking!

On the daily blogging, that is. I'm thinking of making a rule that if I haven't posted by, oh, 10pm every night, I have to click the "new post" button and type something.

Something.

Something something something.

Did I mention that I don't believe in writer's block? Doesn't exist, right? Right.

I'm frying chicken wings. Yum.

I've been reading a lot of feminist blogs. Somehow their bookmarks got mixed up with the bookmarks for the fashion blogs, which can be a bit of a jolt. Of course, some of the fashion blogs are also feminist--that's how they got mixed up--but all the same.

I've also been reading a lot of books by female authors in which they write about their writing.

I ate the chicken wings.

I'm fatter now.

That is all.

Image: By Peter G. Trimming. Wikimedia Commons.

Rambling: Wheels and Smoke

I have a busy brain. This is not a good thing.

I don't mean busy in the sense that it sensibly and productively runs around getting things done. I mean busy in the sense of thrashing around randomly. Usually worrying about things, sometimes pleasantly planning things, but always busy busy busy.

The times when my brain is at peace are rare. Rare enough that I have, for example, a very clear memory of the time that I was watching a James Bond movie and my brain, inexplicably and uncharacteristically, just shut up and let me watch the thing. It wasn't running alternative plots. It wasn't thinking about the last movie I saw or the next one I was going to see. It wasn't worrying about whether I'd gotten popcorn butter on my shirt. It wasn't thinking about work. I just watched. the. movie.

It was a fascinating experience. It was over a year ago and it hasn't happened since.

That is, the experience of being entirely healthy and intelligent and still having a peaceful brain hasn't happened. I do find that when I'm sick, my brain does seem to quiet down, but then I wouldn't call it peaceful, I would call it stupid. It reaches out little thought tentacles, then collapses with an exhausted, "Oh, never mind." But it never stays collapsed.

It is, all the same, a bit more relaxing. I mention this because I feel as if I'm catching a cold, and my brain is looking around, sleepy-eyed, prodding halfheartedly at things. It's pleasantly restful.

That is all.

Random thoughts: Chicken and children's books

The local grocery had fried chicken in the lunchtime hot bar. Yay.

I need to read the rest of Rumer Godden's work. She's my favorite author, but I don't think I've read even half of her books, I suspect because the older I get, the more I perceive the sadness in them. Poor Mr. Plantaganet in  The Dolls' House makes me want to cry now.

I was realizing recently that the best children's books often are sad, in  a way that haunts me more than adult books. Where the Wild Things Are. Peter Pan. A Wrinkle in Time. The Light Princess. Stuart Little and the rest of E.B. White's books. Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. A Little Princess. The Velveteen Rabbit. Harriet the Spy. Hitty. Ruth M. Arthur's books. And more and more. For some reason, even the ones with happy endings still leave me with a flavor of sad.

I went Googling for a reminder of what titles make me think this, and found an article about Anne Carroll Moore's work in introducing children's books to libraries. Well, and then it goes on to some controversy. It's an interesting article.

I want a copy of Ruth M. Arthur's The Saracen Lamp. It seems to be extra out of print. Not in the sense of being unavailable, just in the sense of expensive.

I used to check out Ruth M. Arthur's books from the library shelf across from Rumer Godden's books and a few feet down. I spent a lot of time in the children's room. My brain has a hard time accepting that those books are no longer on those shelves, waiting for me.

My favorite book on building dollhouses was upstairs in the adult room, down in the second rank of shelves, roughly in the middle. They rearranged and moved it once. I was dismayed. I own a copy of that one, now. With the correct dust jacket. The correct dust jacket is an important part of the experience of that Mine Mine All Mine I've Got My Own Copy Now Ha! experience.

That is all.