Well I never...

Oh my word. I'm working on a company rationale. And happened to look up the word "movement" in the thesaurus. Third entry:

Main Entry:	movement
Part of Speech:	noun
Related Adjectives:	brachiating, catabatic, circumambient, coxinutant, cursorial, dextrosinistral, digitigrade, drawing, erratic, feirie, formicating, gestic, glad, in motion, irpe, irreptitious, laterigrade, left, mercurial, mobile, motile, motive, motory, movable, moving, murgeoning, nomadic, paradromic, pedestrious, pinnigrade, proal, projectile, pronograde, propelled, propelling, propulsive, recoiling, rectigrade, reptant, restless, shanks, sinistrodextral, subsultive, sure, transitional, unquiet, vermigrade, viaggiatory, wandle

Never have I ever seen such a delicious collection of words! It'll take me days to digest all of this...

But can you ever be just whelmed?

3 points to the namer of the movie that the headline comes from.

Word question of the week: is mittently a word?

Approximate Context: An occasional event that happened intermittently began occurring mittently.

My conclusion: While I can see what point the speaker was trying to convey, he actually used an obsolete word wrong. Mittent means "emitting" - or did. It's no longer in use. He made it an adverb, but that doesn't work. Back to grade school:
How did the event occur? Mittently.
I'm not buying it.

Tweeted the question to Mighty Red Pen this morning and generated a lot of interesting insights. Twitter's growing on me.

That's all for now.

Dark and sinister man, have at thee!

Who knew that once you "grow up," finding things to be passionate about becomes a daily chore?

"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me."

And there is good in maturing (don't get me started on healthcare plans and dependency and boys who can shave and personal responsibility and ... ok, moving on). But it breaks my heart to think how many people have lost that childlike sense of wonder and excitement that wakes kids up in the morning. It's that spark of interest in them that keeps them looking around, asking questions, reaching for things, and stopping in their tracks.

I watched "Hook" last night - again. I'd forgotten how poignant the storyline was - so many subtle lines jumped at me this time around.
Maggie's encouraging "Run home, Jack!"
Tink's "You know that place between sleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. That's where I'll be waiting."
Grandma Wendy's "Hello, Boy."
Hook's deep revelations over the meaninglessness of a life that lasts forever.

But I think the part that got me most was Peter's re-transformation (I hesitate to call it regression - it's an old form with new dimensions). Watching him remember how to let go of worry, of rules, of reality, and start to imagine again was inspiring.

It also made me think: If I could live my life with a sense of childlike wonder and excitement, what a cool mom I might one day be! (I told my boyfriend I want to adopt a handful of boys and call them my Lost Boys. He cringed a little.)

He who is drowned is not troubled by rain.

I'm having trouble breathing. This is a fantastic short story - ethereal, clean, with elements just beyond what you can (or want to) grasp. And this folk tale has always haunted me:

Half Flight

My favorite retelling of it was "Daughter of the Forest," by Juliet Marillier. Look it up. But don't waste time on the sequels.

Till by broad spreading it disperses to naught.

I read an article by Terri Windling this afternoon that examines Rapunzel, the fairy tale. You can read it on the Journal of Mythic Arts' archive site, here: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Hair.

I remember having read a literary examination of Rapunzel before, but the woman in the tower never really caught my attention. I wrote essays about the madwoman in the attic, but never made a connection to the woman in the tower.

But the most interesting part of the essay (for me) was how Windling catalogues the watering-down of fairy tales. The originals are potent, meaning-laden tales that weren't simply crafted as a means to conveying a moral end - they were written for the beauty of the thing itself. And as they are picked down to the bones and restructured and bent to the shape of someone's political leanings over the centuries, they become sparse skeletons of what they once were. They become carriers for moral opinion, tools to convince children to behave.

I think it's a trend that is easily identifiable in thousands of aspects of modern life: we're wading through a mess of brittle, tired beauty. Kind of supports the deterioration of the universe theory, what's it called? Right. The Second Law of Thermodynamics. From order into disorder.

Glad I can be so chipper for you all this lovely, sunshiny Wednesday! Ha!

Man is distinguished from all other creatures by the faculty of laughter.

But I'm not laughing.
I'm cringing and squirming uncomfortably in my easy chair.
Don't get me wrong - I love furry pets and small woodland creatures.
But unless they're acting as furry pets or small woodland creatures, they have no place in marketing.

It all started a few years ago with the Quizno's Abomination. That...thing wasn't even recognizable as "animal" - it was a patchy conglomeration of roadkill bits at best. And they were hoping that that roadkill, through a series of grisly noises and stop-motion animations, would convince me to buy their over-priced sub sandwiches. Mmm, mmm, good!

Lately, KIA has jumped on the Quizno's bandwagon. Anthropomorphized hamsters will not sell cars. Even if they sport bling and rap. I don't care who you are. It will not work. Also, it will not give your kids warm-fuzzy feelings about the teddy bear hamster you're getting them for Christmas. Better start inventing bedtime stories about hamster-free worlds of gumdrops and unicorns now.

Someone somewhere in the deepest recesses of the pistachio business decided that the best way to boost sales of pistachios (the original low-fat snack...really? I had no idea. I thought it was Baked Lays.) was to run TV commercials. Ok. I can see the logic there: Monday Night Football fans are interested in snacking. Naturally low-fat is a bonus. However, instead of using things that appeal to MNF fans (ie: naked women, big burly beards, beer, and SouthPark), the pistachio marketing geniuses (genii?) featured a football player, Charlie Brown, and a cat.
Yes, a cat. Not even a fakey computer-manipulated cat. This cat is real, it's wearing an oversized t-shirt, it's playing a piano, its paws are being moved by human hands "hiding" under the shirt, and this cat is pissed. I NEED PISTACHIOS!

*Disclaimer: I am by no means insisting that I am a marketing genius or that my ideas are always brilliant enough to rake in gleaming piles of loot. However, I am a consumer. I buy things. I look at ads. I am moved by marketing schemes. Whether you move me to purchase your product, throw up, or look up a psychiatrist in the YellowPages is your choice. Choose well!

There is always some madness in love.

But there is also always some reason in madness. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

It must be love. I'm writing poetry. Icky-sticky poetry. It's been years since I've written anything resembling this stuff. I'm vaguely disgusted with myself, but I'm hopeful that it will shift a little as we settle into each other. I'd like to get back to writing myth poems. Per esempio:

Eurydice

I lead her this far,

hard-won with cleverness and

skill.  Even Hades

could not spare his stony heart

from the cry of Love’s sorrow.

The thread of her life

has frayed and snap’t.  I beg you,

return her to me.

Her shade follows your music.

Doubt not and look not behind.

With one hand in light,

I turned to my love, breaking

the single thread of

hope, watching her translucence

dissolve, grasping at shadows.

I sang out for death –

they came with equal passion.

Torn body and soul,

the Muses gather fragments,

scattering them on the winds.

Orpheus gazes

on her – no penalty for

reassurance now.

I miss writing this kind of stuff. That's a tanka, I think - Japanese form of poetry, syllable based. Someday, I'll publish a book of all my re-tellings and re-centerings, both prosaic and poetic.

Dusting off a few rabbit trails.

Since I haven't been writing for NaNo like I'd hoped (yeah, you read that - hoped; I had no particular zest behind it this year), I've been cleaning up a few loose ends of stories that have been swirling around between my ears.
Completed:

• a poem to my grandfather
• The Reproductive Habits of Lagomorpha leporidae pulvilagus
• several blogs (I write three...happy hunting!)
• journaling - I can't tell you how long it's been since I've journaled; there's a lot going on right now

I have a short list of story ideas still to be fleshed out. Wonder if these little tidbits can be part of my NaNo word count? It's writing, after all... And who knows - maybe my novel's not actually about Achilles? Maybe it's a psychological study of a writer...!

NaNoWriMo, Day 9 - Epic failure is imminent.

I've been distracted. I can hardly focus on my work, much less extra things outside of work. But I won't blame him - he's wonderful and encourages my writing, even though I'd rather not do it when he's around.


So remember my last post about how hard a time I was having with the high-English structure? And I kept finding myself bored with what was going on in the story. (Which is sad, since I'm only 6 pages in...) Well, the awesome people at NaNoWriMo headquarters sent around a pep talk today that really helped! It's by Aimee Bender, author of "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake." Aimee says,

"Go to that anthill, instead—maybe it'll actually lead you back to where you need to go. We are surprisingly structured and repetitive in our preoccupations. And this NaNoWriMo process does not have to be linear.

So, in a nutshell: go where the writing goes. Follow your interesting work...A poet friend of mine, Allyson, once said, "It's so strange how our mind knows more than we are aware of it knowing." It IS strange. It's one of the strangest things of all about being human. But it is also your great and unending resource, and your instincts and impulses, your non-plans, your tangents—although messy!—(if you follow this, you will finish the month with a mess of pages! That I promise! But who cares?) have a higher chance of leading you to a deeper, more layered book."

And now let the self-doubt begin! Do I have the strength of character to override my OCD, type-A personality and write (all in one document!) about whatever pops into my head? That terrifies me. (I'm weird, ok? Really linear and orderly for a creative.) And at the same time, does the fact that I'm a little bored with what I'm writing mean that Aimee's is a good suggestion for me? I'm beginning to think so.

Aish. Here's to liberation and strength of character and whimsy!

A Brief British Bunny Trail

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up the King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

And what should we do with him? Burn him!

Author unknown. This is apparently a nursery rhyme in the UK.

I'm reminded of how morbid some of the backstories are for our own nursery rhymes. Which one's your favorite?

NaNoWriMo, Day 3 - The squirrels may be dead.

It's been so long since I've written fiction that each sentence is painstaking. (It doesn't help that I'm writing in a very high-English tone - I rarely speak that way and I find myself struggling for the just right word.) I'm beginning to suspect the poor squirrels in my brain have keeled over and died. Their tiny muscles atrophied (rather quickly, too - the smaller, the quicker, right?) and they just fell off the treadmill.

I must not write about squirrels.
I must not write about squirrels.
I must not write about squirrels.

My novel is now titled ("The Deadliest Arrow"), word-counted (varies, but I'm currently at 1371), and synopsised (or is that synopped? "The story of Achilles, as told by the five women who loved him."). Short and sweet. I should write more of it... it's pretty good, I think.

NaNoWriMo, Day 2 - The muse is...Hemant?

Our VP, Hemant, stopped to chat with me over lunch. He's got a brilliant background in physics and business, and he gives me and Rina a hard time for being artists. So he asked about the NaNo hashtags I've been using on Twitter, and he asked what I was writing.

So I kinda bumbled around about my niche is mythology, but specifically re-centering myths, but usually it's from a female perspective rather than male, but this one's been frustrating because it's about Achilles and he keeps talking too much... and I pretty much made a big mess of it.
And then, the most amazing (writerly) thing happened: I started telling him about this specific story, and what came out of my mouth did not match the notes on my page. It had it's own creative momentum, and it drew from all the research I had done, and it was true to my self-proclaimed re-centering niche. The muse! She's...Hemant!

So here it is, more coherently than it's been thus far:
I'm writing the story of Achilles, but told through the eyes of the women who loved him and who he loved.

Suddenly, there's less oppression in my mind. I might even give each of the five women their own Word doc, and let them ramble away. Hmmmm.

A case of losing things in translation. (Oh, is that where my car keys went?)

Today I'm tweaking website copy for one of our clients, a Spanish-speaking country. "Tweaking" is too kind a word. Let's try "massive overhaul," "rebuilding," "intense cosmetic surgery"... I think you get the idea. Here are a few of my favorite excerpts, published exactly the way they were translated:

Starting at Castillo de san Felipe located at the encounter with the sea close to Livingston; you will find amazing paradise places of extraordinary beautifulness. Among the hot sun from the tropics, the breeze from the sea, and the Caribbean humidity, this large territory concentrates the essence of this region.

I can't decide which part is my favorite: the paradise places of extraordinary beautifulness; the muddled contrast of the hot sun, the humidity, and the sea breeze; or the territory's furrowed brow as it concentrates the essence of the region... do they bottle it? I'd like a pocket-size "Eau de Region," please.

The route is fulfilled of mangles and jungle.

Ah yes, I hear those mangles are quite fulfilling, although most drivers advise you go around...

Here you can fish with hook or take a bath. It is surrounded by a fragrant pine, which shadow has been built small cabins and places to cook.

Oh dear. Must I choose between fishing with a hook or taking a bath? That is a mighty large pine, to be surrounding a lake.

Occasionally, you can observe there cultural manifestations of local type.

Can't say a word. I just can't!

Hello, I'm Jess, and I'm a copywriter. This is what I do for fun! (I'm a little off my rocker, aren't I?)

I find I journalize too tediously. Let me try to abbreviate.

I was reading Jeremy Hixon's website this morning, and being that he's a User Experience Designer/Developer, he uses a lot of words, abbreviations, and acronyms that make no sense to me.
At this point, I have to fill you in on my game: I'm a writer. I make stuff up. And when I see abbreviations or acronyms, my silly little mind jumps in and makes up meanings before I can puzzle out the real one. So here's my take on Jeremy's skill set:

PHP: Post-Hysterics Pouting, Pitiful Health Plan, Planetary Holographic Photography...
XAMPP: Xylophonic Actuary Mapping Pre-emptory Principles, Xanthide-Anthropomorphing Militant Practicing Proctologists...
CSS: Christian Services Sic, Calibrated Single Systemology, Computer-Sanctioned Stereotypes...
HTML: Her Tiny Majesty's Library, How The Mackerel Laugh, Help! The Mac Lives!, Human Takes Mandatory Launch...
AJAX: After Jack-in-the-box Attack Xxxxxx, A Jointly Adept X--... I always run out of ideas when it comes to X...
OS X: Oh, Shit! X... That's all I've got - see it every time.

Whew! That's enough for today. I foresee re-visiting this acronym theme again.

Present your argument clearly, arm yourself with cutting wit and of course, bob and weave!

We are debating in the office today. I asked, "How do you spell sike?" The answers were varied, vigorously defended, and came from surprising parties. See if you can follow this (and perhaps interpret?):
Web developer, male: It's psych. (No evidence or reasoning; he held firm that he was just right.)
Office manager, female: It's sike. I speak ebonics, look it up online! (Adamant)
Copywriter, male: It's psych, as in psyched out. Sike is a misspelling, and it should always be psych. (Used dictionary - traditional and urban - to point out original spelling was psych; sike is a deterioration; therefore it's psych.)
Front end developer, female: It's sike, because while it may have originated as psych, if you're using it in a sarcastic manner at the end of a sentence, of course you'll misspell it. (I agree with her reasoning.)
Creative director, male: It's psych. (Listened to mine and FE dev's reasoning.) That makes sense. (He's neutral.)

We're at an impasse here, people! What do you think?

What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.

My Dear Roommate and singularly best friend, Rachel, is a photographer. She also likes to adventure. So we road-tripped to Unclaimed Baggage in Scottsdale, AL this weekend on a mini-adventure. We talked about a lot of things along the way, but one thing really sparked our imaginations. I mentioned NaNoWriMo to her (peer pressure = motivation, and since you lot aren't commenting on any of my posts, I've gotta get it somewhere!), and she said, "I wish I could write 50,000 words in a month."

We invented a photo challenge for her to go hand-in-hand with my writing challenge. So we're inviting you (if you don't write), to join Rachel on her adventure. Here's how it works:
November 1st to the 30th
10 photographs a day
NO editing/retouching/critiquing/whining

By the end of the month, you'll have 300 photographs (or 50,000 words) to show for your efforts, and then the editing can begin! So I'll be blogging here about the weirdness of WriMo, and Rachel will be blogging about the Create and Dream Photo Challenge at onthEdge Creations. Dare to push your boundaries! You're not alone... we'll be slogging along with you!

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.

See if you can identify the word I didn't know in this sentence: "The personality might slowly elide until it is no longer recognizable or regainable as itself; it may cease to be the personality that goes with a particular self." (Larry McMurtry, from Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen, in "Unholy Ghost: Writers on Depression," by Nell Casey)


elide: to omit, or suppress; to merge, as in "whole periods are elided into mere seconds on the silver screen;" from the Latin for "strike out"


McMurtry's essay explores self-hood after a quad bypass. It's frightening, yet puts words to things I have always wondered about (anaesthesia, major surgery, and the emotional/spiritual effects). The book is a collection of essays by writers on depression, and as morbid as it sounds, it's very well-written and engaging.


The book only confirms my private opinion: all writers suffer what I call "Virginia Woolf days": days when you feel those dark voices nibbling along the edges of your mind, when the clouds press down on your shoulders, when all you can see before you is a calendar list of like days and your mind simply refuses to open up enough to consider the possibility of sunshine. Woolf filled her pockets with stones, walked to the river's edge, removed her shoes, left her stick in the grass, and walked into the river. Her letter to her husband is a beautiful, bitter-sweet testament of their marriage, his courage, and her sensitivity:

Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that - everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.
I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

V.

On that note, I'm going to look at some LOLCatz...

Truth is truth - to the end of reckoning.

Adaptation of a Stephen King quote: All fiction is a lie, and good fiction is the truth inside the lie.
I've found in past writing experiments (and we're talking strictly fiction, here, people - the stuff I really love) that the truth always shines through.
By truth I mean this: the things I believe, the principles I base my life on, the hardest core bits of me that will never break up no matter the intensity or pressure from the outside. I think we can argue that fiction is fabricated so it can be completely separated from the person who made it up (and we do argue this to protect ourselves - from pre-judgements, from pigeon-holing, from criticism).
But at the same time, I think it can be argued that creators - no matter what medium they use - must infuse the work with some of themselves. A sculptor cannot create a piece of art without touching the stone, running his hands over the planes and textures, dripping sweat onto its surface, scraping his knuckles against it. In the same way, a writer cannot write a piece of fiction without leaving traces of herself in the work.
I would have it no other way! While it makes the writing process infinitely more painful - picking at threads of your soul and weaving them into a story other than your own leaves you frayed, to say the least - the end result carries that ring of truth that we all search for in books. It becomes a human work that speaks the same language as its readers.

All of this is going somewhere, I promise.
I've been encouraged to join NaNoWriMo this year, and I have. I'm terrified. I don't think I've ever written for a month straight. I am full of stories, though, and the terror is tempered by a building excitement.
So if you're interested (thousands of people all over the world writing 50,000 words in one month? curious...!), you're welcome to follow me: here at the WriteMe blog and on Twitter @ScribbleMeJ. Beginning November 1st, this blog will be a scratch pad for the NaNo process. I'll try to get the fancy word count widgets and such, but I make no promises (I suck at computers).

By fairy hands their knell is rung.

I've been schooled this week.  In words, I mean.  And I totally blame being sick for my failing wits.

First, "soporific" means "sleep-inducing" (which even my mom knew!).  I guessed something along the lines of "droning," "over-indulged," or "soaking in."  [Editor's note: Just because I provide three different definitions for a word doesn't mean I'm confused.  It just means that I'm really good at making stuff up, and the stuff I make up is really creative and rather convincing.  You know you're jealous.]

Second, "querulous" means "contentious, prone to argument."  I was close with "whining, protesting; a feeble attempt at contradiction."

Third, I learned this morning that it's "jibe," not "jive."  As in, "The story you told about your mom's vacation doesn't jibe with the photographic evidence of her whereabouts that weekend."  And "jive" has always made so much sense!  (Think about it: dancing - one set of facts either dances well or doesn't with the second set of facts... Sad loss.)  Although it must be noted that I prefer the British English spelling of it to the American English: gybe vs. jibe.


In other news, I've had a lot of downtime this week (what with my mind being clogged and work being slow).  So I've indulged in a lot of fiction reading.

I re-discovered the Endicott Studio website, managed by Terri Windling, Ellen Datlow, and Ellen Kushner (to name a very few).  It is a collection of visual, literary, and academic explorations of the Mythic Arts - I've literally lost myself within the pages of it for the last week.  I've been reading through the Journal of Mythic Arts' fiction and non-fiction archives.  [Second Editor's Note: This site is of particular interest to me; my college thesis examined re-centering myth and fairy tale.  I've immersed myself in all things mythic for the last 6 years at least.]

So after reading all morning, I came home yesterday with a panicky urge to re-read my two favorite books of all time: The Hero & the Crown and The Blue Sword, both by Robin McKinley.  They were not on my shelves!  I searched, but know my book filing system, and they weren't there.  All I could conclude was I'd loaned them out (God knows why), and they hadn't come back (for the same reason most loaned books don't come back).  I penned the dogs in the kitchen and bolted to Grumpy's (my old place of employment and the nearest used bookstore), but only came up with The Hero & the Crown.  It will do for now, but I must find another copy of The Blue Sword - these are the only two books I've ever read more than once.  I must have them on hand at all times!  [Third Editor's Note: Only librophiles will understand this compulsion - I can't explain it.  But I have never felt more urgent about reading a book than I did yesterday.  And I couldn't rest until I'd found it.  I almost considered driving across town to the accursed McKay's.  Almost.]

Their hearts and sentiments were free, their appetites were hearty.

Robust.

I hate that word!  Ok, I don't hate it, but I strongly disapprove of the way it's been misused recently.  "Robust tool," "robust system," "robust software platform," "robust this," "robust that."  It's killing me!

I hold that robust should be used for
1. Men
2. Coffee
3. Beer
and in that order.

I'm done.

We must learn to welcome and not fear the voices of dissent. (Fulbright)

Malcolm Gladwell is speaking at UTC tomorrow evening here in Chattanooga.  I'm excited! I first heard of him four years ago - the speaker at our graduation ceremony quoted some ideas from Gladwell's book, Blink. Since then, I have read Tipping Point and have the other two on my list (Outliers is the third).

The way I understand him, Gladwell is an economist who studies trends. Only he doesn't study economic trends (he touches on them), but I would categorize his as "social" trends.  So naturally social media came up this week in an article he wrote for The New Yorker.  Summed up, he says:
Facebook is an emotional support because it's easy and removed, but people are reluctant to do more than "thumbs up" a cause or group.


Social media has no hierarchy, no controlling structure; it's herd mentality at best. How much long-term success can a stampede of information bring about?


Gladwell concludes:
"It makes it easier for activists to express themselves, and harder for that expression to have any impact. The instruments of social media are well suited to making the existing social order more efficient. They are not a natural enemy of the status quo. If you are of the opinion that all the world needs is a little buffing around the edges, this should not trouble you. But if you think that there are still lunch counters out there that need integrating it ought to give you pause."

Read more at The New Yorker.com.


I'm looking forward to hearing Gladwell speak.  It's refreshing to hear a logical, no-nonsense approach to trending ideas these days.

Hey, Mike. Can't afford punctuation.

Ford's recent commercial really grates on my nerves.  They have skads of money, but somehow the ad got through the copy editors with terrible punctuation.  Mike's face shows up (and he's cute - I like Mike), but he says (far too fast for expression), "People say, Hey, Mike. Why Ford. Why now."  Except some brilliant director thought, "If people could visualize these words, they would retain them and then be able to recall the rest of our promo!"  So he threw the words in next to Mike's face.  And what they ended up with was something akin to a toddler's version of sledding: Daddyandmegoeddownthehillfastanditwassomuchfun!

"PeoplesayHeyMikeWhyFordWhynow."

Granted, if someone had written it as "People ask, Hey Mike - Why Ford? Why now?" maybe the question marks wouldn't have been overlooked.  Saying implies periods.  Still.  I have no respect for an international company with the size (and reputation) of Ford that can't properly punctuate its commercials.

How hard can it be.

Face-palm: A Visual

It occurred to me that I used *facepalm* a couple times last week.  And then I saw this gif.

Face-palm

For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Oh my giddy aunt - they've done it!  Shakespeare has met Clay-mation.  And there are garden gnomes.  I really don't need to say more!  So here's the trailer:

Gnomeo & Juliet

Always listen to experts. They'll tell you what can't be done and why. Then do it.

Web fail of the day:

I typed "expert" into Thesaurus.com's search bar, hit enter.

There are no results for "expert."


I confess I snorted.  Reading further, Thesaurus.com asked,

Did you mean "expert"?


*Face-palm.

Broadly speaking, the short words are the best, and the old words best of all.

Copywriting moment.
The sentence I'm wrestling with ends thus:
"and will maintain the fast, high-quality production standards which it has become known for."


Except that I want it to say:
"and will maintain the fast, high-quality production standards for which it has become known."


But I still feel more comfortable with the first one, because more readers will be able to identify with it.  Do we sacrifice grammar for readability?  I'm going to side with Churchill:
"This is the sort of bloody nonsense up with which I will not put."




Later the same morning, I found this lovely confusion:
"Charlie Acuff shined in the shadow of his famous cousin Roy by staying in the Knoxville area and becoming its best-loved old-time fiddler."


How old-timey was it?  Well, it was so old-timey we even employed verb constructions to show you!  Shouldn't it be "shone"?  And by the way, how does anyone shine in someone else's shadow?
*Face-palm...

Bulletin:

I've been reading a lot lately (and compiling lists of articles to go along) about the "problem" with 20-somethings these days.  I'm not sure it's a problem; I find it to be a lack of internal pressure.  But I'll explain later.  I'm still working on it...don't hold your (collective) breath!

Pardon him, Theodotus: he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature.

One would think that,

should one purchase such a gargantuan truck,

one might learn how to properly park said vehicle.

I'm just sayin'...

Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.

Seth Godin recently posted a blog titled "Check-In, Chicken."  And while I'm not actually part of a small, closely-involved team that would have check-in meetings every morning (or even once a week, although maybe we should consider it), his suggestion is good for even an individual level.  So here goes:

What are you afraid of?
I'm afraid of failure - that everything I've done in my life and in my writing career to date will not be enough for the job I'm doing, and I will disappoint everyone (myself included).  In my mind, I'll run dry of ideas, be unable to contribute any further, and become a leech or burden to the company.  Conversely, I'm afraid that the company will decide I'm no longer providing what they want, to the standard they want, and I'll be let go without explanation.

I know these are unreasonable fears.  Growing up, I received approval based largely on my performance.  I know that I am able to (and most of the time do) outwork my peers, especially in the past decade as "my peers"have become increasingly less reputable.  And I know that I want to learn, I want to improve, I want to be taught and guided.  So I have nothing to fear except fear itself.  (Right? *Worried face)

I'm afraid of success - there are several new relationships (work, social, housing) that have the potential to be long-term - longer term than I've ever experienced.  Talk about new realms of scariness...

According to a New York Times article, 20-somethings these days have at least seven jobs before they turn 30.  I'm happy to only have accounted for half of my job quotient (although I have four more years till 30 arrives).  I personally would like the stability and routine of a long-term job.  I would also like to buy a house - I desperately wish to tear down wallpaper and repaint and buff floors and rebuild stairs without asking permission.  And I would like a stable, fulfilling relationship.  But it would take me pages and pages of writing to record all the even more terrifying things that go along with these desires.

Hi, I'm Jess, and I'm a chicken.

Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here and there/For some garment to clothe her fair skin

I’m in a stage of life that I’m calling “Hey, at least I dressed myself!”

Years ago I denounced fashion (tie-dyed bike shorts and sweater clips were on the way out anyway) and focused more simply on dressing myself.  That was the jeans-and-a-Goodwill-tshirt stage (which may have been a fashion trend, but I was either behind the fad or unaware of it).  But every seven years or so, I have a closet crisis: I wake up one day to realize that my wardrobe is unsuited (har) for the position I’ve found myself in.

For instance: I spent the last two years working at a bookstore, wherein I wandered barefoot and carefree.  All my jeans had holes in them; I layered tank tops like mad; my hair was usually tucked into a bandana or hat; and shoes were of the devil.  But then I got hired as a copywriter at a marketing firm.  And my closet disintegrated into a heap of threadbare jeans, de-elasticized built-in bras, and sole-rubbed flip-flops.

I’ve always looked through magazines like Newport News (which is really the only one I can remember looking through, now that I think of it).  And I used to tell my mom, “If I had a lot of money, I’d dress like that.”  Well, I have more money than I ever have now.  But I’m still not committed to my wardrobe or personal style enough to start buying expensive magazine pieces.

A shift in shopping ideals has helped.  I used to buy something I liked because I liked it, then realized six months later that I never wore it.  Now I’m working hard at buying something I like that will go with several pairs of my current pants/shirts and that I can see potential in – a piece that makes me want to buy new, slightly more mature clothes.

Here’s where all this gets tricky: I’m a writer.  We don’t have uniforms, we aren’t exactly artists (although I heart black clothing), we aren’t complete hippies, nor are we absolute yuppies.  I like all those styles.  Blending them into something that I like, that suits me, and that is appropriate for most occasions literally freezes me into a panicky statue.  Nine times out of ten, if I’m late to work, it’s because I was standing in front of my closet agonizing over what to wear.  And I’m not a three black skirts kinda girl!  Give me options, color, texture, variety!

So today, the stage I’m dealing with looks this: a loose silver v-neck sweater over an olive halter, tucked into jeans with a gold belt, gold and copper accessories and sandals.  It may be cute.  It might not be fashionable.  In fact, it may not work at all.  But the important part is this: I’m here, and I’m not naked.  Jess dressed herself!

Man reading should be man intensely alive.

"The book should be a ball of light in one's hand."

Labor Day weekend we cease from our labors (or labor at play).  I chose to spend as much time as possible in the delicate weather that was balancing between summer and fall.  Days were spent sunbathing and nights in long-sleeves with hot tea.  And every moment that my attention was not required (by family, or chores, or Puck), I read.

Robin McKinley's newest book, Chalice, was airy and perfect.  I literally could not stand to put it down.  By the end, unconsciously wistful for bees and living earth, I found myself in the backyard, lying in the grass in late sunlight.  And it had a wonderfully triumphant ending.  McKinley has maintained her place as one of my favorite-est fantasy writers yet again!  Other books by her that I'd whole-heartedly recommend: The Hero and the Crown, The Blue Sword, Sunshine.

I'm about ten pages from the end of Spelling Mississippi, by Marnie Woodrow, which I'll devour for lunch.  Woodrow's first novel is clearly that: she struggles a little to find her rhythm, but I found myself willing to read her choppy prose.  She wrote with such a clear idea of her characters, many well-tangled and interesting story lines, and such a powerful sense of place that I really couldn't give up on her.  The book is not ending as I'd predicted, and I feel confident that even in these last ten pages or so, I will continue to be caught off guard.

Others on my shelf (in various stages of reading and enjoyment) include: Oxygen, by Carol Cassella (who could resist the title or the cover?); The Little Bookroom, by Eleanor Farjeon (courtesy of my compatriot bibliophile, Josh); Mirror, Mirror, by Mark Pendergrast (we're all narcissists, but why?); and One More for the Road, by Ray Bradbury (he's just fantastic; period).

In other news, I'm considering joining the Twitter movement.  Thoughts?

What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.

There are motion-sensitive lights in the bathroom.

This worries me.  This morning, I was taking a few minutes to… ah… re-center, and suddenly, I was alone in silence and darkness.  I was pretty sure I’d gone simultaneously deaf and blind.

“Great!  It’s going to be Helen Keller Redux.”  That thought amused me – I played Helen Keller in “The Miracle Worker” in seventh grade (rather convincingly, may I add).

Being in the furthest stall from the door and the motion sensor, I took a minute to think through my options.  I could slide my shoe across the other stalls and hope to trigger the lights.  But I only had two shoes and very bad aim.

“I get up in the middle of the night, and it’s dark then, and I never seem to have a problem.  In fact, I never even open my eyes.”  But it occurred to me that the fan wasn’t running, and I could hear voices (of the president and someone else, both male) just beyond the door.  That skeeved me out enough to risk leaving the stall prematurely.  And of course it took hopping to the end of the row of stalls and waving my arms before the silly lights came back on.

I can really only think of one good reason for this installation decision: productivity.  Companies pay to get the most out of their employees, so unnecessarily long bathroom breaks must be discouraged.  And while they’re doing it, they’ll save electricity!

The ironic part, in my case, is that I was hired as “a creative.”  I love how that adjective has so solidly become a noun, a noun that means “Because I have more right-brained tendencies and an art background and ADD and can draw, I am entitled to certain privileges and rule-breaking.”  Enter irony: I’m “a creative.”  I’m OCD, type-A, extremely focused, overly-sensitive to rules and procedures, and can draw.  But I digress.

As a creative, I'm encouraged to do whatever necessary to keep the inventive brainwaves, er, waving.  I go for short strolls around the building, walk the river at lunch, Google odd visuals, read writing blogs, Stumble around the internet, eat every three hours or so...what if I also need more than four minutes of lavatory re-centering?

Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason.

Just when you think the world is on its way to hell in a handbasket, one individual redeems (and inspires) us all a little.

East Timor’s President Jose Ramos-Horta has pardoned the men who attacked him a year ago.  Dr. Ramos-Horta suffered from three serious bullet wounds and was put into intensive care in Australia last February after a group of rebels assaulted his home.  He has fully recovered, and now he is pardoning his attackers.  He says they are victims of the unrest and chaos in the country.  According to the Timor News Line, Dr. Ramos-Horta has issued a call to the rebels, asking them to work with him for the peace of their country.

I don’t know enough about East Timor’s recent history, about Dr. Ramos-Horta, even about the rebels themselves to make a judgment on the president’s actions.  But I believe that he feels his decision will encourage his people and engender a spirit of understanding.  He’s taking a lot of flak for his actions – especially from inside his own government – but I applaud him.  No one knows what will come of the rebels being pardoned – Dr. Ramos-Horta is taking a chance.

Seth Godin, marketing guru, is all for taking chances.  And his risk principles came to mind when I read about Dr. Ramos-Horta.  Godin points out that, statistically, an initial risk is easy and has sure (if somewhat small) rewards.  However, going that second step and doubling risk also doubles reward.  Encouraging clients who have taken a risk on your company or product will inspire them to feel a little gutsier.  And don’t we all love to talk about how gutsy we are?  By being risky yourself, you have generated talk about your company or products.  And talk, Godin says, is one of the best ways to become remarkable.  Check out Godin’s blog on this principle: Risk/Reward Confusion.

Here’s to Dr. Ramos-Horta – may his risk bring double rewards for East Timor!

Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean become dirty, the ocean is not dirty.

This week Berkley scientists were surprised to find that microorganisms in the Gulf of Mexico have been “eating” the oil from this summer’s spill.  WikiNews Gulf of Mexico 

Why the surprise, guys?

I’m no scientist, but I’d expect that oil (a naturally-produced compound under the earth’s crust) has broken through before.  I’d also expect these eruptions to have occurred more frequently in the ocean (since oceans cover 70% of earth’s surface, stats found here: EOEarth).  We’ve only been able to explore the ocean’s complexities (especially the microscopic complexities) within the last three hundred years thanks to the advent of Leeowenhoek’s microscope.  So I’d expect there to be some kind of organism that feeds off these occasional under-sea oil eruptions.  Nature cares for her own.

This doesn’t mean I think clean-up efforts in the Gulf should stop.  I’m shocked at how long it took us to cap our mess.  Even though the ocean has proven it can restore balance on its own, we are still responsible for our actions in the water.  Having introduced machinery that exaggerated the natural state and frequency of oil plumes (in order to harvest it for our personal comfort), we are accountable for the excesses that have been leaked into the unassuming ocean environment.

Instead of surprise, it would make more sense for us to feel ashamed: tiny microorganisms in the ocean were quicker to clean up their home than we were to stop the problem we created.

Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.

A picture is worth a thousand words.

Well, I’m a word girl.  Give me a picture, and I’ll rock your world.  The depth of story and detail and even plot that I can invent in the space of a few minutes’ observation is unbelievable.  I’ve been training myself to do this since I was a little girl.  My best friend and I told each other stories constantly.  Everywhere we went, every thing we saw, we concocted some amazingly detailed explanation for it.  We named characters (human and otherwise); we formulated plot twists; we described scenery and atmosphere and clothing and weather; we verbalized emotions.

My favorite story of hers came out one night outside the Memorial Auditorium.  She spotted a crushed VHS tape in the parking lot.  Ribbons of tape snagged along the paving cracks, their tails leaping at every breeze.  And she invented the most elaborate explanation for that tape’s existence and present state – I listened, breathless, waiting for the next twist.

Flash forward ten years.  I now work at a marketing agency where my job (if you cast a certain light on it) is to make stuff up.  And I work side by side with a designer, telling them my stories, weaving into words the pictures in my head, and hoping they can fit all that detail into one image.  Essentially, we build a single picture from a thousand words.

Isn’t life ironic?

Never apologize for showing feeling. When you do so, you apologize for truth.

“Repunctuate your life.”

What do you think this ad is for? Yup. Birth control.

I’m sorry – what?

Birth control. It’s a play on “period” – which I think is enormously clever, but also very sad. What a terrifying state to live in when you have detailed control over even the most natural of cycles! I find it nearly as mind-blowing as controlling the phases of the moon (which are predictable and have unseen effects on all of earth).

I can only imagine what kind of effects controlling your period (so that you only have four a year!) has on your body, which is designed to have one a month. I’m not good with math, but that’s less than half of the natural number of periods a woman is supposed to have per year. Can you imagine what your body must feel like, being forced to skip something that your DNA is driving it to do? My squirrelly mind immediately imagines your body taking revenge by storing it all up so when you have one of four periods a year, it lasts for three weeks and puts you completely out of commission. “Take that!” she says to you.

And of course there’s Kotex’s “Have a happy period” slogan. I vote they fire every one of the men on the design team and start over again – all women this time. Insensitive. Especially when they’ve never personally had the urge to overdose on chocolate. *Grimace*

The last commercial I saw was for pads with ultra-flex wings or some such. The ad showed a Gumby-like mechanical bull (saddle only, with embroidered flowers of course). A pad unfolds (like a flower, but grotesque) across the saddle and sticks itself down. The saddle rolls around like a sweet little puppy while a concerned voice tells you this pad will cover you even on your heaviest days. Yes, but have they fixed the “feels like I’m wearing a diaper” feature? Because I stopped wearing diapers when I was two, and I refuse to regress that far.

The greater part of the world's troubles are due to questions of grammar.

“The President is obviously a Christian – he prays every day.”

This, boys and girls, is a sparkling example of an inductive fallacy. By his words, Mr. Burton – spokesperson for the White House – assumes that only Christians pray. Therefore, if someone prays, he is a Christian. Which would make Buddhists, Muslims, Satanists, and shamans (among others) Christians – they all pray, don’t they?

I find it hard to believe that a news reporting agency, born of the intent to provide accurate and informed information to the general public, could contradict itself in such a high-profile article.


This gem was recently featured on Yahoo’s front page. The piece begins, “The White House insisted on Thursday that President Barack Obama is a Christian who prays daily.” Which is logical. But then the paper prints Mr. Burton’s ridiculous quote. It would seem that in the rush to have up-to-the-moment news, a well-respected agency missed (or worse, overlooked) this blatant fallacy.

With the explosion of the internet, the standards for printed media have fallen through the proverbial cracks. Please understand, I am one hundred percent behind freedom of speech – I’m not criticizing anyone who posts to the internet (I’m one of them – us – we?). But the companies that lead the nation’s reporting and reading patterns (run by men and women who have degrees from Harvard, Stanford, and the University of Southern California, to begin) should be voluntarily striving for the highest of standards. And not just spelling and grammar – let’s put our brains (and degrees?) to good work and cover all aspects of writing a solid article.

I’m sure Mr. Burton meant to say that the President is a Christian (end thought). He prays every day (end thought).

When his wings enfold you yield to him, though the sword hidden among his feathers may wound you.

I'm learning about wings this week.

He will cover you with His pinions,
And under His wings you may seek refuge;
His faithfulness is a shield and bulwark.

Pinions are the long, stiff flight feathers at the furthest tip of a bird's wing. They are individually controlled by the bird to adjust to changes in the wind and air currents. The feathers on a bird's wing get smaller as they recede along the wing toward the body. Each feather has small barbs that lock the feathers around it into place, forming a solid, air-resistant wall of wing.

The bone structure at the end of a bird's wing is referred to as his "hand" - it's made up of various parts, specifically phalanges. In the Greek, phalanx was a tight formation, used in military and anatomical definitions. Anatomically, it describes the knuckle bones along the ridge of your hand - "originally the whole row of finger joints, which fit together like infantry in close order" (Online Etymology Dictionary). They form a barrier, a unified front that cannot be penetrated.

Think along those lines. Mother birds shepherd their chicks and sweep them under their wings at any sign of danger. If an enormous wing were to sweep down and cover you, the feathers would be stiff and tumble you, possibly bruising you in the movement. But you would be pressed into the soft down feathers along the bird's side. From the outside, nothing could get through to you.

Now look at this: the word "bulwark" derives from bole, meaning "plank, tree trunk" (OED). The word "phalanx," before it was used in the Greek, derives from the Proto-Indo-European word meaning "round piece of wood, trunk, log" (OED).

I'm still working on the significance of all this. But it's reassuring to know that I am in a place that is warm, safe, and impenetrable. I am protected, kept in line, mothered tenderly. And yet the protection set up around me that is so stiff and fierce is also a force that nurtures and soothes. Again...paradox.

I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg.

It occurs to me that this Peter Pan thing has been a recurring theme in my life for at least the last six years. I'm going to essai (French for "test"; first used by Michel de Montaigne to describe his rambling, often circuitous explorations of his thoughts and feelings as he tested out their causation and results).

---

Peter Pan: a boy just before manhood - not so different from a girl just before womanhood, I think. Frightened of growing up, but desperate for it (thus all the dress-up and make-believe). Yet Pan is trapped in childhood - I wonder if he stubbornly flies in the face of everything adult just because he's frustrated by never being able to have it? Peter Pan is often played by slight women, and he does seem rather caught between the male and the female. That's an awkward balance to maintain for a little while, much less be for the rest of your life.

Wendy: a girl who is a woman but still a girl. Wendy sees the practicality and sense that adulthood demands, and she longs for a steadiness, a sense of order (which is why everyone was assigned roles and tasks, bedtimes were established, vitamins were introduced...). But she quickly and willingly loses herself in childish fantasy. She loves Peter's freedom and courage, and she chooses to believe the illusion of him growing up when he assumes the make-believe role of the papa. But for him it is a game, to be discarded when it is tired, while Wendy convinces herself it can exist.

Tinkerbell: a woman who acts like a child, but is deeply and truly a woman. Tink is petulant and spiteful to Wendy - she has been replaced. She has accepted Peter for the child that he is and loves him dearly, and she resents Wendy's intrusion to the core of her being. Yet she willingly sacrifices herself for Wendy in order to fulfill Peter's happiness... I wonder how her size and provisional nature affect the bond between her and Peter? I wonder - if she were full-size, would she have loved Peter as unabashedly? Or would a simple size difference have changed her understanding of the boy?

---

I have called myself Wendy. Realizing that the Boy I loved would never grow up, I went rather sadly back to grown up life and watched his adventures from a distance. He would visit when he remembered me, but the visits grew further and further apart.

I have been called Peter Pan. "An enchanting creature - not quite a woman, still a little girl, and part fairy, I think." Assuming Peter is rather above gender (or why else would they have cast women in his role?), we two are similar: physically, I am slight and boyish; emotionally, I act in turns masculine and feminine; I have a grown-up's intellect but choose to believe the fairy tales I spin for myself (and those of others as well).

And I understand Tinkerbell. She has a heart that is too expansive for her size, and a body that cannot contain the reach of her desire. She is a third wheel, the best friend, the girl he loves but doesn't choose.

"The last thing he ever said to me was,
'Just always be waiting for me,
and then some night you will hear me crowing."

Midnight and Mockingbirds

Why sing your lonelinesses?
The stars cannot hear,
and the trees weary of hearing.

Why question and clamor
when all else is still?
Darkness offers no answer;
it is vain to repeat the question.

Is it you, then, who whispers
the shadows into our dreams?
Do not take our stronghold,
our final, ancient haven.

To the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

I feel stretched thin and a little hole-y.

But a part of me keeps reaching
- my soul stretches out, fingers extended, tendons pulled taut -
searching for the edges of that Something
that is deeper, wider, higher than I.

The windchimes whistle their tuneless notes,
rearranging them over and over in patterns as changing as the wind.

And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen - For what listen they?

sometimes at night, when i'm walking, i stare up at orion's belt - three gems in a row - and open my mouth - as if to drink down the starlight and the cold wet air and the smell of brush fires. and something inside me sings out to those stars. and i fully expect them to reply.

i used to think the big dipper was my favorite constellation, but that's because it was the only one i knew. draco was my favorite while i was on a dragon kick. but orion - we have a history. i've seen a shooting star fall from his hand. he has never left me, never faltered. there's something about his near-human symmetry that resonates with me. and he's a warrior. every princess deserves a warrior to fight for her. he's my ally - halfway, protective, watching over me when i'm most vulnerable - in the dark, in sleep.

Grief not, rather find, strength in what remains behind.

Rain falling through magnolia trees -
slow, hollow plips -
on the down-turned leaves.

From behind, I watch you -
you tuck a hand in your jacket
and sigh.
Your breath hangs heavy
in the wet, thick air -
for a moment,
your spirit has escaped
and I am afraid for you.

You are so frail,
your shadow gaunt on the curves
of pavement,
haloed in copper mist.

But in your footsteps
I hear the steel echoes
of assurance -
it is penned on your wrists
and tattooed on your heart.

Then I am you
again
and the weight of lambskin
and the damp cool of midnight
and the space between breaths
settle on my shoulders
again.

We cry, that we are come to this great stage of fools.

Do you ever think of your life like a movie that's being filmed? And you're the star? I'm convinced we all do, though most of us will deny it vehemently. (Perhaps because in the script, the character description reads, "modest and self-deprecating"?)

I've come to realize that Pandora is the soundtrack to my life. I've created stations that should be renamed after my moods or life scenarios. For instance, the "Pink" station should be renamed "Bitch." "Andrea Bocelli" should be "Romance." "Needtobreathe" is "Main Theme." "ELO" is "Flashback."

I've been thinking a lot about the movie "Stranger than Fiction." I need to rewatch it. The concept of someone's life being moved (or scripted?) by another person (or Person?) is fascinating. And then to see the character become aware of the Author, to witness the struggle between the Author's will and the character's desires...it is The Story, told over and over again in each of our lives.

To be able to step outside myself as "Jess" and see myself as "character" suddenly lends a new perspective to the choices I make and the events that take place in my life. Of course, I question the Author - who doesn't? But what I've come to understand is this: I do not know how this story ends. What I'm being asked to do is simple; I have a choice. Do I attempt to write my own ending based on my blindered view as "character," or do I relinquish control of that which I cannot control anyway and trust the Author to complete my story perfectly? Simple, and still the most difficult choice I will ever make. Yet I'll make it again and again and again.