Almost.
I wrote "Redemption Postponed" in two or three days. "Panic in Islington" took, what seems like, that many months. Why!? I can't say it's a better piece of writing. Perhaps I wanted it to be a better piece of writing so badly, that I got tangled into a proverbial mother of knots. Mother appears again, different sort of mother but not bad. Needs a little more, not another scene, but more development in the ones that she occurs in. No father again, hmm. Main character, Zosia (daring of me to write a female PoV:) is clear in my mind; she needs a bit of tinkering with in the earlier parts, I was writing a slightly different character back then, and never finished editing those parts. Fiat stays as is, minor tweaking perhaps. Navajo Joe needs another scene to make sense; I deleted a weak scene with him -- never replaced it. Guido and Bolek: a little finessing, but no big alterations. Helga needs a little more. Terry and Jane stay as they are. Blitzie the dog needs a wee bit more description. Slow sections need some better composition here and there. Hard to break into them with additional material, but they could be made stronger. Action bits the same. Too many words, not enough meaning.
I hate to admit this to myself, but I can see the whole thing growing by about another thousand or so words (currently stands at over 15,000),. Still a short story, just takes a long time to spit it out.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Wallgreens, Bernalillo
Wallgreens, Bernalillo
I pull out my list of instructions for a British passport photograph.
"This isn't for an American passport, none of that kind of three quarter view with left ear showing, you know, no hat, turban, bandages, " I remind the man. He looks a little crazed, and doesn't really understand what I mean.
"I'll take care of how my face looks. You know, the grinning, frowning, or raised eyebrow stuff. I'll try to keep my eyes open for as long as it takes and stay neutral, keep my mouth closed, you know, that kind of thing. I'll even take my glasses off. I look weird without them, but I'll do it anyway."
He looks even more confused. Too much input.
"I want it 45 millimeters high by 35 millimeters wide. OK?"
This he seems to understand, even though the measurements are metric.
"Yes, sir. We can do that."
"My head must be between 29 and 34 millimeters high."
"Er...yeah, OK sir, we'll aim for that."
"You take care of the red eye, get me in focus, make sure you use color film, no shadows on my face please, print it on white paper, you got white paper?"
"Yes sir. We can do white paper."
"Great! We're all set. Where do I sit."
"This way please."
He pulls down a white background blind.
Oh, not white. Plain cream or plain light gray, please."
He looks at me in horror.
"White. It has to be white, sir."
"No. Look here." I pull out my list of instructions. "It says no white. It has to be cream or gray."
"We can't do that. We can only do white."
"Look this is for a British passport. They're different. It has to be cream or gray."
"Sorry sir. We can only do white. We only have white."
"I'll go to another Wall-greens. They'll have other colors, right?"
"No sir. Only white."
"Look. I'll bring you a sheet of craft paper. You sell that stuff here? We'll tape it on the wall, you take the picture, I'm out'ah here, OK?"
"No sir. We can't do that. It's against the rules,"
"Rules?..."
"Its against the Law, sir."
We gazed at one another for a long time. I gave up. He won. More or less the same thing happened in each other store that I went to. I guess I'm going to have to search out a subversive pro, hidden in some dark alley. Some other day.
I pull out my list of instructions for a British passport photograph.
"This isn't for an American passport, none of that kind of three quarter view with left ear showing, you know, no hat, turban, bandages, " I remind the man. He looks a little crazed, and doesn't really understand what I mean.
"I'll take care of how my face looks. You know, the grinning, frowning, or raised eyebrow stuff. I'll try to keep my eyes open for as long as it takes and stay neutral, keep my mouth closed, you know, that kind of thing. I'll even take my glasses off. I look weird without them, but I'll do it anyway."
He looks even more confused. Too much input.
"I want it 45 millimeters high by 35 millimeters wide. OK?"
This he seems to understand, even though the measurements are metric.
"Yes, sir. We can do that."
"My head must be between 29 and 34 millimeters high."
"Er...yeah, OK sir, we'll aim for that."
"You take care of the red eye, get me in focus, make sure you use color film, no shadows on my face please, print it on white paper, you got white paper?"
"Yes sir. We can do white paper."
"Great! We're all set. Where do I sit."
"This way please."
He pulls down a white background blind.
Oh, not white. Plain cream or plain light gray, please."
He looks at me in horror.
"White. It has to be white, sir."
"No. Look here." I pull out my list of instructions. "It says no white. It has to be cream or gray."
"We can't do that. We can only do white."
"Look this is for a British passport. They're different. It has to be cream or gray."
"Sorry sir. We can only do white. We only have white."
"I'll go to another Wall-greens. They'll have other colors, right?"
"No sir. Only white."
"Look. I'll bring you a sheet of craft paper. You sell that stuff here? We'll tape it on the wall, you take the picture, I'm out'ah here, OK?"
"No sir. We can't do that. It's against the rules,"
"Rules?..."
"Its against the Law, sir."
We gazed at one another for a long time. I gave up. He won. More or less the same thing happened in each other store that I went to. I guess I'm going to have to search out a subversive pro, hidden in some dark alley. Some other day.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Breaking away
Since I'm not posting any of my work recently and seem too busy writing on other sites to write here, I'll slip in a piece by my daughter, Lizzie (link to her video documentary under "Links" on right). Done in art room at school.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Process interrupted
Not entirely, but...
I have stopped posting any visual work progress. Happening now, aside from major digressions, are odd bits of employment, theater set painting, travel, and coping with long postponed tasks. It all leaves tiny little mini gaps for a series of furtive, hesitant, tentative explorations on paper, repair and maintenance of older pieces and art materials, and writing. Writing is at a stage where my painting often arrives at. The task has grown to meet to meet the expectations that have arisen from within the the monstrous thing that I am creating. The process has created possibilities that were not included in my original intentions.
The piece that I am writing now has wavered between short story, long short story, novella, and beyond. Each form seems to require different development and structures in its detail, so I have parallel versions of this piece uncomfortably nesting together in one file. Parallel versions, reflections perhaps of how my incarnate being (mal-?) functions. It's a parallel universe arisen, first on a whim, growing like a cancer (:o) in my psyche, interrupting normal drowsy day-dreams, merging with "real" memories, demanding fulfillment, wholeness, and realization. Poor little thing.
I posted possible opening under working title of "Panic in Islington" on the "Further Issues " site.
I have stopped posting any visual work progress. Happening now, aside from major digressions, are odd bits of employment, theater set painting, travel, and coping with long postponed tasks. It all leaves tiny little mini gaps for a series of furtive, hesitant, tentative explorations on paper, repair and maintenance of older pieces and art materials, and writing. Writing is at a stage where my painting often arrives at. The task has grown to meet to meet the expectations that have arisen from within the the monstrous thing that I am creating. The process has created possibilities that were not included in my original intentions.
The piece that I am writing now has wavered between short story, long short story, novella, and beyond. Each form seems to require different development and structures in its detail, so I have parallel versions of this piece uncomfortably nesting together in one file. Parallel versions, reflections perhaps of how my incarnate being (mal-?) functions. It's a parallel universe arisen, first on a whim, growing like a cancer (:o) in my psyche, interrupting normal drowsy day-dreams, merging with "real" memories, demanding fulfillment, wholeness, and realization. Poor little thing.
I posted possible opening under working title of "Panic in Islington" on the "Further Issues " site.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Dry stuff
On our way to Denver we made what turned out to be a longish stop at a bunch of sand in Southern Colorado. It turned out that only I was in a truly hiking mood, but just being there in the great silence and emptiness was affecting for all of us. Even being way out in a calm sea does not compare to this.
After an hour or so of trudging though the sand Carol and Lizzie reached their limit of endurance (poor things):
However, Lizzie makes one last effort to follow in my footsteps in a style carefuly developed for this kind of terrain:
Journey's end:
Time to say goodbye:
Onward:
View from highest point in this area of the dunes, about an hour and a half later:
A snaky form greets me on my return:
Meanwhile, Lizzie unearthed a dragon fallen from the sky:
The Great Sand Dunes in Southern Colorado. Note: we all left our hats in the car. A foolishness.
The bits of white, here and there, represent last bits of fast melting snow. The sand was slightly damp in places, which made for easier travel, but where it was soft and dry (most of it), walking was a seriously aerobic experience.
Self portrait: me in the desert:
After an hour or so of trudging though the sand Carol and Lizzie reached their limit of endurance (poor things):
However, Lizzie makes one last effort to follow in my footsteps in a style carefuly developed for this kind of terrain:
Journey's end:
Time to say goodbye:
Onward:
View from highest point in this area of the dunes, about an hour and a half later:
A snaky form greets me on my return:
Meanwhile, Lizzie unearthed a dragon fallen from the sky:
The Great Sand Dunes in Southern Colorado. Note: we all left our hats in the car. A foolishness.
The bits of white, here and there, represent last bits of fast melting snow. The sand was slightly damp in places, which made for easier travel, but where it was soft and dry (most of it), walking was a seriously aerobic experience.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Wet stuff
Since I haven't been blogging that long, I thought I'd set myself a record for not blogging.
We've been traveling a fair amount lately. Well, it is "Spring Break". Our latest expedition took us to Colorado with the purpose of checking out the University of Colorado in Denver where Lizzy, our daughter, shows a faint interest in attending the Film School. I'll install images as I gradually awake and recover from the stresses and strains of these ordeals.
First, a telling glimpse of the extreme conditions of the local terrain. A frozen lake in the High Country of New Mexico:
Then, rising and dropping, and finally dropping down (talking altitude here, of course) into Pagosa Springs in Colorado. Big hot springs scene. I had to put up with sights like this at the motel:
I stay away from water. Nasty wet stuff, but my family seems to enjoy it. Others do too, so perhaps there is some kind of mysterious pleasure in wallowing in it. Note the multicolored sediments that built up over the years on the wall. The charming couple are enjoying their tall, cool drinks while their butts and other parts dissolve in that 105*F mineral mix:
In another pool, an interesting triangle:
View towards the river with still frozen mountains in the distance:
We've been traveling a fair amount lately. Well, it is "Spring Break". Our latest expedition took us to Colorado with the purpose of checking out the University of Colorado in Denver where Lizzy, our daughter, shows a faint interest in attending the Film School. I'll install images as I gradually awake and recover from the stresses and strains of these ordeals.
First, a telling glimpse of the extreme conditions of the local terrain. A frozen lake in the High Country of New Mexico:
Then, rising and dropping, and finally dropping down (talking altitude here, of course) into Pagosa Springs in Colorado. Big hot springs scene. I had to put up with sights like this at the motel:
In another pool, an interesting triangle:
View towards the river with still frozen mountains in the distance:
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Climate Change
Middle of March, isn't it? You would think all this would ease-up a bit. But no, mid-winter blizzards carefully reconstructed for our pre-spring entertainment. For anyone who visits this blog just to check out the weather in New Mexico:
These plants look quite amazed, don't they:
A few moments later, the blazing, high altitude New Mexico sun comes peeking out. Solid changes to liquid and then rises as gas to presumably form clouds and start the whole cycle again further down the road. Earlier this morning, I saw very similar looking white clouds rising up in the air. That time (that part of the morning was still early summer, temperatures were climbing), a dust devil whipped through a male juniper pulling out a cloud of pollen, the most allergenic substance known to man. But much worse for woman:
And now its snowing again...
These plants look quite amazed, don't they:
A few moments later, the blazing, high altitude New Mexico sun comes peeking out. Solid changes to liquid and then rises as gas to presumably form clouds and start the whole cycle again further down the road. Earlier this morning, I saw very similar looking white clouds rising up in the air. That time (that part of the morning was still early summer, temperatures were climbing), a dust devil whipped through a male juniper pulling out a cloud of pollen, the most allergenic substance known to man. But much worse for woman:
And now its snowing again...
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Meanwhile...
Meanwhile...
Leaning against the studio wall, stand all these.
This theater caper took me away from everything. I stopped painting, stopped writing, stopped digging trenches in the sandstone, and even stopped moving large rocks to more suitable locations all around the landscape.
Now I've committed myself to do a little oil painting of two friendly dogs sniffing each other pleasantly set against a scene similar to the main section of the stage set, as a present from cast and crew to the play director. This is both good and bad. Bad because it is kind of stupid to paint a couple of dogs being nice to each other, good because it will make me get my paints and gear out of hibernation, move me to the studio, and I hope, generate momentum to get me going on all my other work.
Writing, hmm.
I can hardly complain that I haven't had any time to write. A few days subbing at the high school did eat up some of my free time, but normally, with a laptop at hand, I should have been able to knock out a few hundred words...the kids are having exams, so I don't feel too guilty ignoring them. Besides, I can keep them entertained and amused, and give them insightful educational moments while going back and forth from the keyboard. It worked before.
The problem, obviously, lies somewhere else, somewhere deeper. The first short story, seven thousand odd words, I wrote in three or four days. Encouraged, I thought that I could just keep going like that, and whip out reams of the stuff endlessly. But that first story already sat somewhere inside me, and only grew as I wrote. This sucker, which I'm writing now is very demanding of the kind of attention, that I am not experienced in giving. It wriggles, writhes, and morphs completely out of my control; I have bits written which belong at various sections, which is really straining my composing skills to link-up and lay over the structure that I devised for the story.
Also, the monster is growing in size in a way that I cannot control. It wants be a novel, but I really, really don't want to write a novel at all. I want to write a short story. Short story is such a nice form. But, how do I fend of all the all the themes, sub-texts, and narrations clawing and whining for attention. I must be strong -- it must be a short story. A very long short story, but a short story nevertheless.
Writing, I am discovering, is a very different brain activity from painting. In painting, I devise a process, and then engage in the mechanical activity of going through its phases. I need to open intuitive, right hemispheric activity and I'm all set. This word thing, on the other hand, and all the words and cousins and nieces of words I can only reach in that linear quarter of the gray matter, but to connect them to what I am trying to put out requires stunning acrobatics of linking the two hemispheres together, melting my wimpy little white corpus callosum. Practice? Perseverance? No one told me this was going to be so hard; shame on you all.
Leaning against the studio wall, stand all these.
This theater caper took me away from everything. I stopped painting, stopped writing, stopped digging trenches in the sandstone, and even stopped moving large rocks to more suitable locations all around the landscape.
Now I've committed myself to do a little oil painting of two friendly dogs sniffing each other pleasantly set against a scene similar to the main section of the stage set, as a present from cast and crew to the play director. This is both good and bad. Bad because it is kind of stupid to paint a couple of dogs being nice to each other, good because it will make me get my paints and gear out of hibernation, move me to the studio, and I hope, generate momentum to get me going on all my other work.
Writing, hmm.
I can hardly complain that I haven't had any time to write. A few days subbing at the high school did eat up some of my free time, but normally, with a laptop at hand, I should have been able to knock out a few hundred words...the kids are having exams, so I don't feel too guilty ignoring them. Besides, I can keep them entertained and amused, and give them insightful educational moments while going back and forth from the keyboard. It worked before.
The problem, obviously, lies somewhere else, somewhere deeper. The first short story, seven thousand odd words, I wrote in three or four days. Encouraged, I thought that I could just keep going like that, and whip out reams of the stuff endlessly. But that first story already sat somewhere inside me, and only grew as I wrote. This sucker, which I'm writing now is very demanding of the kind of attention, that I am not experienced in giving. It wriggles, writhes, and morphs completely out of my control; I have bits written which belong at various sections, which is really straining my composing skills to link-up and lay over the structure that I devised for the story.
Also, the monster is growing in size in a way that I cannot control. It wants be a novel, but I really, really don't want to write a novel at all. I want to write a short story. Short story is such a nice form. But, how do I fend of all the all the themes, sub-texts, and narrations clawing and whining for attention. I must be strong -- it must be a short story. A very long short story, but a short story nevertheless.
Writing, I am discovering, is a very different brain activity from painting. In painting, I devise a process, and then engage in the mechanical activity of going through its phases. I need to open intuitive, right hemispheric activity and I'm all set. This word thing, on the other hand, and all the words and cousins and nieces of words I can only reach in that linear quarter of the gray matter, but to connect them to what I am trying to put out requires stunning acrobatics of linking the two hemispheres together, melting my wimpy little white corpus callosum. Practice? Perseverance? No one told me this was going to be so hard; shame on you all.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The End?
As a final note on the production of "Sylvia": I was quite amazed at the quality of the stuff that cast put out. They were really good. Oddly, I wasn't expecting that. Everyone seemed completely connected to their roles; I don't know how they do it.
This could be my last serious flailing at the theater production site this time around. I might go back to touch up a few edges, add a few branches, dab on some highlights, but otherwise, its over.Last panel, not too great, but it will have to do (Burnout produces overkill).
This is supposed to be an airport scene. It's on one of the revolving flats, the othr sides consist of the view of building out of a window, and the interior of the psychiatrist's office. People will be sitting and standing in front of it a lot of the time, so the bottom section will remain mostly unseen:
Tidy-up & do widzenia:
Now, back to painting and writing.
This could be my last serious flailing at the theater production site this time around. I might go back to touch up a few edges, add a few branches, dab on some highlights, but otherwise, its over.Last panel, not too great, but it will have to do (Burnout produces overkill).
This is supposed to be an airport scene. It's on one of the revolving flats, the othr sides consist of the view of building out of a window, and the interior of the psychiatrist's office. People will be sitting and standing in front of it a lot of the time, so the bottom section will remain mostly unseen:
Tidy-up & do widzenia:
Now, back to painting and writing.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Technical
Time for winter to be over, and yet it persists. On my way to the theater yesterday, I had to face this chilling site in the Valle Caldera:
Anyway...back in Los Alamos, still snowing, but at least it was warm inside the theater since the cast and crew got there before I did. A few last minute adjustments:
Ready?:...
Director's table:
The sound and light booth:
And we're off. This is a "Technical" rehearsal (lights, sound, props etc.). Dress rehearsal ("Hell Sunday"), next Sunday. On the left, the husband, on the right, wife, in between them Sylvia, the dog (bitch?):
Anyway...back in Los Alamos, still snowing, but at least it was warm inside the theater since the cast and crew got there before I did. A few last minute adjustments:
Ready?:...
Director's table:
The sound and light booth:
And we're off. This is a "Technical" rehearsal (lights, sound, props etc.). Dress rehearsal ("Hell Sunday"), next Sunday. On the left, the husband, on the right, wife, in between them Sylvia, the dog (bitch?):
And goodnight:
Thursday, February 25, 2010
(up)Front and Back(side)
Got very involved with the bookshelf today. Best bookshelf that I ever painted. The wall color is closer to hot pink:
Next, stupid building at night coming up. Meant to bugger-up the perspective much more, ended up with a neither here nor there effect (this is starting to drive me crazy -- I think I need to take a little break -- perhaps 'till Sunday or thereabouts).
Meanwhile ...backstage. Very quiet today. Dressing rooms:
Something for everyone:
Next, stupid building at night coming up. Meant to bugger-up the perspective much more, ended up with a neither here nor there effect (this is starting to drive me crazy -- I think I need to take a little break -- perhaps 'till Sunday or thereabouts).
Meanwhile ...backstage. Very quiet today. Dressing rooms:
Something for everyone:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
