Is Cursive Writing a Dying Art?

This is a recurring topic around our household. Allow me to begin by stating my position that hand writing is a valuable skill that has been elevated to a form of art simply because so many individuals cannot write legible cursive. Careful practice is required to develop an effortless, smoothly flowing, easily interpretable, cursive writing style.

Does cursive writing hold some intrinsic value that would cause grievous injury to our well-being or ability to be productive if we lost the ability to use it? The short answer is no. Very few people write cursively in these days of computers and text messaging to pretend otherwise. And this alone is the reason the question even comes up.

More and more school systems are opting out of teaching it, in favor of spending more time on technology. We need to spend a great deal more effort on learning technology if we are to rise above the path to servitude that our government seems bent on forcing us into, but that’s a story for another time.

The only overwhelming reason remaining for the continued teaching of penmanship is the requirement for a cursive signature on legal documents. I have no doubt that there will soon be a method to validate an electronic signature so that even that reason will no longer be valid.

Hand writing evokes a ‘personal feel’ that the typed word never possibly could, and those individuals who place a value on that aspect of hand writing are the ones who will keep cursive writing alive. It is very similar to how some people favor the heft and feel of a hard bound book over an e-book. But, people used to say that online media sources will never replace the familiar feel of newspapers.

My wife and I both use cursive for all types of correspondence not involving the computer. We hand write notes to each other, we choose to write birthday greetings, anniversary wishes, etc in blank cards rather than choosing some clichéd Hallmark pre-printed message. Print is rarely used by either of us. Although I can think of only two instances I use print - one is when making a shopping list, another is when I am writing in my journal, I willl use a printed word as a sort of ‘tag’ to indicate an important idea or a place I may need to refer back to, but I generally find it tedious.

I write over a thousand words a day, often times more, in my journal, which I use as a writer’s notebook. I choose to write in this manner rather than the computer as it has proven priceless for my creative output.

To free your creative self, suggests Janet Burroway in her popular textbook Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft, you must give yourself permission to fail. "The best place for permission is a private place," she adds, "and for that reason a writer's journal is an essential, likely to be the source of originality, ideas, experimentation, and growth."

I realize this can be done just as well on a computer but the computer is cold and doesn’t offer the same intimacy of hand writing.

Neither my wife nor myself text anyone. We both have very strong feelings that texting is part of an ongoing, although loosely informal, ‘conspiracy’ to dumb down Americans. I base this on the atrocious downward spiral of our ability to spell in this country. I have noticed over the course of time that the percentage of spelling mistakes has been steadily increasing since the advent of the personal computer and has simply skyrocketed since the realm of texting has erupted onto the scene. And I don’t even want to discuss the dismal state of our grammar.

If it could be proven that cursive writing held a direct link to improving spelling and grammar I would advocate keeping it until my dying breath. For those people who have horrible penmanship, the computer and texting – and built in spell checker - has been a godsend, for themselves and for others who try to decipher what they have written. Personally, I believe hand writing is an excellent exercise for dexterity.

I cannot honestly say that cursive writing makes anyone more intelligent than does the exclusive use of the typed word, and ideas can still be communicated without cursive writing, but those flowing curves and fancy loops of cursive writing do have the ability to convey warmth and sexiness that no typed word ever will.

Historic Jam Session

What an historic moment this must have been.

Eric Clapton, John Lennon, Mitch Mitchell and Keith Richards 1969

Photo by Ethan Russell, 1969

still just a rat in a cage

Wall of Fame

Education Begins With Reading

Sounds simple, right? If you can’t read your ability to learn becomes severely handicapped. As a parent I want my kids to have every benefit this life can give us, and judging by the direction our education system is headed, the earlier we get started the better.

You cannot and should not expect public education to motivate our children to learn. That is the responsibility of the parent and it needs to be taken on starting from the day a child is born. Some people say it can start before the child is born. I’m no expert in this so I’ll leave the accuracy of statement to them to prove.

The desire to learn beyond basic survival instincts must be taught. And developing the desire to learn begins with reading. Simply showing children that there is a world beyond the four walls of their home is one of the greatest first steps they can take. But it is up to the parent to get them started.

Reading to your children will spark their imagination. Exposing them to a wide variety of topics will ignite that spark to the point it will never be extinguished.

Our library system is stocked full of every type of book you can imagine. And every book, magazine, CD and computer in it is free for us to use. Please utilize this resource to show how much we appreciate having it made available to us.

Libraries are not there only for entertainment. You can receive a complete and well-rounded education just from reading books from our public libraries.

Show your children the value of reading. For some fun exercises, assign your child the task of writing an essay on whatever topic you can think of. Make it a fun topic. They may protest they may rebel but in the end it will another one of the greatest memories they have of their childhood. It could be the very earliest steps of creating a career path for them. It’s possible.

Reading unlocks so many possibilities like nothing else can.

I have to admit that my writing this post is more than just for the sake of kids I don’t even know. I have my selfish reasons too. Just think for a moment that every person in the country, in the world, could read and did so on a regular basis. How much more educated do you think we would all be? Do you agree that a better educated person has more opportunities to succeed than an under-educated person? If more people were educated can you agree with me that there would be far less poverty, far more self-reliance, far less need of a government to care for us and therefore far less financial strain on our entire economic system. So you see I do plead with everyone to become better educated so that all of us can enjoy a better quality of life.

It is a world that is possible to create. Think about some of the reasons people do not learn to read. Certainly there are medical reasons, but putting those aside, I believe the single most inexcusable reason for not being able to read is a lack of conviction that reading is necessary.

While I am on the subject of education, I have to say a few things about writing. We are losing our ability to write because of the computer. I think everyone can agree with this. I don’t think that we should throw away our computers just to save writing, but I do believe that we need to work on spelling and grammar. We can get by fine without the need to write letters, we have many other ways of communicating, but when I hear an adult utter this phrase “I ain’t got no . . .” it makes me cringe. I don’t consider myself a grammar nazi, but my God, please try to take some pride in yourself and get an education.

If you have children, please read to them. They deserve as good a chance at a good education as anyone. Those children who are being read to are going to fair much better than those children who are not read to. Reading really is that important.

Eyes of a Woman: version three

This story is part of an experiment. I have created several versions and have presented three of them here. One was posted several days ago as ‘Shyness is its own reward’. Another was posted yesterday simply titled ‘Eyes of a Woman’

I hope you enjoy them. As always comments are welcome.

Recognition flooded over her like a tsunami ripping the very breath from her lungs. Could this be mere coincidence or are the fates toying with me? Believing in their interference was easy given their penchant for mischief. Standing there just a few feet away was the man that so callously took so much from her on that cold night so many years ago.

Inching forward ever so slightly, she allowed the glow from the street lamp to find her face. He caught her movement and a sly smile inched its way across his face. She looked intently at him searching for any sign of recognition from him. Not finding any, she looked down in a feigned show of shyness. Losing him at this moment would not do. Of course, men always made the same mistake with her, believing any attention from her was an invitation to . . . play. Better to cover true intent with but a simple sly look, she smiled tenderly and began to inch forward into the full light.

Her beauty had captivated him immediately. So predictable, she thought to herself. The trap was being set and would close very soon. She struggled with the decision to allow the law to handle this despicable insect. She decided that first she would taste the pleasure of her own revenge. She truly didn't have time for this distraction as more pressing matters required her presence elsewhere, but this was a gift she could not abandon.

“Ah, such a beautiful woman”, he exclaimed with a charming smile. A quick glance around at their surroundings told her they were alone.

She moved forward, still looking down in order to continue her show of shyness. Her smile was warm and delightfully disarming as she said in a voice barely audible, “I can see by your eyes that you are a kind stranger and I should not have anything to fear,” showing she was willing to put her safety in his hands. His smile immediately widened and his eyes sparkled at her obvious mis-judgment of his true nature, unknowing that they were both fooling the other.

“Splendid. Then won’t you join me as I stroll along the bay and take in the cool evening breezes?” He exclaimed holding his arm out to her. She tenderly took his arm and moved in close to him.

“I must admit I am surprised at this most pleasant turn of events. Here I was resigned to being alone again and a beautiful woman appears out of nowhere. It’s such a gift.” He said as he smiled down at her. She said, “yes, isn’t it wonderful when the fates conspire to present such opportunities.”

She allowed a tremble to run through her body and caught her breath. Looking up at him, her kind, deep blue eyes almost imperceptibly widened as she felt the hard, comforting muscle of his forearm. They walked a few steps and she guided them to a bench and sat down. She smoothed her dress and he leaned closer to take a long slow whiff of her fragrance. “As sweet as Camellias,” he told her. Her hair, as thick and luxuriously black as the darkest of shadows, reflected the soft glow of the street lamp above them.

They stared at each other for a moment. Her touch, as she took his hand in hers was as light as that of a ladybug landing on his fingers. Distracted as he was, he did not notice the long needle she pulled from the waist of her dress. She smiled, her lips slightly parting as if in invitation for a kiss. As he leaned closer to her, licking his lips slightly in anticipation for a sweet pleasure he was sure he was about to receive, she moved her right hand up to wrap around his neck. Instead she plunged the needle deeply into his neck muscle.

His realization that something was terribly wrong was immediate but the sudden paralysis would not allow him to respond beyond the startled look in his eyes. Her sudden excitement could barely be contained, “Did you seriously think that I would forget you and what you did to me, you animal?” She gently guided him to lean back against the bench with a gentleness that belied her hatred for him. “Don’t speak now. Relax, as, this time, I take advantage of your helplessness.”

Standing now, she quickly looked around to see they remained alone. She bent down, unbuckling his belt and struggled to pull his pants down. His underwear soon came off and as he sat there naked from the waist down she pulled out her pocket knife and let the sharpened blade flash reflected light. His eyes widened in horror. She moved close to his face and quietly hissed, “You raped me, you son of a bitch! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”  She watched his eyes as recognition registered there. She continued staring into eyes allowing her contempt to clearly show as she reached between his legs holding him in her left hand. She placed the blade of her knife underneath and quickly yank upwards. His strangled scream was like music to her and she allowed the pleasure of her action to course through her before standing and slowly walking away from a past she could finally bury.

She paused to look over her shoulder at the agony she had just caused. Finally, she found a way for men to pleasure her.

Eyes of a Woman

This story is an experiment of sorts. I have created several versions and have presented three of them here. One was posted several days ago as Shyness is its own reward. Another will be posted tomorrow.

 I hope you enjoy them. As always comments are welcome.

She recognized him from his wanted poster at once. Was it truly fate that he chose this spot to practice his craft? She couldn't allow herself to believe in that sort of misfortune, but she had to take advantage of it when it delivered such a fine target.

Moving to the edge of the shadow, just barely allowing the street lamps glow to illuminate her face, she caught his attention.

“Ah, what’s a beautiful woman such as yourself doing lurking in the shadows? “Step out so that we may have a better look.” He said with a smile. The small crowd that had gathered at the promise of a card trick turned to look at the target of his attention.

She inched forward, glancing down in a show of shyness. As she moved forward through the crowd, he said “Tell all of us, Jessica, what do you want most out of life? Are you longing for riches, Jessica? Or, do you seek adventure?”

Her smile was warm, disarming, as she said in a voice barely audible above the whispers of the crowd, “I definitely seek adventure, good sir.”

“Splendid. Then won’t you join us in an adventurous game of chance?” Holding out his hand to her, she tenderly took it and inched closer.

She allowed a tremble to run through her body and caught her breath. Her kind, deep blue eyes almost imperceptibly widened as she felt the crowd move in closer around them. As she approached his side, he took in a long slow and deep whiff of her fragrance that reminded him of sweet Camellias. Her hair, as thick and luxuriously black as the darkest of shadows, gently played on a light ocean breeze.

They stared at each other for a moment causing him to forget his next lines. Her touch was as light as that of a ladybug landing on his fingers. Reality returned at the sound of a cough from the crowd reminding him of where he was and he said “So, tell us, lovely lady of your dreams.” His voice barely audible despite the microphone he held in his left hand.

A low soft tune began from deep inside of her, telling of her dreams and far away peaceful valleys. The crowd, now mesmerized, stood still, straining to hear every note. The haunting words that escaped her throat were as sweet as honey that flowed from a jar. He swallowed deeply, hypnotized by the unbelievable sweetness of her voice, daring not to breathe for fear that the spell would be broken.

Her words were unlike anything he had ever heard yet somehow he understood every syllable, every inflection. He dropped to one knee, his attention held as if by a bond that refused to be broken. The crowd moved as one, closer toward her in order that they not miss a single note. She held their attention completely as each word floated through the crowd like water in a gently soothing stream.

As the hushed crowd listened a feeling of utter peace began to travel through the crowd. A sense that the entire world was at peace and no harm would ever come to any of them. All was as it should be and slowly relaxation soon turned to sleep. His eyes began to slowly close and he struggled to keep them open, but the weight was just too much and soon he, as well as everyone else, were sound asleep, remaining in whatever position they stood or sat in.

Her voice slowly quieted. Her slow deliberate movements taking her back across the clearing towards where she had come from. Stepping through the crowd not disturbing them, she made her way to her secret place hidden behind the crowd.

Her defense had once again come through for her. She was secure in knowing no one would remember ever having seen her. And this was as she liked it. Now to lure the police to her capture without getting involved. He would pay for his crime. As long as it is a man she would have no problem there either.

Award Shows

What kind of a loser does someone really need to be to actually watch these awards shows??? They’re nothing but exercises in self-congratulations for the Hollywood “glitterati” who think that they’re better than us schmucks who shell out upwards of $12 a ticket to see the shit movies which pays them (for one movie) more money than we’ll ever see in our lives.
(MarcDonato)

We must remember, Mozart and Beethoven didn’t hear all of the sounds we hear. They never heard the sound of a motor car starting, running, grinding, stopping.They never heard a telephone ring, or an airplane roar.

Gregor Piatigorsky

3D Will Never Work

Walter Murch, the most respected film editor and sound designer in the modern cinema states these reasons why our brains will never work with 3D:

The biggest problem with 3D is the "convergence/focus" issue. A couple of the other issues -- darkness and "smallness" -- are at least theoretically solvable. But the deeper problem is that the audience must focus their eyes at the plane of the screen -- say it is 80 feet away. This is constant no matter what.

But their eyes must converge at perhaps 10 feet away, then 60 feet, then 120 feet, and so on, depending on what the illusion is. So 3D films require us to focus at one distance and converge at another. And 600 million years of evolution has never presented this problem before. All living things with eyes have always focussed and converged at the same point.

If we look at the salt shaker on the table, close to us, we focus at six feet and our eyeballs converge (tilt in) at six feet. Imagine the base of a triangle between your eyes and the apex of the triangle resting on the thing you are looking at. But then look out the window and you focus at sixty feet and converge also at sixty feet. That imaginary triangle has now "opened up" so that your lines of sight are almost -- almost -- parallel to each other.

We can do this. 3D films would not work if we couldn't. But it is like tapping your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time, difficult. So the "CPU" of our perceptual brain has to work extra hard, which is why after 20 minutes or so many people get headaches. They are doing something that 600 million years of evolution never prepared them for. This is a deep problem, which no amount of technical tweaking can fix. Nothing will fix it short of producing true "holographic" images.

And lastly, the question of immersion. 3D films remind the audience that they are in a certain "perspective" relationship to the image. It is almost a Brechtian trick. Whereas if the film story has really gripped an audience they are "in" the picture in a kind of dreamlike "spaceless" space. So a good story will give you more dimensionality than you can ever cope with.

So: dark, small, stroby, headache inducing, alienating. And expensive. The question is: how long will it take people to realize and get fed up?

See Roger Ebert’s Journal for more info:

Get to know the people inside your head, cause they won’t be there when you’re dead

The man who smiles when things go wrong has thought of someone to blame it on.

Robert Bloch

Shyness is its own reward

“Tell that shy one, the one hiding behind the crowd, to step forward.” He said with the enthusiasm of a circus barker. “Yes, you there, come on out in the open, darlin’. What’s your name?” “Jessica” her voice whisper soft. “Jessica, what a pretty name. Why don’t you come all the way up front here and tell us little about your dreams.”

She inched forward, glancing back to the small space that just moments ago protected her from all harm, as if longing to return. But, she did move forward, as slow as the world turns, and the mc decided to step toward her in an effort to keep the show running smoothly. “Tell us, Jess, what do you want most out of life? Do you mind if I call you Jess?” He was trying to make her feel comfortable, as if using the informal version of her name would set her at ease. “I. . . guess not,” still talking into her chest.

“Well, Jess, I’ll bet you do dream, don’t you?” His right arm was held out to her encouraging her to reach out and take it. His smile was as warm as any he had ever flashed to anyone. He almost felt sorry for her, for her shyness must be painful. He could almost make out soft features of her face now as she inched closer.

Finally, their hands touched and he gently pulled her into the harsh spotlight. Her trembling from his attention caused her to catch her breath. Her eyes almost imperceptibly widened as she felt the eyes of the crowd on her. He was right, she was very beautiful. Deep set blue eyes that could swallow you up at any moment, hair as thick and luxuriously black as the darkest of shadows. As she approached his side, he took in a long slow and deep whiff of her fragrance. A light breeze carrying sweet camellias could not match her sweetness.

He stood for a moment staring into her eyes, suddenly forgetting his next lines. Reality returned and he shook off her spell. Her touch was as light as that of a ladybug landing on his fingers. A cough from the audience reminded him of where he was and he said “So, tell us, lovely lady of your dreams.” His voice barely audible to the crowd despite the microphone he held in his left hand.

A low rumbling yet soft tune began to play over the loud speakers, indicating to the audience that something important was about to take place.

The mc raised her hand to his lips kissing it gently, still mesmerized by her beauty and still staring into her eyes. She held perfectly still as the music gently built, her breathing was noticble by the rhythmic rising and falling of  her chest. After what seemed an eternity standing there in that harsh spot light, she began to sing. The haunting words that escaped her throat were as sweet as honey that flowed from a jar. The audience stood mesmerized. The mc swallowed deeply, hypnotized by the unbelievable fullness of her voice, daring not to breathe believing that if he did the spell would be broken.

Her words were unlike anything he had ever heard yet somehow he understood every syllable, every inflection. He dropped to one knee, his attention held as if by a bond that refused to be broken. The audience moved as one, closer toward her in order that they could hear every word. She held the attention fof everyone completely as each word floated on its musical notes, flowing through the crowd like water in a gently soothing stream.

As the hushed crowd listened a feeling of utter peace began tot ravel through the crowd. A sense that the entire world was at peace and no harm would ever come to any of them. All was as it should be and slowly each one began to drift off to sleep. The mc’s eyes began to slowly close and he fought to keep them open, but the weight was just too much and soon he, as well as everyone else, were sound asleep, remaining in whatever position they stood or sat in.

Her voice slowly quieted. Her slow deliberate movements taking her back across the clearing towards where she had come from. Stepping through the crowd not disturbing them, she made her way to her secret place hidden behind the crowd.

Her defense had once again come through for her. She was secure in knowing no one would remember ever having seen her. And this was as she liked it. Shyness is its own reward. She was safe, she was invulnerable to anyone’s passion for her. Her painful memory of being hurt before would never allow herself to be in that position again.

The Autopsy

The autopsy was scheduled for three p.m. but Jimmy held it up due to memories of his previous autopsy, his one and only, that came flooding back. Could he make it through this one without being embarrassed again? Now, as he stood before the table, shoulder to shoulder with his classmates, Ludlow snapped on his latex gloves signifying the class had begun. Jimmy stood across from him, watching a grin spread across the medical examiners face. “I do so much look forward to these anatomy classes, don’t you Jimmy?” Jimmy gave Ludlow a flat stare and held it until the M.E. looked away.

Jimmy stared down at the dead face before him, the slightly opened eyes, the parted lips. But mostly what caught him off guard was the pale waxy tone of the skin. The way the musculature had relaxed so that the face lost the nuance that would have made her distinguishable from any other woman.

“Let’s get to it”, said Ludlow, picking up a scalpel for the initial cut. Then he paused and looked at the body. “She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, wasn’t she?” The question wasn’t directed at Jimmy or anyone else in the class. “Most people, even the ones who are extremely attractive in life, don’t carry their looks to this table. It makes you realize that it’s not the superficial exterior that we all work so hard at getting right, it’s that spark of life that makes people truly appealing.”

Ludlow let out a heavy sigh and reached up and turned on the overhead microphone that would record his observations. He gave the date and time, followed by routine statements. “We are about to begin the postmortem examination of Rachel Robinson, a twenty-four year old white female. The body is well developed, and shows no identifying scars or tattoos. There is bruising about the arms and shoulders indicating that she struggled before death. There is one exterior wound, deep cut across the throat that severed the thyroid cartilage, the trachea, and the right carotid artery, causing a massive loss of blood, which would have continued until the heart stopped beating. The wound appears to have been administered from behind in a right-to-left motion, indicating the killer used his left hand.”

“The wound goes back to the spine and caused a nick in the third vertebrae, indicating a heavy-bladed knife, possibly a hunting knife,” Ludlow continued. He paused again, thought over what he had said and then nodded to himself. “Okay, let’s open her up,” Ludlow said, bringing himself and Jimmy back as he began the Y-shaped incision that went from each shoulder to the sternum, then ran in a straight line to the pubis.

Jimmy felt himself tense as the faint odor of putrefaction seeped past the Vicks dabbed under his nostrils. The pinkness of the interior organs themselves never seemed to bother him but cutting through them always brought on a slight dizziness. What really got to him, the part he was most anxious about was when the craniotomy was performed. The sound of the scalp being ripped away from the skull; then pulled down over the face, followed by the buzz of the small electric saw as it cut around the skull; then the popping sound as the skull was pulled away, exposing the brain. As he witnessed this he struggled to hold back the bile that was determined to escape his stomach.

Swallowing hard he pitched backwards and turned around. Heading for the deep sink on the far wall he heard the chuckling of his fellow students. How can he ever live this down? He wanted to be a medical examiner but that was out of the question if he couldn’t get through a routine autopsy.

After the autopsy was over and he had gotten some color back, Jimmy paused to look at the body. He stared at her face and then walked away knowing two things for certain, that anyone who had ever witnessed an autopsy would never want one performed on someone they loved and he would be back to try again.

Reasons

The warm ocean breeze felt welcoming after his long trip across country. A deep sigh of relief escaped his lips at the realization that his travels were finally at an end and he could actually feel the pent up tension being released from his aching muscles. The view in front of him, towards the horizon, was as beautiful as he had imagined. Seagulls playfully circled overhead in the clear blue sky, squawking and cart wheeling as if without a care. He immediately felt that this is where he was meant to be. This place that many people call paradise had just opened its arms to him and let him in without questioning his reason for being here. No where else had he ever felt this.

It was still difficult to suppress the familiar urge to continue running. An urge that had become his constant companion over these past two weeks. He tried once again to find a valid reason why he was here and not where he had spent nearly ten years building a life he never thought he would ever leave behind.

The unforeseen series of events that had forced his decision had finally climaxed and he was free of everything except the memories. And even those, he could tell, were beginning to disappear into that dark pocket of his past where bad things get sealed away, never to be allowed out again. Even before he realized it, that door opened, one more time.

Closing his eyes he concentrated hard on the painful memories of the week leading up to his drastic and abrupt decision to uproot his entire life. Still trying to fit reasonable answers to the unreasonable questions that had, without warning, disrupted his entire world.

Life with a beautiful woman he deeply loved, living in a home in a nice neighborhood, good income from a dream job, all left behind in the blink of an eye. It all suddenly became so suffocating that the only chance to survive was to run. The familiar pain was quickly returning and he had to force himself to suppress it.

His eyes opened but he no longer focused on the beauty laid out before him. He saw only her, laughing at his surprised look as he opened the bedroom door.

His mind, for the hundredth time, searched for the overlooked or ignored clues that would have pointed to this painful conclusion.

He was tired. Tired of driving, tired of beating himself up. Life had a habit of throwing crap at you. Some people are good at ducking in time and some of us don’t even know its in the air until its too late.

He tried to reassure himself that sometimes just cutting your losses, admitting defeat and leaving, is the best way to preserve your sanity, if not your dignity.

Starting over is not going to be easy. But going back is not an option.

A friend of his lived down in San Diego. Maybe he could stay there while he got back on his feet. If he had enough money for gas to get there. His faith in the human spirit had come through for him before and he didn’t have any reason to believe that you only get a limited number of chances to start again so he figured he could do it.

One thing he was beginning to learn as he got older was that there is always hope. You don’t need to know the reasons why something didn’t work out for you, but without believing that the reason was for the best you will never pick yourself up and move on. He looked back out across the ocean and said to himself ‘I see blue skies ahead’.

About

I’m Greg Whitaker, a closet writer, artist, photographer, musician and videographer. My life is lived to the fullest of my financial ability in pursuing this interests and my love for my wife and kids has no bounds.

My interests are so many and so varied that I often times have no idea what to pursue next so I have made it a practice to not think and just do. This line of action has gotten me into really interesting predicaments and I wish to share them with you. Trouble, like you wouldn’t believe has also been a companion. But without being able to follow my passions I would probably become bored out of my skull. Luckily, I rarely know boredom.

Some of my interests are displayed in my other blogs, if you would be interested in looking, I would be very interested in hearing your opinions.

Utah Valley Gardens is where I practice at being self sufficient by growing my own food.

Unwashed Creativity is the story of creating a home as a safe refuge from the stress of daily survival out in the real world.

Are We Green Yet? Asks the question, well, are we green yet. I explore the sustainable life style, our attempts to reduce our dependence on fossil fuels, and how we celebrate nature and wildlife.

Disenchanted Citizen is my soapbox for political and social issues. Not for the faint of heart.

Watercolors by Grzegorz Wrobel

Amazing talent!

Celebrate the Chairman of the Board

Artist of the Day: Tomer Hanuka

Israeli-born illustrator Tomer Hanuka creates incredibly interesting scenes. His stories are told not just by the expressions on his characters' faces but by the beautiful colors he chooses and the mysterious shadows he casts. His passion for drawing emerged at a young age, when he fell in love with American comic books. He found them "mysterious and majestic, an unreachable light in a faraway land, and more beautiful and exciting than anything around."

His client list includes prestigious newspapers and magazines like Time, The New Yorker, Spin, The New York Times, and Rolling Stone. He has won multiple gold medals from the Society of Illustrators and the Society of Publication designers, and was showcased in Print magazine and American Illustration.

More at My Modern Met.

There are no bad Artists

Organizing, Who Has the Time?

I need a place to record all of my story ideas and I think I may have come up with a solution. At first blush, this blog seems like the obvious place, but I’m not ready to regurgitate all of my raw thoughts in such a public place yet. Although by recording this post, regurgitating raw thoughts is exactly what I am about to do. Perhaps this will be the trickle needed to break through the dam of resistance I have felt against using the blog to store my thoughts.

The intended purpose of this post is to come up with a way to file my raw stories into some organized pattern in which I can easily connect my thoughts. It is sort of like brain storming an idea to come up with a solution. Okay, so I ‘m brain storming with myself. But feel free to jump in anytime you want to. All help is greatly appreciated. I promise I will not scoff at you, after all a successful brain storming session accepts all thoughts.

What do I do with all of these ideas I have flooding my head? They need to be numbered so I can keep track of them. They need to be numbered so I can keep them together because I have this habit of just writing things down no matter where I am and I write them down on whatever material I find available. I once had a story idea so compelling while shopping in a department store that I went to the office supply aisle, grabbed a pen and some paper and began writing right there. When I got to the check out the cashier looked at me funny and felt I had to explain that it was stuff I was afraid of forgetting. She chuckled and said I’m not the only one that happens to. She then told me of one guy who grabbed a box of cereal to write on and had to buy it even though he didn’t like that brand. Okay, so I’m not that unusual. One point goes for keeping me somewhat in touch with the rest of the world.

So, how to keep track of these things, I find I don’t really keep up on indexing so that won’t work. Do I really need to date these ideas, I don’t think so. I can give them working titles but I don’t always remember those, which is why I at one time used the indexing idea. Numbering, I guess. Maybe the number format could involve the date, something like mmddyy-sequence #. The sequence could be for that day only or for the entire life of my ability to come up with story ideas. I have so damned many I will never get them written. I have an office file box full of partially written story ideas sitting in the garage. Maybe I should go through those. I feel excitement building up within me at the thought of a new project to start. As if I don’t already have so many to chose from.

Geez, look at all the text I just wrote simply trying to figure out how to keep track of story ideas. Is this pitiful or what. Something will come to me, but right now I need to start writing these ideas down. A plan, I need a plan. The first phase is to empty my spiral notebook that I take everywhere now. There is a website called 750words that I have been using for three months now to record my free form thoughts every day and I love using it. But I quickly outgrew that for several reasons. One involves the time of day I wake up. 3 am comes awfully early for a lot of people. For me it has become routine. Only occasionally am I blessed with a couple extra hours of sleep, but all in all it is rare. Anyway, being up at that time of day and getting on the computer to write could be a bit disturbing to my wife, even though she seems to be able to sleep through a bomb blast. Nah, that’s not even been tested and I guess I don’t really believe that, but she is a sound sleeper. Even so, my typing could possibly disturb her so just suffice it to say that I choose not to get on the computer until after she awakens. Bless her heart for being able to sleep the generally accepted requirement of eight hours a day. I get by perfectly fine on five and a couple cups of coffee.

I go to the living room, three rooms away, where I won’t disturb her and set up my temporary office consisting of a pen and spiral writing pad, a couple pencils and a spiral drawing pad, several of the books I am currently reading and since these days it is so freakin’ cold I wrap up in a thick warm blanket. I write, I draw, and I read. I write when the mood strikes, and as I have previously stated, it strikes a lot, and then later I go to the 750words website and record into that. Cheating, I don’t think so because what I enter is actually free-form and free-flowing thoughts as is intended on the site. I just use it because it gets me in the habit of writing on a daily basis. Oh, I failed to mention one aspect that keeps me coming back to the website. Each day I am logged on I am told how long my writing streak is. Currently I am on a 48 day streak. I found that being told this, at first , kept me coming back. Now, it doesn’t mean as much. The magic of that small bit of information has gotten me into the habit of writing daily and I appreciate that.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, That spiral notebook I use for writing is close to fifteen pages ahead of my daily target of writing 750 words. It has gotten way too far ahead of my ability to sit at my computer long enough to record all that I have written. After all, I do have other things going on in my life, blasphemy to some I know, but gardening, cooking, drawing, etc are not things I wish to give up.

Hence, the need for a system to record all of my story ideas. I choose to use Microsoft word, well because it is on my computer. It is an old version but it is workable. I can back up everything onto Dropbox so that as long as I have computer access I will be able to record, copy and paste into this blog or anywhere else I choose. Keeping them organized remains my biggest concern now.

Living Under a Different Sign?

Have you always felt like you were born under a bad sign?  Well, hopefully the new kid on the astronomical block just did you a favor.

Since the Earth’s axis has been changing over the past several thousand years we are somehow supposed to be governed by a different set of rules., according to astronomers. You know, those people who study celestial bodies. But astrologers, however, the people who believe that the time of your birth determines your future are not buying into it.

It would be a tremendous bother to change all those restaurant place mats and calendars they sell in head shops to have to add someone to the mix now.

So, if you feel as though you are somehow different today, look into this new guy as the possible culprit. It could be that everything you have been told about your future up to the discovery of this 13^th sign is probably bogus and we all should get a new reading to learn who we truly are.

I don’t believe in any of it but that doesn't mean it isn't real.

But it is fun to watch others get all dressed up and toss predictions around to others who believe.

I don’t mean to poke fun at you all, but you do make it easy. I mean the very fact that there are many different methods of predicting depending on the particular astrological tradition you use tells me right there that everything can change depending on who you talk to. So, how can you believe in any of it?

For those of you do believe, if you are still reading this far into this, here is where our new ‘houses’ have moved to:

Capricorn: Jan. 20 - Feb. 16

Aquarius: Feb. 16 - March 11

Pisces: March 11- April 18

Aries: April 18- May 13

Taurus: May 13- June 21

Gemini: June 21- July 20

Cancer: July 20- Aug. 10

Leo: Aug. 10- Sept. 16

Virgo: Sept. 16- Oct. 30

Libra: Oct. 30- Nov. 23

Scorpio: Nov. 23- Nov. 29

Ophiuchus: Nov. 29- Dec. 17

Sagittarius: Dec. 17- Jan. 20

Let’s see I went from being a Gemini to being a Taurus. If this movement is supposed to affect us mere mortals, how does it affect the planets themselves? According to astronomers this new guy, Ophiuchus, has always been there. He did not just suddenly appear because of how we interpret how heavenly bodies relate to each other.

Is this new positioning accurate? Was the old positioning accurate? In the future, are we going to be ‘ruled’ by some yet to be identified Greek creature?

I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t feel I have changed one bit with this new knowledge.

However, I do know that this is going to be my year. Chinese mythology says so. Let’s hear it for the year of the rabbit. Right on!

Promises

I walked down the quiet hospital corridor past the waiting room. A man sat with his head in his hand as two children spread out on either side of him were sound asleep. I continued past the soda and snack machines and on up to the nurses station.

"I need to see my friend", I said. "I'm sorry but visiting hours are over" she smiled sweetly trying not to be rude. I was silent for a moment and said, "Well then, I apologize" and walked on past the station and into his room.

He was on his side facing the opposite wall. I saw his head turn slightly as I entered the room. "It's alright, partner, it's me". There was a chair against he wall he was facing and I took it. His eyes were swollen, the right one completely closed. A large X was formed by the bandages across his nose and a tube was taped to his left cheek.

His lips were dry and cracked but he tried to smile.

"Do you feel as bad as you look?" I asked, returning his smile. "Only when I think about it."

I was silent a moment and said "I'm going to get this empty piece of trash." He closed his eyes briefly and said "I want to be there," his body jerked from a pain spasm somewhere deep inside and he caught his breath.

The report I heard from the responding officer was that he probably should not be alive. The damage done looks like it was caused by a very sharp instrument and it was applied methodically not to kill but to cause the maximum pain.

He told me he didn't feel much of it and I don't know if he was unconscious through most of it or if he was lying to protect me from the guilt he knew I was feeling.

I looked up at the sound of the door opening and saw the nurse and the doctor watching me. I knew it was time to go. The doctor told me he needs rest more than he needs a friend right now. I thanked him and walked out.

My mind was traveling non-stop now as I exited the hospital. The winds blowing in from the bay were picking up and off in the distance I saw lightning flashes outlining storm clouds that looked like they were about to open up. The swaying of the palmetto and oak trees gently defined the cold front moving in ahead of the storm. Camellias let loose their sweet fragrance and I'm pretty sure I caught the faint whiff of Johnny's BBQ about a block away.

I popped a cigarette out of my pocket pack and placed it between my lips. I hadn't smoked in years but always carried one in case I wanted to think hard. And right now, I needed all the hard thinking I could muster. The smell of ozone was strong and I breathed deeply hoping it would give me some insight into what I should do next. Naturally, nothing came to me so I slowly crossed the driveway towards the parking structure.

Traffic out on Bayside Drive was light this time of night and I thought that maybe if I took a walk before the storm hit I might clear my head. As I headed down the gentle slope in the drive towards Bayside the thought occurred to me about how unfair and sometimes demanding life can be. My friend lay in a hospital bed banged real hard no fault of his other than being my friend and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was going to make good on the promise I made to him one or the other. The only other thing that I was certain about was that I didn't have a clue as to how to do it.

This is part one of a two part story. I'll link the two when I finished.

The Lady Across the Street

"No!" she screams at the television. Boyd stood there as dumb struck as she. The look of surprise on his face said it all. How could they vote me off? I'm the one who pulled this team together when it looked like we were going down.

The veins on the side of her head were throbbing, her face red from the heat of the anger she felt. "How can you guys be so stupid?" Her voice raised, trembling like she was in the middle of a storm trying to be heard. Food crumbs flew from her lap as she jumped out of her chair. The floor creaked under her stomping. Arms thrashing through the air, fists squeezed tight punching holes in the imaginary devils of her adversaries, the people who voted her favorite person off the team.

As the camera zoomed in on a close up of Boyd's face trying to catch every emotion, she was drawn closer to the television. Her heart still drumming hard in as she stared at his image. She wanted so much to reach out to him, to hold him, to comfort him and let him know everything would be alright. She would take care of everything and correct this travesty against the man she only truly ever loved.

She stepped closer and reached out as if she could hug him close to her. The image faded into one of those relentless and obnoxious car commercials.

She turned from her set, and as she paced her small living room she began to make plans. She would go to that television studio and give those people a piece of her mind. The nerve of them to kick off the only person who truly commanded an audience to their lame network show. The only person viewers tuned in for every week.

Outside the wind was blowing a storm in across the plains, lightning struck out randomly unable to control its fury. She reached for the glass of soda sitting on the table next to her chair. She was so livid that her hands were still shaking and she fumbled the glass over onto her half eaten sandwich. The dark liquid splashed up the wall leaving dark streaks and droplets glistening in the lamp light. The reaction to this clumsiness brought instant tears of rage.

As she looked up towards the ceiling, screaming at the unfairness that was being dealt to her and Boyd, her body trembled with fury.

Suddenly, the incessant pounding in her ears stopped. The rush of pain mixed with the silence was overpowering. Her eyes went wide and she clutched her chest. Standing there, in the middle of the tiny room, her body began to teeter and sway off balance. She hit the coffee table with a thunderous crash that shattered two of its legs. But she was beyond feeling any pain.

Her husband, who had been in the back room doing whatever he did every night to avoid being in the same room with her when she was watching television, because he knew how she gets, came running at the sound. He knelt next to her sprawled body and froze at the death stare on her face. Her hands still clutching hard at her chest.

The paramedics confirmed her death as they wheeled her gurney towards the waiting ambulance.

He looked out across the lawn at the news crew already busy at their job getting interviews from neighbors attempting to get some insight into her life. But the story that would go out across the valley that evening was that no one really knew anything about her. They all told the same tale. They only saw her leave the house, get into her car, later to return home, and never got to know her neighbors.

The Best Times of My Life

I have a whole host of interests and sometimes I can get pulled in so many directions I’m not sure what to do. I never know where I am going to end up regardless what my plans were at the start of the day.

I dare say that if I was a child in today’s world I would probably be forced to take some drug for attention deficit disorder. Thank God I was allowed to just be myself.

I have five different blogs in for the express purpose of recording my favorite things in some semblance of order.

But my very favorite things to do is listen to music (jazz, rock and blues), write, draw, garden, cook and spend time with my wife.

One More Morning

Sleep was becoming harder to come by these dyas, If it wasn’t for the short catnaps in odd places throughout the day he wouldn’t get much rest at all. She was always his first thought when he awoke, and this morning was no different.

His ever waking moment was spent on thoughts of her or trying not to think of her.

Sitting up, the bed moaned under his weight. His hand involuntarily drifted to her side of the bed, empty, as he knew it would be, same as every morning.

As he sat there in the cold dark emptiness the window shook in its frame against the cold persistent winter wind. The first sign that the weatherman may just have been right this time. A cold front was coming in.

He closed his dry itchy eyes and concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing. The first lines of the song gently sounded and he hummed along to the melody. Their song. Every word was as if written for them. The melody so totally matched their lives together.

He gently shook his head, opened his eyes and forced the song away. It was useless to keep remembering. Why must he always remember? Hadn’t he suffered enough already?

Swinging his legs off the bed his feet touched the cold floor. He reached into the closet bin for a pair of clean socks and underwear. And so the routine of yet another long lonely day began. He thought about what was going to happen during the next several hours, same as every morning. He would walk toward the bathroom to empty his bladder where he would dress for the day. Along the way he would stop at the hall closet to retrieve his morning dose of Alka-Seltzer.

Next, he would walk into the kitchen, prepare his relief for in acidic stomach and drink it down. Then, sitting in his chair in the living room, wrapped in his warm blanket he would reach for his latest book brought home from the library to help him in his futile attempt to escape his memories. He would force himself to become the character in the book. Knowing why this whole routine was important to his sanity didn’t interest him. It never did. It was something his therapist told him was good for him.

Whether it was good or not, if it was working according to some criteria his therapist operated under was of no consequence to him. It was just something he was told to do, to occupy his time.

Oh, who was he kidding, it was meant to occupy his mind. A ruse to prevent him from thinking about her. After 18 months of trying it wasn’t working, he knew it wasn’t going to work.

This morning was going to be different. This morning he would break his routine and lay back down, pull the covers up to his chin and just let his mind go. TO hell with what his therapist said. He doesn’t know the pain. He may think his books and his training knows whats best but they haven’t been right yet.

He closed his eyes again and allowed the gentle rhythm of his breathing soothe him as the song began once again. Her lovely upturned face smiled at him as they danced to their song.

A few hours later his daughter opened the front door to his house with her key. She expected to find him sitting in his chair but it was empty. The quiet of the house was not unusual, but the light next to his chair was turned off, the book lay where it was yesterday, everything appeared to be untouched. She felt a chill gently grip her telling her today was somehow different. Calling out she moved toward the bedroom.

He looked so peaceful lying their with the blanket pulled up to his chin. A slight smile on his face. And her tears filled her eyes but she was also felt relief tht he had finally found peace with his wife.

Repetition equals Complete Boredom and No Sales

Just heard a song by City and Colour called Comin’ Home. Mellow, and if you like this sort of song I suppose it’s okay, and I agree it has it’s place.

The reason I’m drivien to write about this particular song is repetition. I gotta be honest, when I hear a song where the same words are repeated over and over and over and over, I will tuern that song off and vow to never listen to it again.

This song is the epitome of an extremely repetitious song. He repeated the line I’m comin’ home at least 10 times before I shook off the coma it put me in and turned that sucker off.

I don’t care what sort of artisitic license you think you are allowed, or what kind of message you are sending by the repeating of the same line, it shows a complete lack of talent. What, you ran out of words? Are you just fulfilling some contractural agreement to put out a song and chose to be repetitive to the point of complete boredom?

Please, please, do better then this next time.

Travel Scrabble

Have you seen this game? I get these in my inbox occasionally. I am instructed to change one letter in the word and pass it along to 10 friends. I always do pass them along, but I often wonder why is it always a four letter word? Is it feared that we won’t know enough five or six letter words to keep it going?

I don’t know, but I do find it fascinating to see the places these things go in their travels around the world. This current list started in Jan 2010 in California. After kicking around there it went to other states in the U.S. and then went to England, Norway, Sudan, South Africa, Israel, Scotland, on to Australia, New Zealand and back to the U.S. I see cities and towns I have never heard of which I find interesting.

Each person is supposed to put the date on it when it goes out, but some don’t. I suppose it’s could be equal to the percentage of people who just don’t follow instructions very well.

This current list started with the word ‘toot’ and is now ‘fire’. It could have gotten there in four tries but this list has well over one hundred words on it.

The rules are that you can change only one letter and cannot add letters. Looking over the list I see these rules have been broken several times. Anyway I suppose it is just a game so I’ll send my word along as ‘fore’.

Is the Art of Handwriting Dying?

Nowadays almost everyone is typing or texting (SMS) instead of using that very old-fashioned form of communicating, the written word. Any discussion of the lost art of the spoken word is left to another forum. The most handwriting we do these days, outside of schools, involves little more than a signature. And even many schools are shifting to computerized exams and homework assignments. Can it really be because we are trying to save trees? Somehow, I don’t think so.

Taking notes, involving the use of a pen or pencil, typically employs a personal form of shorthand and cannot really be considered penmanship. But even this will soon be lost to  the ipad or some other form of electronic device which will use a type font.

I suppose that as long as we continue to communicate, losing this art form will not raise any concerns. Except to those people who still appreciate the beauty of the handwritten word. To them there is a certain sexiness in the careful curvature of letters that goes beyond simply conveying a message. The sinuous flow and connectivity of a handwritten sentence can expose a great deal about the writer. Using the proper words to articulate your feelings can be enhanced by a handwritten word in ways that type face simply cannot.

Sending a handwritten note communicates a level of intimacy that cannot be conveyed through the cold sharpness of a typed word or, shudder, the abbreviated semblance of ‘words’ that is the domain of the texting world.

Free fonts to personalize the feel of our blogs and websites abound if you but take the time to look for them. Some of there fairly closely resemble handwriting and I have noticed there are bloggers out there who are beginning to shun traditional typeface in favor of fake handwriting typeface. There are still others who choose to use their own handwriting by simply scanning their writings into their posts.  Sabrina Ward Harrison’s blog displays her uncensored and uncorrected handwriting that, perhaps, during a time when everyone was still handwriting everything, may have been viewed as, well, sloppy. But, that ‘sloppiness’ now denotes a raw quality that is somehow fresh.

Calligraphy is the ‘art of handwriting’. A person skilled in Calligraphy can add such a tremendous depth to the written word. I love viewing beautiful handwriting. The personal touch, the patience and attention that goes into really good calligraphy denotes confidence and passion.

I’m willing to bet that if you were to write a personal note to someone instead of choosing a pre-typed greeting card, you would be pleasantly surprised by the response. I think deep down we all appreciate receiving a handwritten message. It shows the person thought enough of you to take the time to write instead of relying on some run of the mill expression in a greeting card.

So, liven up your blog, your website, your note taking and your personal life by re-discovering the art of handwriting. You’ll e glad you did.

Here Comes the Sun

Loneliness

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

- Vladimir Nabokov