Put simply, there is no replacing books.

Skimming the internet for information about the internet makes my brain explode. It's the end of the year so there are posts all over the place recapping the developments of 2008 and predicting 2009. I wish I had two brains so I could write about books/blogs/my dream development and the pace of innovation at the same time, but unfortunately I don't have two brains. I'm not being academic in these musings, either. All opinions are informed purely by experience and reaction.

One thing that makes books a great medium is the fact that they have beginnings. Not just a point at which they come into being, but honest-to-goodness, ground floor beginnings. Most books have no prerequisites before you open the front cover, no backstory, no need for familiarity with a particular industry or topic of knowledge. Such things help in many non-fiction instances, but books have the ability to start laying a foundation from page one and build on that foundation as it progresses.

In comparison, periodicals (blogs as well as magazines and newspapers) don't have that luxury. Each member of the audience has a different level of understandings of the topic at hand. Every item in a periodical has to take into account that the audience contains first time readers and loyal, well-informed readers. Depending on substance and style, this diversity of readership can be an issue of varying size; the more continuity involved in a publication, the more glaring the ignorance of a new reader.

I'm most aware of my own ignorance when reading a blog in which the author talks about their own life, and when I'm reading a magazine that might have had more useful tips in the previous issue. (The "relevant tips" bit crosses over into blogs, too, though a different sort, and the internet has archiving and search function.) I wish these things were more organized and linear.

Instead of a personal chef or trainer or shopper, I want a personal information curator that I can point towards a blog or two or four and have a distilled bundle of knowledge returned to me. I'd give it a link to memoir blogs like Waiter Rant and get back the full evolution of the idea, the voice, and the person; all the developmental highlights. I'd point this curator to Get Rich Slowly or Lifehacker or Wired and get all the strong posts from the past that weren't obsolete three months later, and also integrated versions of posts on those familiar topics that keep coming up over and over again. Best possible world: the comments would also be mined for data that supports or refutes the original post.

I've heard that if you subscribe to Cook's Illustrated long enough the content starts to repeat itself. The same thing happens with children's magazines (at least Cook's probably puts everything into different words!), and I wouldn't be surprised if original advice in magazines targeted towards writers get rarer over time.

Wouldn't it be more efficient for the readers if there was a starting point for all these publications? Then it would be my own choice to skim or read every word, but at least if I was feeling clueless it would be my own fault for not absorbing information. And the redundancy factor would be reduced, too.

No, it's probably not practical, but it seems like it could make my life easier.

I think the next great innovation for the web should be a system available to netizens at large to create something like.... well, basically "This Week In Your Pregnancy" for any topic. Essentially a book in which a chapter is delivered each day or each week. I don't want to embargo information, just let the timing of each delivery be customized to each subscriber.

Right now I'm gearing up to write about my experiences of being left behind while Reagan's at boot camp. It'd be nice to get a daily or weekly email with ideas and support for my situation, through which I'm reminded of my husband's progress and given a slew of ideas for what to do when he graduates at appropriate times. Like an advent calendar. For military wives.

Yes, my other blogging project, The Beginning, Boot, and Beyond, aims to be five parts memoir/journal and two parts ideas/advice for navigating all the "firsts" of being married to someone in the armed forces. "Aims" is a bit of a lofty word considering I've only posted twice so far, and am still mixing the cement that will become the blog's foundation. Ultimately, I want it to be something that can easily be read from the beginning, as the progression of this story intrigues me. Of course, it is my life, so I am a bit biased.



Reagan is my muse. Especially while he's sleeping*. It gives me a chance to consider him in both concrete and abstract ways. His body is here, a tangible reminder of his reality and of our relationship, but he is still, his mind journeying in the dream world.

Of course, as soon as I write anything like that, he takes a noisy breath and shifts in his sleep to get more comfortable.

This poem, like Geography, comes from the weary moments between preparing for bed and actually climbing between the covers, when my mind, full from a day of gathering information, is at its limits. I originally wrote this one a number of weeks ago while he was still working his retail job.

Nightshift

Spooning we will slumber
yet I don't hurry towards that time
as sleeping will obscure
your reailty from mine.

Though dawn is nearly breaking
I press my cheek against your skin,
listen to your breathing
and your heart beating within.

I wonder what you're dreaming,
hope to make the good parts true.
I sink to sleep, reluctantly,
knowing I'll wake--in dark--alone.

---
* he might be better for poetic inspiration while he's asleep, but he's much more fun to hang out with while he's awake. :):) I'm going to ink a portion of that scannie (after I get a little rest) and prove it!

Who am I?

Warning: plate of beans ahead.

On the heels of yesterday's post about language not yet catching up with the experiences of the Internet, I'm taking a moment to look inward as I am wont to do after a period of not blogging, however short or long it may be.

As I was starting up the previous post with noise about status updating, I began pondering in the back of my mind what kind of blogger I am, how my style fits in with the "culture" of blogging, and what sort I might like to be.

While I post art, I'm not a sketch-blogger. Most art is vastly overshadowed by words. Words about what? My life, usually. My thought-life, to be specific, as my offline-life is a tad rusty these days (though not for long). I don't do very topical or news-related posts, nor am I at the deep end for any particular hobby, lifestyle, or what-have-you.

The reflective questions boil down to "If this wasn't my blog, would I read it?"

That raises the question "What kind of blogs do I read?". Primary answer right now is "not many". For all the RSS items I clear out these days, they either don't require reading or are saved in open tabs to be consumed at some proper future moment. I muchly enjoy blogs that have a personal mixture of diary, correspondence, and art.

Some periods of time I do a good job of performing the "would I read this?" test in mind as I write a post, other times, not so much. Perhaps that should be something I strive for in the future.

I'm calling this a plate of beans because whatever I decide doesn't truly matter. I'm keeping this blog for myself, and can't foresee this ever becoming a destination so popular that I where I care to cater to my readership. The goal, then, is to cater to the more demanding aspects of myself and try to please my harsh internal critic.

--

Today held the celebrations of my mom's birthday, my immediate family's Christmas, and the Winter Solstice. The only one it actually was was Solstice, which Reagan and I celebrate privately.

We're not pagan or druidic, but I, especially, like taking notice of the moment when the night is longest. Festivities involve cheese, fruit, something tasty to drink, and making a nest of pillows and blankets on the floor to feast by candle light. We use the time sans computer, tv, and other digital interferences to talk about everything and nothing. In the midst of worrying about family this and other family that, it's very nice to devote some quiet time to each other.

I took a moment to think about Hanukkah today, too, while setting fire to the wicks of pine and apple scented tealights.

Between the celebrations of Christmas and Solstice, Reagan and I went to the bookstore where I quickly spent my gift card on poetry books: The McSweeney's Book of Poets Picking Poets and The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. I believe both will challenge me and give me a lot to think and write about in the coming months (which is a lot of why I didn't pick up a novel).

I hadn't heard of either book before today, and I haven't heard of most of the poets in either until today. With my limited experience with poetry, both points contribute to my interest in these volumes.

The bookstore trip also made me devastatingly interested in getting a e-Ink eReader. Technology. Wow.

Other, less amazing technology brings you a washed-out scan from my sketchbook, mostly of bunnies. These were practice for pencil sketches that Reagan turned into watercolors, which I turned into frame watercolors, given as gifts to my parents and my brother's family.



And last of all, a small stone of a poem devised as I was falling asleep last night. Oddly enough, it goes to answer the question posed in the title of this post. At least to a small degree.

Who Am I?

As I'm
a poet
my lines
should
be just
long enough to point.

That's your official poem.
Here's the collection of words inspired by writing it:

awake in the wee hours
just light enough to write
a burst of words on a post-it
(thankfully near by)
before more sleep

Merry Solstice. See you in the longer days.

bRAdburY

1.
I finished Fahrenheit 451 a few days ago and haven't posted about it yet. Maybe that's for the best; a couple extra days gives me more time to turn it over in my mind.

It was never assigned reading in school, so for many years the bulk of my understanding of the book was "it's about burning books". Some time during my year in Savannah I read an article about Ray Bradbury which discussed, among other things, his take on F451. That take being that to him the book is more about technology's effect on humans, not burning books. After doing my own sit-down with it, I have to say that I don't see how anyone could say it is about book burning.

The main lesson I took from Fahrenheit 451 was the value of giving your brain time to idle. It's something I need to remind myself to do every so often. I struggle to get so many things absorbed, so many things done. It's easy for me to lose sight of the benefits of slowing down and daydreaming. With a sketchbook or notebook near by, of course, but in releasing myself from obligation to them I allow my mind to make new connections and go new places.


2.
In middle school, I think, we watched a video one day that touched me deeply. It told the story of a class of school children living on some gray, gloomy, and perpetually overcast planet. Only one girl has ever been on Earth, and she is the only one who has seen sunshine and all the wonderful things it does. The plot unfolds around rumors that there is going to be a little bit of sun on this rain-soaked planet.

I didn't know until a week ago that the short film was based on Bradbury's short story All Summer in a Day (full story text).

Even better (for my nostalgia), the short is on YouTube in three parts.

The story is more nihilistic than the video. Today I wonder for the first time if there's a tiny sliver of Plato's Cave in the story.


3.
I love Ray Bradbury's writing style so much it makes me want to scream sometimes. The stories are great, and well adapted to film, but his wordsmithing is incredibly in line with my own quirk. What gives it so much life, to me, is the aspects of metaphor and imagery that can't be translated to visual media. I have a list of (children's) stories I'd like to adapt into comics/graphic novels, and while I'd love to honor Bradbury's work in that way, so much of what makes it special to me would be lost. I'll illustrate it, though. I'll illustrate the heck out of it. :)

A couple examples from All Summer:

The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun.
...
It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of flesh-like weed, wavering, flowering this brief spring...
...
A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran.

So much love for that. Bradbury's writing is an inspiration. Because he writes the way I think, it gives me confidence that I have the potential to be a good and successful writer.


4.
In closing, some of my favorite Bradbury quotes. I don't agree with him on a lot of topics beyond life, philosophy, and the arts, but sometimes those are enough.

All that stuff that's collected up in my head -- poetry and mythology and comic strips and science fiction magazines -- comes out in my stories. So you get to a certain age and you're like a pomegranate, you just burst. And the ideas spill out.

Bonus points for the mention of a pomegranate there. :)

First you jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.

is growing on me.

A new find:

I have two rules in life - to hell with it, whatever it is, and get your work done

And my most favorite of all, words I try to live by:

If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape.

X.
That was fun. I should read more books so I can do it more often.

I'm going to do something scold-worthy, but Mr. Ray inspired me (guess how!), and I, personally, need it.

to hell with it (whatever it is)

.
looking over
creation
without
comprehension

.
when my face
was hidden,
insincere

.
screaming
screaming into
a favorite pillow

.
abruptly
shaken out of
deep meditation.

.
in the kitchen
waiting for tea
giving up

.
bawled through snot
and hot tears
against his chest

.
under my breath
a final
invisible
resolution

Aaaah.



(ooooo! ;D )