tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83330496649708514462024-03-07T00:24:46.261-08:00Idea MechaniXRamblings and rumblings from an Art Director in the heart of Massachusetts. Objects seen may be a lot closer than they appear. Please check out my website at www.ideamechanix.com.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-36808736269060618052018-07-07T15:33:00.001-07:002018-07-07T15:33:39.980-07:00Here we go again.2010.
That's the date of my last blogger post. Since then, much has happened, much that I'm not going to delve into unless and until it becomes relevant. But today, (halleluiah) I recovered my blogger account, which I had not touched simce Google bought up blogger. I had assumed it was lost. But it turns out you just have to want it bad enough.
That's true of so many things. I am a teacher (still) and I tell my students every weeke the same thing I tell my kids: so much of life is about showing up. We are led by the people who are willing to do it. And that's a good and bad thing, because sometimes the people who are willing are the last people you should give the job too. I'm talking obout you, annoying orange.
Almost anything is possible if you want it bad enough, and are willing to put the corresponding work into it. And, finally, if you are unwilling to surrender it to anyone that wants to take it away from you. Be that your hope an anspirations, your freedom, your hope, or your positivity. I feel like so much of it has been drained from me over the past (good God, has it been only) 2 years.
I am not letting this blog devolve into a diatribe about how much I hate racism, or fascism, or anything else that hte current regime espouses. Just going on record, of what I hate. Include MAGAits high on that list.
Just giving notice of a reboot of this blog. What I think, what I believe, and why I think it's worth believing something.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-86502144263150710792010-12-03T14:22:00.000-08:002010-12-03T14:28:26.430-08:00BelievingI believe in God. I'm also a bit of a leftie, in case you don't know that already. If you have a problem with any of that, it’s probably best for you to skip this one. <br /><br />I spend some days running major errands between dropping my son off and picking him up from his charter school, which is over an hour away with no immediate bus service, I tend to spend that time talking to him, and the time in-between listening to my collection of podcasts from the previous week. But I’ve avoided political podcasts since the election, out of a cowardly sense that I couldn’t face them without fortified courage, to deal with the bad news. One of the political podcasts I listen to is “<span style="font-weight:bold;">Best of the Left</span>.” (No link, because Im specifically not recommending it). I listen because of the left-leaning (or I should say, forward-leaning) broadcasts which are edited into a coherent podcast for me. But, to be clear, I do not endorse this podcast.<br /><br />In each podcast, the director/editor of the podcast makes a plea for spreading the word” on hos podcast to friends. But I will not. It is something that I do, because it makes my life easier, and informs me. But “Best of the Left” is not the only political podcast I listen to, nor the only political perspective I get. But I will not spread the word on that podcast, because I have a fundamental disagreement with the philosophy of the editor.<br /><br />He is an atheist.<br /><br />Now, that said, I have plenty of friends who are atheists, and agnostic, and it is not that view of believing alone that prevents me from recommending the podcast. It is the fact that, every so often, the editor will go into an atheistic-leaning diatribe against believing, and against organized religions (read Christianity, as I’ll go into later) that I find offensive and incoherent. <br /><br />The reason I find it so, is that he presents clear negative viewpoints against the anti Islam phobia which is sweeping the nation. For the record, I agree that the anti Islam phobia is abhorrent, and disgusting, and against every American principal I know. I am not a Muslim, but, as Atheists and Agnostics, I have and have had friends who are. I respect their beliefs, as they respect mine.<br /><br />What I find abhorrent about the Best of the Left’s views on religion, and their periodic shows highlighting religion, is their clear anti-Christian bent. I don’t happen to hold a prejudice against Christianity as a tenet of left-leaning politics. It seems strange to me that he would feel so comfortable disparaging Christianity specifically. It;’s as if the fact that he was raised in the religion, ad later chose to abandon it, that he feels gives him some special priviledge then to shit on the beliefs of those who did not turn their back on it, and who, in fact, find strength in their beliefs. He would never consider running a show that tore down Native American similarly mono-theistic beliefs, or showcased harsh opinions of Israel and Judaism, or allowed wholesale attacks on Islam. And I know there would be widespread outcry from his left-leaning public in each of these instances. But he feels happily content to project his anti-Christian viewpoint, and is, for some reason, encouraged by his reformed-Christian (Catholic, Protestant alike) listening audience to do so. <br /><br />To put it in a nutshell, if the editor of this show periodically showcased anti-Islamic sentiment on his show, I would be offended, and listeners would never put up with it. The same with anti-semitic views, which, lets face it, you can also find on even some left-leaning shows. But for some reason, he feels completely comfortable with disparaging my system of beliefs in the shows he chooses to showcase. Most often I will skip over (or just skim) these selections, because I like some of the honest points of view. It’s his selection of putting them together, and capping with his own editorialize-ation at the end, which I find offensive, and wrong. And that is the reason I will never recommend the podcast to any of my friends. <br /><br />I believe in God. It is a subject of discussion as to how much I believe the Bible is the word of God versus the word of man, written to suit a specific religious need and time. But I do believe there are parts of the Bible which are historical document, and parts which are inspirational faith. And which is which is not the point for me, at least not here. What is the point is, that I am a believer.<br /><br />On one of those rides home with my son from his school, this subject came up. I can’t recall exactly why, but it was within an economic framework. I believe in capitalism versus communism (actually, now I do remember-he was saying how a friend of his was trying to subtly bring back the communist party by writing anonymous notes to local papers, which led to a discussion of communism versus capitalism). So, I went into how and why I believe capitalism is better than communism, which, in a nutshell again, is because you profit from your own hard work and the fruits of your labors more in capitalism. In Communism, you’re supposed to work toward the good of the commune. I know I’m over-simplifying here, but I’m not going into the specific discussion here, just the conclusions. I prefer capitalism because you benefit from the fruits of your labors. But capitalism should be tempered by Christianity, or some form of belief. In that combination of systems you can profit from your hard work, and still feel an obligation, and rightly so, to GIVE BACK.<br /><br />This time of year is one where everyone feels the need to give something, and everyone feels more keenly aware of others who have and share less than they have. We go from a season of Thanksgiving into a season of giving. We give back. And part of what is wrong with the political discussion right now is that this latter part is not part of the discussion. There is little or no talk about providing social safety nets for the less fortunate, something that has traditionally fallen to the State and government as a whole. <br /><br />Everyone is complaining about the government taking from them, forcing government to cut taxes. Government’s first step following this is to cut essential services to the underserved, and poor. And the rich and middle class are giving less than ever before to that same portion of our community. <br /><br />Capitalism and Christianity functioned well when they went hand in hand—when individuals who profited under capitalist systems also had the Christian values to give back to those less fortunate, being aware that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get to the kingdom of heaven. One half of that equation is just dysfunctional, at best, and criminal within a civilized society, at worst. <br /><br />Maybe there are agnostics and atheists who give back a large portion of what they make, to those less fortunate, and in that instance, it is not you I am railing against. But I question every rich fat-cat capitalist who is a professed Christian who does not give back, and does not support the weaker in society, and instead rails against the “big-G” Government for raising taxes, and every secretly agnostic and atheistic fat cat who joins them, and feels not a pang of anything wrong with that. Their belief is not strong, or it would guide their actions differently.<br /><br />And it’s for that reason that I would never recommend Best of the Left. Because it is wrong not to believe in something. And I’m a believer. For the record.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-4296374090839766092010-09-07T07:19:00.000-07:002010-09-07T07:22:12.133-07:00Thoughts before an interviewI had taken the week off with my family at Cape Cod, (still responsibly checking on and applying for jobs online, I might add), when I got the call. I took the call on my cell phone, in the middle of Nickerson State Park where we were camping, and made the plans to make the interview in two days. Taking the family’s only car, and leaving them stranded with only bikes for transport, I drove the three hours back for what would likely be a two hour interview. That’s due diligence, given the fact that I needed to stop home first, dress to impress, and gather up the appropriate pages from my hardcopy portfolio. Then one stop at MapQuest, and I’m good to go.<br /><br />The books all say to get to the interview early, to avoid the hazards of a bad first impression. But the worst impression is not finding the place at all. That was my concern as, after a half and hour, of driving around the same four block area, I could not find the street as MapQuest’s directed. Coming dangerously close to missing my goal of showing up ten minutes early, I finally surrendered the male gene and called for directions. So much for the air of complete competency. At least I could show I was more reliable as a designer than MapQuest was at directions. I hoped.<br /><br />I began to get the sense I was out of place almost immediately. It wasn’t the usual feeling of displacement; being the only dark-skinned face in a room full of WASP-types, something I was so used to it was almost typical. No, this was an out-of-place that spoke to where I should be in his career. I am used to interviewing, not being interviewed. I am used to being sought after, not seeking.<br /><br />So, I had showed up for the interview on time. This gave me the opportunity to excuse myself to the bathroom and give myself the once-over before returning to the waiting room to fill out the requisite paperwork. Tie in place, check. Hair in place, check. Facilities used, check. Hands washed, check. Face not too shiny from the August heat outside, check. And last but not least, no unwelcome hitchhikers from breakfast on my teeth. A quick stick of gum on the ride over had taken care of the coffee breath quite nicely, thank you. <br /><br />I flashed a smile at the receptionist, and gave my name again through the opening in the wall. Glass pulled to the side, the window gave the impression of a doctor’ office reception area, not a design firm that handled million dollar clients. The walls all around the room were covered in light wood paneling, giving an anachronistic impression, that was a continuation of the perception outside. This was a large design studio located in an industrial complex; the kind of place I’d been more likely to go for a press check. The idea of a design studio in an industrial park seemed odd, and added to the surreality of the experience. The office, like the day overall, continued to radiate the impression of being something that it was not. Or maybe just wanting to be. Eight chairs ringed the room, incongruously. I wondered if this reception area had ever hosted more than two or three people at once, thereby making the need for eight chairs something of an overkill. Maybe it was a set. Certainly the raised coffee table in the midst of them added to the incongruity, like an area that wanted to feel like a living room, but couldn’t make it much beyond lounge. But then, we all have something to aspire to. Even a waiting room. <br /><br />t took the preferred paperwork attached to a clipboard, offered by the receptionist. As had happened before, all the information requested on the sheets were covered in the resume I brought. And the fact that I had to fill out one of these forms nonetheless, again spoke to my displacement. would need to fill out before the interview,, the receptionist explained. And I had been through these hoops before. A process is a process. And it often was the same process if the company was interviewing for a shipping clerk or a new VP of Sales. Though neither was the position I was applying for, I sat the board atop my portfolio and took a seat to fill it out. <br /><br />The paperwork, sure enough, asked the same questions regarding work history and education that are answered concisely and handily in my resume, I stubbornly wondered how much I should actually fill out. Certainly all the pertinent name and contact info. Certainly the work history, which I did as a mental copy and paste. But the next section asked whether I had a car or not, and how many moving violations I’d gotten in the past year, and that stopped him cold. I was applying for a design management position, wherein I would supervise design and production, and press checks, not applying for a delivery position. I was filling out a generic job application form for what I had supposed was a managerial position. The specific line of distinction between the two was clear, at least to me, and usually defined both by level of responsibility and commensurate level of compensation. That’s when it hit home that I was not necessarily filling out a one-size-fits-all application. I was filling out an application for a minimum wage job. <br /><br />My eyes darted up to the receptionist, where she was busily answering phones and carrying private conversations over her shoulder with the workers seated around her. She didn’t meet my eyes. She wasn’t there for me, clearly; I was neither a client nor apparently a VIP in any way. She knew my name only because I had introduced myself, and it matched the name there in the appointment book for the CEO, with whom I had the interview. I was not yet important enough to get familiar with, and clearly not yet important enough to pay attention to. That sense added to my sense of disconnection with this place, forshadowing that this interview would not go well.<br /><br />But, hell, I needed the practice for interviewing, anyway, regardless of the outcome. I needed to get used to wearing a tie into a workplace every day again, and keeping my shoes shined and being on time and ready. I needed to get out of the house, away from the blank screen that had been my visor since I lost my last full-time gig, and since I had been trying my hand at the exhausting pace of freelance life. I finished the paperwork, leaving the lines for salary inauspiciously blank. The receptionist reviewed the paperwork cursorily, then beckoned him back over.<br /><br />“You need to fill out these salary history lines, “ she said.<br /><br />“I’m happy to provide a range of salary, but I don’t really feel comfortable with specific history.”<br /><br />“Well,” she mirrored, I know he won’t consider applications without the salary history filled in.”<br /><br />And so it went.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-83778059643902114542010-08-05T15:14:00.000-07:002010-08-05T15:31:13.666-07:00The sewing kitI pick up a Waldorf Hotel branded sewing kit from the table, for two reasons. One, because I like the idea of the Waldorf hotel. But also, because I was intriguingly lacking confidence about what the words “repair kit” would reveal, inside the closed envelope. Maybe it’d be a tube of super glue and a swatch of scotch tape. Maybe the answers to life’s great problems lay within. I should put it back down. <br /><br />Then again, I could use a sewing repair kit. I have many needs for sewing, and stitching, and repairing, or just kitting. Just kidding. There are lots of uses for it. But I don’t recommend using it for the punch line of too many jokes. There’s a needle inside of it, and some might not see the point. <br /><br />The sewing kit reminds me of holes in clothes, holes in fabric, and the span of time between when something is new and when it is used, on the verge of used up. All my favorite clothes are in need of a repair kit. But that’s what defines them. If they weren’t in need of repair, they wouldn’t be my favorite clothes. And if they weren't my favorites, chances are they wouldn't be in need of repair. I have a dresser upstairs in the guest room, nearly full of old t-shirts that I want to save, or for some reason just can't throw away. And I have a closet full of clothes that I'm supposed to wear every day, that when they do need a needle and thread, I am supposed to just throw away, instead. Because dress shirts with frayed collars, worn dress clothes, soiled ties in need of stitching at the back, and pants with a fray at the back of the cuff offer the wrong professional impression. Even though that impression is more accurate. I would rather be in my old Marvel t-shirt with the frayed collar and discolored front from an unfortunate use of bleach, and in my Mickey Mouse hat with the torn brim, and my favorite shorts with the inauspicious hole near the groin that offers a hint at the color of my underwear. It just isn't done.<br /><br />If only a sewing kit were magical, and could fix all the problems in a world that seems to be coming apart. We could've sent one down to the Gulf to stitch up the pipeline. We could use it to sew up old friends, or fractured families, or broken hearts, or splitting headaches, or to stitch together generally rambling thoughts that seem disconnected and too free-flowing, or just to wrap up run-on sentences that seem to be fraying at the ends. But in the end, I put the sewing kit back down. I can’t be trusted with a sewing kit. Again, there’s needles inside.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-49039975135474332852010-07-17T11:41:00.000-07:002010-07-17T11:44:59.173-07:00Thinking backwardsIt was in a book on meditation I read over twenty years ago. It recommended that at the end of a day, you review your day in reverse, putting events in reverse order. Like putting the movie of your day into reverse, rewinding from actually laying down, to what you did before bed, sucking back the toothpaste-laden spittle ad laying it back onto the brush, and so forth. You’re to do this all the way through your day, finally ending with your waking up that morning, your entire day ahead of you and behind you at once. In essence, it was and exercise in thinking backwards. The book acknowledged that it would be difficult at first, but promised that (with regular daily practice) it would get easier. <br /><br />And now, twenty plus years later, I still try to practice this exercise in frustration from time to time, with the same lackluster result. I can go over the past five minutes with no problem, but my mind wants to jump back to getting up that morning, and go forward from there. The author of the book noted that this would be your natural inclination; to move backwards to a point and then go forward from there—but that you were to resist this temporal temptation. But I find it’s like walking backwards while trying to resist the urge to peek back over your shoulder to see where you’re going. It’s cheating and defeats the whole purpose.<br /><br />The idea is personified in the legend of Merlin. Part of the Arthurian legend was that Merlin lived his life in reverse, so that Merlin met the child Arthur when he was an old man. The longer Arthur knew him, the younger Merlin became. This anachronistic idea baffles me. For, if you met someone that lived their life in reverse, they would know you before you met them, having seen you and known you already in your old age, and being already aware of everything that would happen to you. But the day would come, years into your future, on your last day of knowing your dear old friend, when he. Looking younger than you have ever known him, would not know you. This would be the day when, living in reverse, he would be first meeting you. And while in the present the wise old man would seem sage and knowledgeable, having lived through everything that will happen to you, the longer you know the man, the less he would know about you, and in fact, the less he would know. You’d have no shared memories, save those either you or he has not lived yet. It would therefore seem less a basis for a lasting relationship, and more like a basis for an Alzheimer's diagnosis.<br /><br />And that’s the frustration of looking at life in reverse. It’s against our view of time, of our relationship to the universe, to the world, and to each other. Yet it’s supposed to be a good basis, meditatively speaking, method of reviewing your life. Maybe it’s only expanding the experience to greater than a one day that’s problematic, and makes it too big for me to wrap my head around. But, at the same time, there seems a compunction to stretch the exercise into larger, Merlin-esque, perspective. I think it was Socrates who said “A life unexamined is not worth living.” Or something of the sort. Yet everyday we make life out of overcoming our mistakes, and putting them behind us. And, to some lesser degree, forgetting, erasing and burying them as if they never happened. <br /><br />In that sense, a life examined in a meaningful way is a life you have to live, in some ways, in reverse. A life examined is one that requires you to imagine not only spitting the toothpaste back onto the brush, but also squeeze it back into the tube. And that’s hard as hell to do. And, at the end of the day, it’s not a lot of fun.<br /><br />Okay, so thinking backwards can be an interesting, albeit difficult, exercise. It can be frustrating. But I still feel like there’s something worthwhile in that exercise. That’s why I keep working at it, from time to time. When I remember to try. I’m trying to get better at it, certain (for some odd reason) hat there is somewhere to go with it; that there is some “there” there. But it’s something I don’t know, really, how to do.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-2430790543045416022010-07-15T18:53:00.000-07:002010-07-15T18:56:56.820-07:00With DrawnI pick up my pencil to draw...and put it down again. Because to pick up a pencil I need an eraser—I can’t put a line down unless know I can erase it. I can only speak with certainty those lines that I know I can obliterate.<br /><br />My thin graphite line is wandering, feeling around the outside of my imagination, afraid to poke into or describe it with certainty. To describe with certainty is to commit, and that’s terrifying, because that line might be the wrong line. That wandering grey shade that held promise within its wooden cocoon could fall flat once expressed. Lying there, naked and exposed on the paper, it may want to cover itself and wish itself into another position. It may scream to be back in its comfort zone just a quarter inch to the right, or cry for the lost potential as a line with an entirely different vanishing point. Putting down the wrong line means building a false, distorted structure on the paper of my mind, creating a grotesque nightmare-scape instead of the world I intended to imagine and describe. <br /><br />The wrong line then becomes all I can think about, dominating my eyes and my head and my hand until it is all I can see, and I can draw nothing else. The line that was once mine but suddenly is no more, screams about the once white surface of the page, darkening and creating chaos, trying to digging into itself for cover, and crossing over itself, in its frantic directionless-ness. Under its weight, the paper crumbles under and into my hand, and flies away, to join a hundred of its kind, wasted for want of an eraser, lost, and abandoned.<br /><br />So I need my eraser. For the power to create, in me, only exists if it walks hand-in hand with the power to destroy.<br /><br />The eraser is power. It eliminates uncertainty, through its magical promise of redoing. Through the grace of its forgiveness, I find confidence. Where my line was frenetic,and searching, now it is daring. Where once it was lost, now it is exploring, and trailblazing, into territory that is new, yet familiar. My pencil is transformed from a mindlessly wandering divining rod, dousing for some hint of creativity, into Harry Potters hand selected wand, casting spells that I only vaguely and second handedly connected to.<br /><br />Amazingly, having the eraser means using the eraser less. Like a child who cannot sleep without his pacifier-it is not to be used throughout the night, but as a periodic touchstone of security, allowing me to drift off me to where it is safe and secure, and familiar, yet as mysterious as a dream not yet dreamt.<br /><br />One day I may have the line that is confident without the promise of erasure. One day I may recognize the eraser for what it is; the false confidence of Dumbo’s magic feather, or worse, the hidden double-edged sword of the monkey’s paw. But until then, I need my eraser.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-45384035572379768052010-07-13T08:17:00.000-07:002010-07-13T08:18:33.632-07:00The football holdThe football was old, and its leather alternately softened with age and hardened, crackled with wear and use and the dampness of its home in the garage. But as Jake took it in his hand, he didn’t grip it as he was taught on the high school football field, folding the laces into the bend of his second knuckle and curling fingers gently but firmly around the pigskin. Instead, he took it and laid it in the crook of his arm, one end of the cone held gingerly in cradling fingers, the other nestled into the crook of his elbow. And he began to rock it. It was a slow, gentle motion, like the swell of the sea on a clam lake on a July morning. And in that instant, the football was not a football, but his first born child, born just hours ago, and held for the first time. <br /><br />He remembered that feeling, coming as it did after hours of labor and culminating with a ceasarean birth. She had been the first to hold the child, as was her right, after the work she put into bringing him into the world. She held him on her bare chest, touching him gently to keep him positioned at he simultaneously rooted and took in this new world. He had cried only once on entering this strange realm, where the light was white and yellow and not at all tinged red, not filtered by blood and skin and muffled by layers of skin and tissue and wrapped within the ever-present and comforting regularity of an external heartbeat. <br /><br />By all rights, he should have been terrified. He had every right to scream and howl for being ushered in so unceremoniously—hours of movement and increasing constriction, enveloped by an arms-reach universe that once provided for all his needs, and now seemed determined to bind and move him against his will. <br /><br />But on release, on being born, he was neither angry nor resentful, nor even afraid. He looked curious. He took in every blurry shape through eyes that had not, by any scientific standard, yet learned to see. This fresh explorer in a world he never made took it all in, and sought more. <br /><br />The baby craned his head toward the familiar sound of his mothers voice, and moved it at an odd angle to try and look behind him for the newly unbuffered sound of his father. He swiveled in motions that were at once slow and jerky, robotic and uncertain, but with intent. He moved in directions this new neck, with its new and untested muscles, would allow, trying to see, to take it all in, even as the nurses bundled and wrapped, poked and prodded, and made to take him away.<br /><br />His job as father, from that point, was not to hold the child, but to shadow him. With a final squeeze of his wife’s hand as they took her away to recovery, he moved to follow this fresh life that would share his name, just brought into this world,<br /><br />The football brought it all back. Because that was the way he had learned to hold his son , the first time he was able. They called it “the football hold,” with the back of the infant’s head held gently in hand, and the forearm supporting his back. Stubby, fat-laden legs straddled each side of the arm at the elbow. A second hand held and steadied the bundled mass against the arm. And with the baby thus held, the father could gently rock the infant by swaying the arm, a living cradle of fleshy warmth and comfort. That was how it was described to him, and what he had practiced with the hard rubber dummy he’d held in birthing class that reminded him of the actual football for which the hold was named.<br /><br />But the real thing had been quite different. The first time he held the baby, their baby, their son, it was nothing like hard leather. It was soft, and breathing, and so unbelievably light. It seemed fragile, and so delicate. He barely dared touch the infant for fear of bruising him, like an over ripe tomato whose flesh might melt and bruise and break under the pressure of tactile contact. <br /><br />But Jake took the baby. The nurse handed the baby to Jake that first time gently, but with a practiced certainty that only someone who had handled many babies could manage. She moved in such a way that her hands both held the baby and also moved Jake’s hands into position to do the same. For a split second, they both held the infant. Then it was Jake, alone. <br /><br />And Jake took the baby with a fear and trepidation that only first-time fathers can know. He held the head, the skull, the fragile vase at the core of this small things being. He felt the weight of the body on his bare right forearm, imagining he could feel the baby’s tiny little ribs and spine even through the layers of clothing and blanket that surrounded it. And he held his left hand atop the baby, just over the ribcage, further imaging he could feel each impossibly tiny structure of its breastbone. And Jake felt him breathe. And breathe again. And on the third breath is when Jake himself remembered to do so, as well.<br /><br />“It’s called the football hold,” the nurse said, her smiling eyes darting back and forth protectively, between father and son. No dropped baby’s on her watch. “Because you’re cradling him like you would if you were running down the fifty yard line.”<br /><br />Jake looked up and smiled, tearing his eyes from the baby’s puzzled, searching face for the merest fraction of a second, before returning. In another life, he would’ve corrected her, jumped laughingly on the premise that anyone would run down the fifty-yard line. You run across the fifty yard line, toward the opposite teams goal. That kind of verbal error, one which spoke to a lack of knowledge about a sport he was so familiar with, would not have been allowed to pass. But that was another life, where things like football, and the lawn, and what kinds of books you read and where you went to college were important. This was a new life. And there was only one thing of tantamount importance in this new life. And he was holding it in his arms, in the football hold.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-74057934282061158352010-07-11T18:42:00.000-07:002010-07-11T19:02:14.592-07:00One page autobiographyThe exercise: Create a one-page autobiography.<br /><br />****************************************<br /><br />Does it need to be a given that I was born? It’d be nice if it was a surprise. I was a surprise, coming into a family of five siblings, each of which, my mother had sworn, would be her last. After me she made certain of it, with an additional procedure she referred to as “having her tubes tied,” and the significance of which would not hit me for decades. So, I was born into a large family, as an only child. The sibling above me, a brother, was in high school when I was born. My oldest brother was a Junior in college. And by the time I was old enough to even be cognisant of having siblings, they were all gone—other states, other countries, other realities, entire.<br /><br />Is it significant that I grew up, went to school? That part should be boring and trite, except for the part about my being part of a pilot program, built on the heels of the forced-bussing-into-Boston era. The METCO program allowed Springfield youth to be bussed out to the suburbs of Southwick, Indian Orchard, and in my case, East Longmeadow. So maybe that’s significant, in that I was an only child who, on top of that, did not socialize with any of the kids I went to school with. I grew up with kids around my neighborhood, friends, until they went off to local other schools, and I went off to my hour-long bus ride to a town where the only people of color were bussed in from out-of-town, on what the other kids called a “mental bus. Maybe it’s meaningful to note that my best friend and next door neighbor was lost to drugs before we were both out of high school, and how that makes me wonder to this day, who him and not me?” And maybe suspect that mental bus was at least part of the reason. Mental-ly, I recall that period as incredibly happy, because of a gift I was given that was also a curse—to be aware that I was at an age when anything was possible, and in fact, likely. Like the freedom of dreaming and knowing that you are in a dream. Nothing is frightening, and the only dark certainty is that the time is finite, and will certainly end.<br /><br />Maybe it’s important to note that I went to college? Maybe not. After all, I wasn’t the first one in my family to go to college. My other siblings went to get degrees in chemistry, in education, in management, in law. But I was the first one to go to art school. That should be significant, and in retrospect seems impossible, given my family. How can someone spend that much money on an education whose stated end isn’t even guaranteed to end up in a successful, pre-ordained career? In school, I found plenty of examples of students whose families had tons of money to allow them to move majors, and even squander talent while Mom and Dad footed the bill. I spend weeks living on peanut butter and ramen noodles, or packets of hit cocoa and candied orange slices, when the budget allowed for variety. And learning art. <br /><br />It’s important to try and sift through the stuff that I learned later, and that I didn’t know at the time, but it’s nearly impossible to sift it out. Like trying to distill water from kool-aid after it’s mixed. Everything is candy-colored and sugar sweetened. So at this point, I leave it mixed, and try to remember what the color of the water was, originally. Though I know I won’t capture it. And in the end, I realize I’m not really even trying to.<br /><br />I should talk about the best job I ever had, and love and loss and marriage and kids and all that, but that’s so much about now that it lacks the clarity of distance the rest of my life has developed. And without that clarity, standing in the middle of the mix, I can’t even tell what is water and what is the air surrounding the pitcher. And I’m coming up to the end of the single page. And my life's not even over, yet.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-15683832995072327942010-07-10T15:34:00.000-07:002010-07-10T16:08:30.782-07:00Andersons Night (story start)So I'm taking a writing workshop, Thursday evenings. It's a great group, and it's a kick in the pants to produce. A kick I don't seem to be able to give myself, by myself.<br /><br />So, I will be posting some of the fruits of that labor here in the next couple of weeks, as another kick in the pants. I mean, you know you're losing something when your son is more prolific in his writing than you. And he's not even out of middle school yet. Sheesh. <br /><br />************<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The exercise:</span> <span style="font-style:italic;">Find a book that you like the title of. Take the first sentence from that book, and start a new story.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The book:</span> <span style="font-style:italic;">Remember Me?</span> By Sophie Kinsella<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The first sentence:</span> <span style="font-style:italic;">Of all the crap, crap, crappy nights I've ever had in the whole of my crap life.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Special note:</span> I wrote the first sentence as the start of the exercise, but in the second edit of the text to come, I changed it. I loved the sentence, but it has a very specific voice that, once I got into telling the story, no longer fit the narrator. So I changed it. <span style="font-style:italic;">So there.</span><br /><br />This is now the first part of what's developing to be a nice little crime short story.<br /><br />************<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Anderson’s Night.</span><br /><br /><br />It was a bad night. <br /><br />And this morning isn’t getting any better. First, the car isn’t where it was supposed to be. I say “supposed to be,” Because <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> wasn’t the one who parked it. When I park a car, I make a point of getting out and spinning a quick, orienting 360, to tell where I am. I make note of landmarks, areas of the terrain, location in relation to prominent, memorable landmarks, and all that. But this time Ellen was the one driving the car, with me unconscious and sprawled in the back seat, across Reggie’s lap. It was Reggie who pulled me out, on arm under each of my pits, he swore. But by the throbbing in my head and the ache and bruises across my upper body, I couldn’t swear he didn’t pull me of the car and drag me inside, up three flights, by my ankles, my head thudding against each step and hm complaining all the way about how much weight I’d gained since he first met me three years ago. That would be Reggie.<br /><br />But then, Ellen was there too, and I’m pretty sure…reasonably sure…almost positive she wouldn’t have let him do that. She would’ve lent him a hand, he at the top of my body and her at my feet. She's strong, I give her that. And Reggie, standing at every bit of her five foot five, was never much stronger for being a man. But he was never much of a man, in my opinion. But that's being snarky. And I hate snarky. That's more Reggie's territory.<br /><br />The trek up to Ellen’s flat would’ve been difficult even just for the two of them. Those stairs are narrow, and the elevator non-existent. I can see her pulling her hair back with that scrunchy things she always keeps around her wrist or in her purse, or on the stick shift of my car. She's careful. She'd have carefully kept her long blonde locks free from the entangling velcro straps on my old sneakers. I may've gotten some footprints across her always-pristine leather jacket, given her significant breasts, and the awkward amble up those stairs. But no wear and tear would've been unloaded on me. And she'd've made Reggie be careful, too. She’s the responsible one. The one who said she loved me. Yeah, she would’ve made sure he was careful with me. Even though, at the time, she thought I was dead.<br /><br />But then, how responsible was she really? I mean, she was the one who parked the car, and who should’ve <span style="font-style:italic;">known</span> where I always park it when I’m at her place. Always, always, ALWAYS across the street, near the museum, where they let you park for free until about nine, when the meters, and the meter maids, kick in. But I’ve walked up and down this street four times, and I only have an hour until nine, and the damned car is just <span style="font-style:italic;">not here</span>. And, of course, she’s not here to ask anymore, is she? She took off once the shooting started this morning. Not that I can blame her, for that. I never meant to get her into this mess in the first place.<br /><br />But the car, that I blame her for.<br /><br />Maybe I should go back and ask Reggie what he remembers. I’m pretty sure he’d still be able to talk. He’d said quite a bit already, before I left him. But I bet he’s got more in him. If he’s still breathing.<br /><br />Continued.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-81264501264160339682009-09-02T19:50:00.000-07:002010-07-10T16:07:43.652-07:00Curriculum Vitae 1: The Story of Mary and BobFrom my curriculum vitae, here is my teaching philosophy: All kids inherently can draw. It’s the first and ultimate form of non-verbal communication. By showing kids shortcuts to success in drawing skills, you open the door to a world of possibilities and expression. My classes are about empowerment, exposing capabilities, and developing potential.<br /><br />I stand by that statement. My first class of any drawing session, be it a seminar or the full semester art course I did last year at Kiley Middle school, I start off at a blank bulletin board, and tell a story. This is that story:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“How many of you like to draw? How many of you feel like you are good at drawing? (Get one student’s name-let’s say Bob). Let’s ask a different way-who is not good at drawing? (Get a student’s name from this group-let’s say Mary). Why do you think that everyone in the room didn’t raise their hand when I asked who was good at drawing? Maybe we’re just in a class of especially modest geniuses?<br /><br />“I know why. By virtue of my own personal WayBack machine, I’ve watched each and every one of your life stories from when you were babies, scooting around the floor in dirty diapers. At that time, your parents maybe put you in the corner with the sharp writing instrument of your choice—a crayon—and said go to it.” So you, being the good little genius, crawled over to a blank section of wall, and started working!<br /><br />(Start scribbling on the paper. It must be scribbles, formless, messy and without reason. And it has to look fun. While doing this say: )<br /><br />“And you had fun. You were just playing around, making a mess, figuring stuff out. And before you knew it, you started making something.<br /><br />(Gradually, over the couse of the board, develop the scribbles into a rough loop, then a cleaner loop, and on until you get to a perfect circle.<br /><br />“And being the great genius you were, you named it. “This is a (students will say “circle,’ but you should say “Mary! This is a Mary! And I’m s proud of my Mary, it will make me world famous and be an amazing thing to share with everyone and anyone who will look!”<br /><br />“And before you know it, the first dsy of Kindergarten came, and you were prepared. You had your favorite writing implement, and a world of blank paper. And you walked into that class and couldn’t wait to show everyone what genius you had developed. You walked up to the board and drew a perfect Mary! (Draw the circle).<br /><br />“Suddenly, a hush fell over the classroom. From the back, up came Bob. (whistle the theme from “The Good The Bad and the Ugly”)<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1hYV-JSjpyU&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1hYV-JSjpyU&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />“From the back of the class, Bob walked forward, ‘ching, ching, ching…” And he pulled his piece-another crayon. “That’s nice,” he said, “but can you make a <span style="font-style:italic;">Bob</span>?” And right next to your <span style="font-style:italic;">Mary</span>, he drew a <span style="font-style:italic;">Bob</span>." (Draw a near perfect triangle.)<br /><br />“Mary approached the board with a trembling hand, and tried to act like it was no big deal, “No problem,” she said. And she drew a <span style="font-style:italic;">Bob</span>. (Draw a triangle that is only vaguely so-looks much more like another circle.) And she tried again. And again. And finally she gave up in frustration. She threw her crayon down, and walked away, and never drew again. (mimick each of these actions for effect.) And today, Mary says she can’t draw at all, and Bob considers that he’s a great artist."<br /><br />“But what did Mary forget? What was she doing way way back, when she first started drawing? (Point to the scribbles. Continue to press for answers until you get someone to say, or you suggest. The answer is “to have fun.”) When she first started, she wasn’t about impressing anyone, or showing what she could do. It was about finding things out, and exploring, and having a good time doing it. And that’s what she forgot." <br /><br />"But I bet with anything that Mary is good at today, she has not forgotten that. Because anything you become good at you become good at because of the encouragement, and the positive feedback, but also and as importantly, because you enjoy doing it. That’s Mary’s story. And I’ll bet it’s the story with a lot of you."<br /><br />"Well, that changes <span style="font-style:italic;">today.</span> Because in this class, it’s not about being the best at making a Bob or a Mary or a landscape or a portrait or a figure drawing. It’s about having fun, trying to figure something out, and finding what is easy and maybe not so easy, but enjoying the journey, not the destination. This is going to be about the art of getting there, not about being wherever “there” is. If you do something you like, that’s great, and I’m sure your parents would love to take a look at it if you want to bring it home. But that’s not what this class will be about. This class will be about struggling and playing and failing and starting over, and pushing past mountains and swimming over oceans and being proud of the fact that you can keep going." <br /><br />“Is there anybody here that thinks they can’t do that?”</span>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-36481780030073612492009-09-01T14:43:00.000-07:002009-09-01T14:45:32.965-07:00School starts (for some…)Both my sons are now back in school, my oldest at a new Middle School and my youngest still at Conway Grammar. I meet the new school year with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was really looking forward to returning back-to-school with them, as an Art Teacher (capitalization on purpose). I was enjoying the vocation. I was in a challenging school district—so challenging, in fact that I did not know how to approach blogging about the work all of last year, and consequently didn’t. The silence stretches back to last February. I started writing some ideas longhand, at lunchtime during school, but soon found that time taken up by classroom needs, outside of actually eating my lunch. And after a while, the story I would’ve told felt like it was so far into itself that the recap became unwieldy. And somewhat pointless. And was eventually abandoned. <br /><br />In the name of a fresh broom sweeping clean, I then made a plan to incorporate blogging about teaching at the start of the school year. And I prepared lesson plans, and solidified methodologies and documented a lot of what I had not, before. And I called myself ready to hit the ground running.<br /><br />But, sadly, that wasn’t to be. It turns out that I’m not teaching this year, due to budget cuts which, eliminated the Art teacher position from the middle school I was teaching at at the same time as it increased the class size. I feel sad most for the students at that school, as they had a time testing me, and seeing if I would stay or go. My choice and what I proved to them, was that I was going to stay. Until the district changes the game, and made a liar of me.<br /><br />Okay, that sounds angry, and that’s not my intention. I’m really just a little sad. I have the work at Idea MechaniX to keep me busy in the short term, as I look to move back into publishing full time, keeping teaching open as an afterschool sideline. And, really, I have no regrets, having had a good experience at M. Marcus Kiley Middle School. I feel I made an impression, and left a mark, if only for a year. And I even helped their overall identity by doing a bit of digital design, free of charge, as well. <a href="http://www.sps.springfield.ma.us/schoolsites/kiley/default.asp" target="_blank">Here is a link</a> to the Vision and Mission statement posters I developed and designed for the school, now posted on their website. So I’m gone, but not forgotten. <br /><br />And now, on the other hand, I have a bit more time on my hands. With that opportunity to do a bit of catch up, I plan to take the time to explore my own teaching philosophy in a way that I haven’t done, concretely, in a while. And in doing so, I plan to tell some of my success stories in teaching. A lot of the lessons and stories are applicable to any area of teaching. And, since this is my own subjective, personal blog, I can do with it what I will.<br /><br />For the next several blog entries, I will be exploring some of my fallback introductory lessons, and the ways that I’ve used these stories in teaching. Please feel free to pass them along, and if they work for you, make them your own.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Next: Curriculum Vitae 1: The story of Bob and Mary</span>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-69520127108009872532009-02-21T10:33:00.000-08:002009-02-21T10:48:05.179-08:00According to Google, Marcus needs...Another challenge received and forwarded:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Instructions: Go to Google.com and do a search. Type in your first name and the word "needs" after it. Then copy and paste what are the top ten things Google says you "need".<br /><br />My results:</span><br /><br />1. Marcus Needs A Home. (Having recently lost my home-away-from-home in Boston, I guess the one is just not enough anymore.)<br /><br />2. Marcus needs a father who will guide and teach him the essential to becoming a proud and productive man. (Ouch. Any volunteers?)<br /><br />3. Marcus needs to talk who he really is. (Also, Marcus needs to talk English learn.)<br /><br />4. Marcus needs a hug! (Always.)<br /><br />5. Marcus needs your help to promote CoSponsors for HR 8. (Because they are so unpromoted, even he doesn’t know who they are.)<br /><br />6. Marcus is very sick & needs our prayers. (Wow. Way to put it out there.)<br /><br />7. Marcus needs to stop handling people weapons. (No comment.)<br /><br />8. (Neiman) Marcus needs work. (Well, duh.)<br /><br />9. Marcus needs to get a ride by rElEAsIng mY whOlE rOstEr tO stArt AnEw tEAm I gOt. (I’m not kidding, this is how the entry came in. Google it yourself and see. I think I need some shift key withdrawal.)<br /><br />10. MARCUS NEEDS TO GET HOOKED ON PHONICS. (Better than crack, and twice as expensive. And the shift key problem seems to have turned to FULL CAPS LOCK ADDICTION)mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-17268567281651503092009-02-21T10:10:00.000-08:002009-02-21T10:12:36.932-08:00Rappin' SingaporeI meant to post this bit a long while ago. Having worked with a group from Singapore, I always imagine them in this music video. Never have I seen a more inappropriate group of suits in a more believable and enjoyable setting. This <span style="font-style:italic;">should not work</span>, but they pull this off beautifully!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qjLw28UVWEU&rel=1&border=0"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qjLw28UVWEU&rel=1&border=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent"width="425" height="355"></embed></object>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-52910408217888812132009-02-19T15:20:00.000-08:002009-02-20T05:55:56.495-08:00Books ReadI got this list from a Facebook friend. It's posted here as I copied it, but the "X"'s are all mine. Given, about seven of the titles below were read as "required" in school. But I like to read.:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />According to Matthew Olson, apparently the BBC reckons most people will have read only 6 of the 100 books here...<br /><br />Instructions:<br />1) Look at the list and put an 'x' after those you have read.</span><br /><br />1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen X<br />2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien X<br />3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte X<br />4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling X<br />5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee X<br />6 The Bible (not thw WHOLE Bible...)<br />7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte<br />8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell X<br />9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman<br />10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens X<br />11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott X<br />12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy<br />13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller<br />14 Complete Works of Shakespeare X- (Not the COMPLETE works)<br />15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier <br />16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien X<br />17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks <br />18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger X<br />19 The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger X<br />20 Middlemarch - George Eliot<br />21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell<br />22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald <br />23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens<br />24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy<br />25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams <br />26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh<br />27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky <br />28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck<br />29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll X<br />30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame <br />31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy<br />32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens X<br />33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis X<br />34 Emma - Jane Austen X<br />35 Persuasion - Jane Austen<br />36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis X<br />37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini <br />38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres<br />39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden X<br />40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne X<br />41 Animal Farm - George Orwell X<br />42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown X<br />43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez X<br />44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving <br />45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins<br />46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery<br />47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy<br />48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood X<br />49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding X<br />50 Atonement - Ian McEwan<br />51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel X<br />52 Dune - Frank Herbert <br />53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons<br />54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen X<br />55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth<br />56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon<br />57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens X<br />58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley X<br />59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon<br />60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez X<br />61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck X<br />62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov<br />63 The Secret History - Donna Tart<br />64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold<br />65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas X<br />66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac<br />67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy<br />68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding <br />69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie<br />70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville <br />71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens X<br />72 Dracula - Bram Stoker X<br />73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett<br />74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson<br />75 Ulysses - James Joyce <br />76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath<br />77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome<br />78 Germinal - Emile Zola<br />79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray<br />80 Possession - AS Byatt<br />81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens X<br />82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell<br />83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker <br />84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro <br />85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert X<br />86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry<br />87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White X<br />88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom<br />89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle X<br />90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton<br />91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad X<br />92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery X<br />93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks<br />94 Watership Down - Richard Adams<br />95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole X<br />96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute<br />97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas <br />98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare X<br />99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl X<br />100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo<br /><br />My total: 42<br /><br />Please pass it on!mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-30511939632302810472008-10-30T08:17:00.000-07:002018-07-07T15:41:51.803-07:00An Incomplete Work of Fiction (3 of 3): ClimaxWe shift back to the present. <br /><br />The mother is dead. Again, it’s not unexpected, but neither is it easy. Hardy is suddenly bereft of his core reason for getting up in the morning. Felix is feeling the guilt of not having done enough, and anger at how she died. Flashback briefly to that night, where the mother dies, and Electra can’t be reached. Someone calls the police, and an ambulance comes. Although the mother has expressed her desire not to be resuscitated to each of her children, it has never been written down. Without such an order in writing, the paramedics are obligated to try. This frustrates and angers Felix, and this anger will alter manifest against Electra. <br /><br />But for now, we cut to one brief shining moment, as in the face of 9/11, the disparate factions of the family come together at the mother’s funeral. It is an amazing event, and inspiring in a real sense. But in the back of his mind, Felix can’t help but hear his mothers stated (and somewhat selfish) wish not to have a funeral. <br /><br />And so that brief shining moment is extinguished as, the day after the funeral, Felix demands of Elecktra that she show him the will. Electra moves from stand-offish to belligerent, and delays revealing the will for almost a year. In that interim, there are scenes of anger, and terror, and screaming, and tears as Felix seems, at times, to go out of control. There is raw emotion on all sides, the likes of which can only be explored in fiction. There is one particular scene where Felix, now sole owner of the house, screams at Electra and calls her unpardonable names. His sanity comes into question at this point, as to whether he is merely manic depressive, or truly delusional. But what is unquestionable is that the dissolution has begun.<br /><br />The conflict escalates. Felix throws Hardy out of the house, his home for the past decade, and isolates himself from the rest of the family. Not that this is hard to do, as the family appears to revel in a dysfunctional disjointedness that seems to increase daily.<br /><br /> The next inciting incident is the filing of the will, nearly a year after the mother’s death, which is followed almost immediately by Felix’s challenge to it, and to Electra’s serving as executrix. The scene is set in a courtroom, as Felix stands on one side and Electra on the other, before a Probate and Family Court judge who clearly could not give two shits about any of the back story, and can’t even clearly hear what issues are being laid before him. It’s an indictment of the system in a sense, and a cautionary tale, but also a family drama beginning to spin out of control. Here we juxtapose the cold, dry, and almost sterile environment of the courtroom proceedings with the tensions roiling just beneath the surface, frustration, and as slow seething that, if not yet hatred, is well along the path toward it.<br /><br />Maybe we add poignance to this scene by juxtaposing it in time with a family barbecue of decades earlier; a series of snapshots from a family album, committed to memory, and colored by it. Both the father and the mother are alive, and the siblings talk happily and heartily, enjoying good music and laughing conversation and the closeness of strong familial bonds. <br /><br />Cut to present, as Electra and Hardy are on one side of the courtroom. Felix sits two rows before them, having entered and not even glanced at them. The judge goes through other cases of dysfunctional families, divorce, custody, and angry, bitter opponents. <br /><br />Cut to the past, as the father slips his hand around the mothers shoulder, both beaming for an impromptu snapshot, showing a tender closeness that is the core of the family unity. But which will not last.<br /><br />Cut to the present, where Ovid sits on the opposite side, also alone, trying to make sense of how this has all come to this. This scene is somewhat surreal, and somewhat unclean, and leaves the reader with a sense that this entire world and every surface in the courtroom is in desperate need of a shower. <br /><br />Cut to the past, as the siblings all group, standing, hands on paper plates heaped with comfort food as they lean back in laughter and bask in the warmth of a summer day that will pass in time, and never come again.<br /><br />The scene ends with the judge giving Felix 30 days to outline his objections to the will, thereby moving the plot forward.<br /><br />A week later, Ovid is playing phone tag, trying to get Felix to drop the challenge, or, failing that, to at least put into words what his goal is in this action, besides a futile attempt to punish Electra and Oscar. Felix can’t give one, and this fact is not lost in the circular logic Felix expounds to justify his actions. And Electra is no better. In a late night phone conversation, decades of anger spill over from Electra onto Ovid. She calls him self centered, tells him that he always removes himself from taking action, that he is so damned detached as to be almost uninvolved, But at this point, Ovid is no longer in a conciliatory mood, and is willing to strike back. <br /><br />The situation turns confrontational through a series of phone calls. It becomes increasingly clear to Ovid that none of this is about the stated goals. This is about who is the boss, who the best arbiter and interpreter of the Mother’s last wishes, in spirit or in action. This becomes clear by how often Ovid has to ask the same simple questions: what would it take to resolve this? What is the simple thing you want? Accountability requested on one side, autonomy demanded on the other. The goals are incompatible, and create suspicion and mistrust.<br /><br />So here is the crux of the climax; what does Ovid do?mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-87455914785169419692008-10-28T07:38:00.000-07:002009-01-07T09:14:48.934-08:00An incomplete work of fiction (2 of 3): ComplicationWe fast-forward a few years to the household where the middle brother, (let’s call him Hardy) is the primary caregiver for the bed-ridden mother. Hardy has always seemed a bit lost—thrice divorced with five kids by the different women, and due to an incarceration for failure to pay child support after being laid off, unable to hold gainful employment without losing all his wages. Let’s make this situation sad, but serendipitous, as the act that saves the mother from having to go to a nursing home.<br /><br />Let’s throw in a minor climax in this flashback, where all six siblings together agree that the house should be sold to one of their number, as a means of protecting the mothers assets should she ever be hospitalized, or forced to go into a home. The consensus is that the house go to Felix to take care of. The understanding would be that any of the siblings would have the right to buy the house from that brother for a reasonable rate—right of first refusal. <br /><br />Then, let’s introduce the next twist to propel the plot. Let’s say that Felix, the lawyer, tries to get the mother to sign a power of attorney, giving the eldest authority. There’d be a lot of subtext about the eldest wanting this responsibility, but then also undertones of what the father had said about Felix before the father died. More layers, more uncertainty. Now, Felix does this while he lives far away, so leaves the papers with the mother, to address on his return.<br /><br />Now, the next twist. On a visit to the mother, Oscar finds the papers and, suspicious, and more than a little angry, takes them. He has them changed, re-written so that Oscar gets the power of attorney, and mastery over all the mothers affairs. On his return, Felix is disconcerted, but does not challenge this change. Again, this is based on the mother’s stated wishes, not his own.<br /><br />Okay, more back story. The eldest brother, Felix, is followed by the eldest sister (let’s call her Electra) and there is bad blood between them—the kind of bad blood that can only arise from strained familial bonds. Oscar bonds with Electra, and the same fell swoop that gives Oscar the power of attorney, makes Elektra the health proxy. <br /><br />There’s an inherent conflict here amongst the key players Electra and Felix. They are the oldest male and the oldest female. As the eldest male, Felix took on the role of father to the family as a boy, when the father left the family for another relationship. When he later returned, the boy had functioned as father figure for too long to simply give the role up. Echo this with the role of Electra as the surrogate mother to the family, acting as caretaker for a mother forced to be away from home often, at work as a career woman, and sole support for the family. This is the root of their conflict, with the parents at the core. The key being that the parent’s created the problem, but never took the time or the responsibility to resolve it.<br /><br />Now the stage is set for a replaying of that rivalry, surrogate father against surrogate mother, Hyper-paternalism against hyper-maternalism, both directing anger and aggression against the other, as they had seen the parents do in the latter years of their married lives.<br /><br />Flash forward. Electra and Felix say they are doing this, assuming responsibility for their mothers affairs, for the mother’s sake and by her wishes, and that seems reasonable. The only problem is that the yare unwilling to provide any transparency. There is no accountability for the mother’s finances. They adopt a “my way or the highway” attitude. The mother has a monthly check for Social Security, a monthly check from her pension, and a monthly check from the father’s pension. The checks are automatically deposited into an account which the mother shares with Ovid (that is, which the mother put Ovid’s name onto). Because his name is on the account, Ovid has access to the account, but that access is limited to essentially checking on the balance regularly, and seeing the money transferred in, and the next day transferred out into a separate account maintained by Oscar. But Ovid has the ability at least to track how much money is going in. And he has a growing awareness that the money is not being spent on his mother’s care. The plot thickens. What to do? <br /><br />The overwhelming undercurrent through this part of the story is the mother’s insistence that the siblings not fight. We can cap this and typify it with a heart felt one-on-one scene where Ovid tries to reach the mother, and tries to tell her that if she does not sort the affairs of her life and her children before she dies, these issues will never be sorted. It needs to read as poignant, and prophetic. Very prophetic, as it will be revealed. <br /><br />At the end of the scene we see the core dilemma. With a single call to action, Ovid would galvanize to action, and be at the ready to demand accountability, and take care of the mother. But he wants—needs, really—her participation in at least the call to action. He needs her to say it is what she wants. And she will not, for the rest of her life.<br /><br />And the stage is set, as we build to the climax.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">To be continued.</span>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-26637436236279234422008-10-21T19:14:00.000-07:002009-01-07T09:15:12.203-08:00An incomplete work of fiction (1 of 3)I sit down to write a story. <br /><br />I write because fiction is so much more interesting than life. More controllable. The twists and turns of a good, complicated tale of intrigue and emotion and right and wrong, and all the moral ambiguities in-between, that’s the stuff that makes our own lives seem so much better in comparison. Or, maybe, not as good. Maybe it’s that the hope of a happy ending colors our reality, and the <span style="font-style:italic;">hope</span> in that mirror, that our own reality might reflect those joyful colors, as well as all the complexities. <br /><br />So, let’s tell a story.<br /><br />Let’s just say, as a case of fiction, that a man’s mother dies. Let’s call him Ovid. She’s died of old age, as close to a case of natural causes as that vague term allows, and after a long slow mental death by inches from the ravages of dementia. That’s the inciting incident of the story, I think. That’s the event not that starts the ball rolling, but that all of the other events lead up to and from.<br /><br />Okay, first we need some framework. We’d need to set up that Ovid is from a large family—three brothers and two sisters, of which Ovid is the youngest. We’d need to establish that Ovid is in his mid 40’s, and that the oldest sibling (we’ll call him Felix), one of the brothers, is past retirement age at 64. So in a sense, the mother’s death was not unexpected. But the emotions at the mother’s death are real, and repercussive. <br /><br />But we need still more back-story. Rolling back the clock, we’d need to set up how the father had died nearly ten years previous, and how one of the things that the father had done before cancer ravaged his otherwise vibrant and healthy form, as to criticize Felix, as “greedy” and self-serving. And let’s make Felix a lawyer, just for the sake a plot device. Foreshadow a conflict here between father and eldest son, which Ovid can only guess at, like someone walking into the middle of a movie. Some things have happened that all the other moviegoers know, and which is key to the plot direction, but which the latecomer has to piece together as he goes. It’s a hell of a way to build a psyche.<br /><br />But this can be a powerful scene, in context. Ovid and the next youngest brother (let’s call him Oscar), had gone to the fathers ancestral home in Mississippi from the family’s home in New England, to take care of the father, who was battling cancer. It was a good time for Ovid to take a break, because he’d just been downsized from his job of ten years, and while he had some prospects, needed the break. And there is an unspoken pressure of Ovid’s own family—his wife pregnant with their first child—to provide for. Family, and providing for family, is a recurrent theme in the story.<br /><br />But within these scenes come an important connection between Ovid and the father, and a resolution of things often unsaid in a life, needing to be said. It ends with closeness, and warmth, and good feeling. And it’s short-lived. <br /><br />Ovid leaves the recovering father to start a new job several states away, leaving him in Oscar’s care, with the understanding that the second-oldest sister (let’s call her Minerva) will be coming two weeks later for her “turn.” But this turns out to be the last time Ovid sees his Father, as the Father dies less than two weeks later. Ovid never goes to the funeral. Funeral’s weren’t his thing. He’d always wonder if he made a mistake in that.<br /><br />Next, lets’ just put in, for the sake of a new plot twist, that the week before the father died, Oscar, alone, made a trip to the father’s safe deposit box, and took the fathers will. And destroyed it. Out of character? Inexplicable? Time, and our story, will tell.<br /><br />Top that off with Oscar taking sole ownership of the father’s property as a result of a new will that he’d somehow had possession of, created in the span of time between Ovid leaving and the death of the father. Now we have some interesting intrigue, wouldn’t you say? We’d have to wonder at the motivation, of course, and what Oscar hoped to gain. A noble act for the benefit of the siblings, ensuring the father’s legacy almost against his will? He does make a point of delivering what he says is a 1/6th share from the sale of the property to each sibling. But he makes that delivery behind the wheel of a brand new car. But maybe it’s just cynical and mistrustful for Ovid to note that. In any event, like so many doubts and concerns he will evince through the course of the story, Ovid pushes the thought away.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">To be continued.</span>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-58783347072065606552008-09-30T09:26:00.000-07:002008-09-30T09:28:33.138-07:00The PageThe empty page is a baby. Selfish, a pleading void of need drawing you in, demanding, wanting. It cries at you. It calls to you. It screams, “<span style="font-style:italic;">See me, fill me, make of me something great! Know me, believe in me, use me to create!</span>"<br /><br />The empty page is angry and demanding. “<span style="font-style:italic;">Make a statement</span>, it calls, “<span style="font-style:italic;">Make Love. Make War. Make a mess.</span>” Crying and cooing, cajoling and pleading and whining for attention. The empty page is a pain in the ass. And it’s no wonder it’s so often left, alone.<br /><br />And… <br /><br />The empty page is <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> my friend. It offers no warmth, no comfort or solace in its starkness. It does not beckon to me because, at the end of the day, it came into my grasp empty and is just as happy to pass on the same way, and billions if its brethren have in the past. It has no particular bond to me, no desire for me. It is not on my side.<br /><br />But neither is it my enemy. It has nothing against me, when t has nothing for me. It is my mirror, my echo, as true or faithless a lover as I am to it.<br /><br />But…<br /><br />If I commit, it is no longer an empty page—it is mine. The committed page is not empty. The committed page is a coach calling out to me; “<span style="font-style:italic;">Go, go, go, give one for the team, provide, extrapolate, build!</span>” It’s anxious for me to take the field, to commit with the fullness of my attention and passion and belief. It wants me ready to get battered and bloody, and fall flat on my face again, and again, an exercise in toughening skills and building abilities. It wants me to fail as a path to future success. Or so I believe. <br /><br />So I choose to believe.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-80451637083061542222008-09-26T09:45:00.000-07:002008-09-26T09:46:12.551-07:00Walking Down the Road on a Snowy Evening Robert FrostWhose woods these are I think I know.<br />His house is in the village though;<br />He will not see me stopping here<br />To watch his woods fill up with snow.<br /><br />My little horse must think it queer<br />To stop without a farmhouse near<br />Between the woods and frozen lake<br />The darkest evening of the year.<br /><br />He gives his harness bells a shake<br />To ask if there is some mistake.<br />The only other sound's the sweep<br />Of easy wind and downy flake.<br /><br />The woods are lovely, dark and deep.<br />But I have promises to keep,<br />And miles to go before I sleep,<br />And miles to go before I sleep.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-58146363676353980182008-09-25T03:33:00.000-07:002008-09-25T03:37:52.292-07:00The Movie of Your Life: A Hollywood CurseIn the initial stages, the short, exciting, but tragic (for all true stories are tragedies) story of your life, is planned as a movie. <br /><br />The agent promises that you will be played by a Beautiful Person in the Movie of Your Life. As a result, no one will understand why someone who looks that good had such a difficult time of it, instead of simply counting blessings. As a result, you fear the story will play out as surreal, disingenuous, and unbelievable. So in that way, it will be reflective of your reality. So you let it pass.<br /><br />The soundtrack will be hip, likely featuring songs that are not to your taste, by artists you’ve never heard of and who will not acknowledge you at the movies premiere. And in that way the music will reflect alienation and outsided-ness on multiple levels, and thereby, to you, emphasize the themes of the storyline of your life. Of course, no one else will notice this, and the soundtrack will seem entirely appropriate to them. It will hit the top ten within a week of the films release, go double platinum, and be remembered for itself, not for its place in the Movie of Your Life.<br /><br />After the project is green-lighted, and after the first script rewrites, it becomes painfully obvious that the story will not be a major blockbuster. Scrapped early on is the idea that there will be multiple parts to this screen story, like a Lord of the Rings Saga, or even Planet of the Apes. The project is whittled down. The idea is floated that, perhaps, the story might be better suited for a music video, or a subplot for an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. But regardless of all of this, the Movie of Your Life will proceed.<br /><br />When we get to the ending of the Movie of Your Life, everyone will predict that they saw it coming. No surprising Keyser Söze-out-of-a-hat here, no M.Knight Shyamalan twist. And you will wonder why, when everyone else could see the foreshadowing, that it so completely escaped you at the time.<br /><br />Eventually the Movie of Your Life will move to DVD. While it’s largely ignored at first, it does, after a time, develop a small but loyal fan base, and an underground cult status.But it never makes a lot of money, or receive critical acclaim in the Director’s lifetime. Eventually, one day after it falls into the Public Domain, the story of your life will be slickly repackaged with impressive Bonus Features such as interviews with people who knew people, who knew people, who actually knew you. Of course, this will be many years after your death. Therefore most people will assume the Movie of Your Life to be a fiction.<br /><br />The Movie of Your Life will then be transcribed onto a new generation Virtual Reality Viewing machine that will allow the VR user to experience being you. He will smell what your car smelled like, and taste what you had for breakfast. She will feel the place you first scratch when you wake up in the morning. Hundreds of thousands of people will pay for the opportunity to experience a day in your life.<br /><br />And still no one will know how it feels to be you.<br /><br />Roll credits.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-17338937818731411242008-09-24T18:44:00.000-07:002008-09-24T18:45:57.811-07:00Short attention span meets something to sayOkay, as I hoped, my getting into the habit of posting has started me back into the writing habit again. So I'm interrupting my (boring, narcissistic, pointless) list of favorite poems to start posting for real. Starting tomorrow.mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-59312780392336074562008-09-24T11:45:00.001-07:002008-09-24T11:47:03.893-07:00You Remain Arthur Symons<span style="font-style:italic;">As a perfume doth remain<br />In the folds where it hath lain,<br />So the thought of you, remaining<br />Deeply folded in my brain,<br />Will not leave me; all things leave me;<br />You remain.<br /><br />Other thoughts may come and go<br />Other moments I may know,<br />That shall waft me, in their going<br />As a breath blown to and fro;<br />Fragrant memories, fragrant memories<br />Come and Go.<br /><br />Only thoughts of you remain<br />In my heart where they have lain-<br />Perfumed thoughts of you, remaining<br />A hid sweetness, in my brain.<br />Others leave me; all things leave me;<br />You remain.<span style="font-style:italic;"></span>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-89759649404007211222008-09-24T06:08:00.000-07:002008-09-24T06:12:34.164-07:00Hope is the Thing with Feathers Emily Dickinson<span style="font-style:italic;">Hope is the thing with feathers<br />That perches in the soul,<br />And sings the tune without the words,<br />And never stops at all,<br /><br />And sweetest in the gale is heard;<br />And sore must be the storm<br />That could abash the little bird<br />That kept so many warm.<br /><br />I've heard it in the chilliest land<br />And on the strangest sea;<br />Yet, never, in extremity,<br />It asked a crumb of me.</span><br /><br />And because I've posted this one before, here's another I love by her. Still counts as one, though.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Not In Vain</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">If I can stop one heart from breaking,<br />I shall not live in vain;<br />If I can ease one life the aching,<br />Or cool one pain,<br />Or help one fainting robin<br />Unto his nest again,<br />I shall not live in vain.</span>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-4912988535017744682008-09-23T07:58:00.000-07:002008-09-23T07:59:17.822-07:00The Road Not Taken Robert Frost<span style="font-style:italic;">Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,<br />And sorry I could not travel both<br />And be one traveler, long I stood<br />And looked down one as far as I could<br />To where it bent in the undergrowth.<br /><br />Then took the other, as just as fair,<br />And having perhaps the better claim,<br />Because it was grassy and wanted wear;<br />Though as for that the passing there<br />Had worn them really about the same.<br /><br />And both that morning equally lay<br />In leaves no step had trodden black.<br />Oh, I kept the first for another day!<br />Yet knowing how way leads on to way,<br />I doubted if I should ever come back.<br /><br />I shall be telling this with a sigh<br />Somewhere ages and ages hence:<br />Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—<br />I took the one less traveled by,<br />And that has made all the difference.<br /></span>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8333049664970851446.post-55904809586536712662008-09-23T04:10:00.001-07:002008-09-23T07:59:37.502-07:00How do I love thee? (Sonnet 43) Elisabeth Barrett Browning<span style="font-style:italic;">How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.<br />I love thee to the depth and breadth and height<br />My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight<br />For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.<br />I love thee to the level of everyday's<br />Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.<br />I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;<br />I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.<br />I love thee with the passion put to use<br />In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.<br />I love thee with a love I seemed to lose<br />With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,<br />Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,<br />I shall but love thee better after death.</span>mmclaurinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13773326678608285792noreply@blogger.com0