Steve B. Howard's Blog, page 134

Interesting.

Interesting. In this video this guy claims the same thing can induce a meditative state in humans. I wonder if there is a connection?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xn87-mcnoVc

On Writing Outside

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The third novel I wrote, Gutter Punk Express, was written during the spring and summer over a five month period. After school in the late afternoon my son attends a cram school, a sort of extra 1.5 hour class that helps kids improve their reading, writing, and math skills.

There are a few small cafes in this quiet Japanese neighborhood, but in the afternoon most of them have at least 1–3 chain-smoking old men in them. So rather than subject myself to blue clouds of cancerous smoke three times a week I chose to write in the little park next to my son’s cram school instead.

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The park is fairly plain with your standard swing set, merry-go-round, and a sandy playing field that stands in for grass like most parks in Japan. It does have a few interesting features though depending on the season.

There are two rows of cherry trees that all bloom in late March and early April. For about nine days or so their lovely pink and white blossoms ring the park. And when the wind finally blows all the branches bare then the ground around the trees becomes a colorful carpet.

By mid-July the cicadas buzz in the trees which helps to offset the horrible humidity and constant swarms of mosquitoes that seem to love gorging on my gaijin blood.

In September the two massive gingko trees in the park turn a brilliant yellow and start dropping their stinky fruit.

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There is a row of small green wooden benches on one end of the park and a Tressel covered picnic bench on the other end. Depending on the weather and light I sit and write at one or the other. I’m the type of writer that is easily and happily distracted from my work if given the chance. The main reason I prefer handwriting my stuff in a notebook is that there’s no browser button that can fight for my attention. Entire days of well-intentioned plans to write have been sucked away by a good wifi connection and what was supposed to be a short trip onto Facebook.

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An old cafe or restaurant without wifi can be productive, but finding one in Japan that is smoke-free is a real challenge. Watching an old guy flick his lighter, light up, and then blow blue clouds of acrid smoke up into the low yellowed ceilings of most cafes is an immediate and angry distraction for me worse than even the internet.

But the little park is far from being a silent dead zone with nothing to grab my attention. When the sun is shining kids noisily race from one end of the park to the other. Flowers are constantly in bloom throughout the year. Crows, sparrows, and various bugs fly and buzz all around. And commercial jets on their way to the airport at Komaki zoom along the flight corridors.

All of these for me though are inspirational distractions rather than impediments to my writing. I tend to write in brief chunky bursts and then take short breaks to think before I write anything else. If I’m writing on my laptop and I have a wifi connection about half the time my break ends with me lost on the internet. Even in a wifi free cafe, I find it hard to bring my attention back to the writing sometimes.

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Being outside in a park though really helps me to focus on my work for much longer periods than I would normally be able to do. Maybe it has something to do with being able to stare off into the distance. I’m not sure, but having a wide open space in my field of vision really helps to keep the writing flowing for me.

The only downside though is eventually I have to sit down and type my writing into my laptop which can be tedious. But since the quantity and quality of my writing tends to be much better when I write in a notebook outside the pain of typing it up later is worth it to me.

On Writing Outside was originally published in The Ascent on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Thanks for reading and commenting.

Thanks for reading and commenting. I think awareness is just a word we use to describe a natural function of the brain. I know we don’t know exactly how or why awareness/consciousness arises from the brain, but the fact that it can be radically altered by changing or damaging the brain indicates to me that the two are not separate. As for AI, I don’t know. I would guess if AI is ever powerful enough to mimic awareness then it probably won’t matter whether the lights are really on or not.

My Current Ebooks: $0.99 and Free

Satori in the Slipstream

Satori in the Slipstream is a collection of dark stories that will take you to those places where the brutal clarity of truth is sometimes revealed. Follow the tales of a young woman in Japan trying to find herself in a Buddhist temple, a junkie street artist trying to draw away his demons with is art, a Japanese soldier confronting the horrific destruction and death in Hiroshima, a young hustler on the streets saying goodbye to his dead friend, and an office lady in Japan contemplating suicide from her 18 story apartment. All these stories and more.

ebooks

Available now at your favorite digital store!Satori in the Slipstream: a collection of short storiesFly Fishing Out of a Dead End Life

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A small collection of short stories, flash fiction, and haibun. A young man escapes from a rough life through his passion for fly fishing. A man reflects on how fly fishing, anger, and meditation have impacted his life. An old man tries to decide whether to try and reconnect with his son or chase his dream of catching a trophy salmon. A businessman who had little time for family bitterly reflects on his life while on a fishing trip. A man fly fishing in the high desert of Eastern Washington tries to capture in words the powerful spiritual beauty of the land and sport.

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Excerpt

Trout Streams, Motion, and Memory

The desert of Eastern Washington is a place of dryness and death. Without water nothing can live here. The thin little stream that cuts through the harsh rock and sand provides nourishment for the willow trees and the grassy meadow. It is the single life-giving artery in this arid place.

I walk along the west bank of the stream just as the sun rises in the east casting off reds and violets across the black, sharp stone ridges. A small white tail deer stands atop a crumbling ridge, staring down curiously, afraid of the upright predator, parting the thick weeds by the stream.

I have to be careful that my shadow falls behind me and not across the stream. The trout here are wild. Everything in their world is either a threat or a meal. Unnatural movement or reflections on the water scatters them. They are selective in their eating habits. Even my steps along the bank are measured. It’s a trade off; the rule is, walk heavy for the snakes, and softly for the trout. Rattlers, like trout don’t have ears, but are very sensitive to vibrations, striking suddenly when surprised.

I’m looking for dimples or swirls in the stream’s current, any sign that gives away the trout’s position. They always face upstream in feeding lanes where the current drifts insects down to them. Caloric energy is a premium in their world, and they never expend it lightly.

And then I see it, a break in the gentle flow of the current, the sloppy splash from a big tail, slashing back and forth in the trout’s enthusiasm for its breakfast.

I pull a few feet of slick fly-line off the titanium reel, making sure there are no kinks or tangles. I hear the methodic click of the metal drag deep within the reel as the fly-line peels smoothly off the arbor. I hold the tiny fly between my thumb and index finger, blowing on the delicate spun deer hair, and dark brown turkey feathers, fluffing them up, so they will be more buoyant. Then I gently press the point of the steel hook into the tip of my thumbnail to test its sharpness. Looking over my right shoulder, I check to make sure no hanging branches from the willow tree behind me will obstruct the path of the nine and a half foot graphite fly rod, as it is pulled vertical on the back cast, in a steady sharp snap of my arm.

But it’s not about the technical aspects of fly-fishing; the stalking, casting, and landing of the fish are unimportant. When the moment is upon me all these things drop away. There’s this feeling of clear intuition guiding me. Time is a tentative force in the background, and the stream and surrounding desert disappear. Only perfect momentum remains. I feel nothing but the flowing motion. It is the purity of form obtained in the action of doing. The motion of my body, the flow of the stream, cause and effect suspended in the structure of synchronized rhythm.

With the soft landing of the tiny fly on the gentle water, and moments later a large silver trout cruising from the depths, breaking the barrier between air and water to take it, shaking the energy of its life into my rod and through my arm; it’s existence resonating with mine; I know I have transcended.

It is always fleeting though, never captured, never grasped, or described. I have the moments spent stalking the trout, the long sweeping cast, and the trout’s short fierce battle for freedom. Then the brief period after, gently holding the slippery trout for a quick picture and then releasing it back into its cold home, but this is all. Only a shadow of the grace maybe reflected in the depths of my eyes, or a faded copy of excitement imprinted slightly in the tone of my voice. Maybe the memory of wanting to be an angler, and learning to fish, and later in life, wanting to be an artist and learning to fly-fish. These thoughts and memories remain, the rest drift down stream.

Something Gaijin This Way Comes

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Broken, blistered, and busted tales about life in Japan. Take a look into the darker seedier side, an old woman waits to die in the summer heat, a homeless man flees Japan rather do prison time, an old man argues with his wife and things go really bad. These stories and many more.

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Excerpt: Game Show Nirvana and a Pack of Lucky Strikes

Slow late Sunday afternoon television in Japan; Sumo, golf, enka singers, all tied to food somehow; entertainment for the old and near dead. Soft tones, flat screens, and entreatingly optimistic voices pitching banality that mirrors an afterlife everyone over 70 in Japan longs for.
Grandfather’s seventh cigarette of the day burns slowly towards his yellowed and dead finger tips that rest quiet and still on the cool tatami.

no one dies like the
samurai once did when
bushido meant something

Broken Fight Songs

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A collection of short stories about those that fight and lose for nothing. Drunken and drugged up lost causes, poor and pitiful men, backstabbers, liars, and thieves haunt these sad pages as the sorrowful stories of battered men unfold.

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Haiku Inspired by My Cold

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nasal drip sucks ass
stuffy head as a mean muse
want to sleep today

Haiku Inspired by My Cold was originally published in The Junction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Trying to earn enough money to write for a living is the right answer. At least in my opinion.

Trying to earn enough money to write for a living is the right answer. At least in my opinion.

You Can’t Eat the Praise

Photo by Adam Jang on Unsplash“They write me letters, tell me I’m great.” -Joe Walsh

In this ugly culture of free content
at what point do you say,

“Fuck you 80k followers. At least
pay for my cup of coffee you
vultures.”

You Can’t Eat the Praise was originally published in Other Doors on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Thanks so much for reading and commenting.

Thanks so much for reading and commenting. Yeah, I have pretty horrible handwriting as well. And I also learned the hard way that it’s best to always use a pen rather than a pencil since pencil fades pretty fast.

Thanks for reading and commenting on it.

Thanks for reading and commenting on it. Yeah, I’ve always used a mix of media when I write anything more than 500 words. I don’t really like typing that much and so far the voice to text apps aren’t good enough to replace the keyboard yet.

The Low Tech Writing Flow Trick

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I’ve never felt blocked when it comes to writing in the sense of not having ideas, but there are plenty of times when I just don’t feel enough passion or motivation to type them out even though they are bouncing around the inside of my skull trying to break free. Grabbing a pen and notebook though is always a quick and easy workaround for me.

Part of it is because the words flow a lot easier when I hand write things and the other reason is that I have a lot of confidence in my pen and trusty notebook. I’ve written five novels since 2003. The first draft of the third one was handwritten in five notebooks in four months when I decided to keep going and finish the 11k word NaNo draft I’d written. The other four were written in and on a combination of notebooks and a laptop.

Right now I’ve got 18 pages of a sci-fi short story just waiting for me to finish it, edit it, type it up, and then throw it out into the world. It might not always work, but if you find yourself with a rigid brain and rigid fingers that won’t fly across the keyboard grab a pen and notebook and see if you can get the words flowing again.

The Low Tech Writing Flow Trick was originally published in Publishous on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.