Sawyer Paul's Blog, page 54

Writing Practice, June 2 2015

Call me Album.

Comp CC

Adobe's new Comp CC is something I thought I wanted for years. Layout was the one missing piece I felt the iPad was lacking, and now they have it. I sold my iPad a few years ago, and haven't missed it. This app makes me miss it, at least a little. 

It's not enough to make me go out and buy one, though, because I have a tablet that does this trick pretty well. The Dell Venue Pro 8 runs InDesign better than you'd expect (of all the Adobe apps, it's the one I would recommend using on lower-end hardware). I wouldn't (and haven't) done long stretches of work with it, but that isn't what Comp CC is for, either. It's for beginning and sketching a layout, which the Venue can do just fine. 

The other thing I'll say about Comp CC is that, while it's probably great for some designers, I don't do a lot of "sketching" in InDesign. The kind of layout design I do revolves around styles (character, paragraph, object, etc) that eventually come together to create a cohesive title. Neither the creation of the book (lots of menus and submenus) or the filling in of content (hundreds of pages) could be done effectively with Comp. It's glib to say, I guess, but the app's just not for me. 

 

Neven Mrgan's (@mrgan) First Week Without an Apple Watch

For those wondering whether the Digital Crown is the “revolutionary” new input method Apple calls it—I can safely say it’s the most satisfying scrolling mechanism I’ve never used.

I figured there were two types of people in the world: those with an Apple Watch, and those without an Apple Watch. But this long shipping phase has created a limbo third-tier: those who have one, but don't at the same time.  

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Writing Practice, June 1 2015

Kate Foley couldn’t wake up. The noise in her house was boisterous. Thirty people packed into the tight bungalow, two floors with two rooms and a hallway each, packed with people, even in her own room, which she shared with a brother. Her brother, mother, and two of her aunts stood over her. Her brother shook her. 
“Sis, Jesus. It’s noon. Everybody’s here.” 
It was a Saturday in May, and it was Kate’s birthday. She was eight years old. 
Kate stirred, but then fell back in. She dreamed of a great storm. It pulled her in. It didn’t let go. And she couldn’t believe its power. She didn’t see. She only felt. Her body shook. 
“Jesus, is she okay?” Her mother asked, in a way that didn’t at all sound like someone’s mother. 
Kate felt a hand on her shoulder. A hand on her hand. It pulled her up, away from the bottom of the ocean. 
Her mother once told her that sadness is sadness, grief is grief, and despair is despair. Nobody hurts more than anyone else. There is just hurt. There is just pain. She told Kate that we have to think of it that way because we can’t really know what another person feels. They can tell us, she explained, and we can monitor them with machines, but it’s all external. It’s all just a story, and not all stories are true. There is only the pain. There is only the abyss. 
Kate had no idea when her mother told her this, and she didn’t know why she remembered it. But it helped later. 
Her brother stuck a wet finger in her ear, and through her hair. This, of all things, is what got her to open her eyes.
“Aw, Geez,” she said. “What? I’m up, I’m up. You don’t have to be gross about it.” 
She blinked. She saw everyone. 
“Oh,” She said, apologizing. 
“Happy Birthday, sweetie darling,” her mother patted her on the head. “Now come down. Everyone’s waiting to give you pretty things.” 
Kate Foley was eight years old. She still had all her freckles. She hadn’t yet grown into her eyes. What she saw were a small horde of impatient family members, eagerly waiting the center of attention. 
They left her room for a moment, and she was alone. She saw all her things. Kate’s room was stuffed, partially with stuffed things, partially with partially-completed mysteries. When Kate was not running, or playing soccer, she solved mysteries. Some of them came in boxes. One of those was scattered on her table, all over the place from a frustrating moment. But most mysteries she made up herself. They were muddier mysteries, without any neat solution or even necessarily clues. This was the nut of her imagination. Everything became a mystery without a solution.
Kate put on the dress her mother laid out for her. It was fluffy, pink and purple, with a ribbon for a belt. The shoulders were poofed. She felt like a doll, and she hated the outfit, so she convinced herself to treat it like a disguise. She would roam the party looking for a solution, but a solution for what? What was the mystery? 
She was hungry. 
Kate left her room and was guided by the hand by her older brother, who was ten and knew what had to be done at birthdays involving lots of people. 
“The trick is to introduce yourself and make it seem like they’re the first in the list. You have no time to chat, you’ve got to keep moving and saying hi to everybody. Now some cousins have come from a long way so you’ve got to pretend that’s a big deal, even though that car ride must have been awesome because I heard they had a Game Boy. I wonder if they brought it?”
“Roland, slow down,” Kate said. “You’re hurting my arm.” 
He paid no attention to her request, pulling her through the crowd until they reached the front door, where Kate’s Aunt Helen stood, taking off her jacket. 
“You don’t even know,” he said, curt and spitting. “This is going to suck large for both of us. Do you know how many people are coming? Do you understand? Of course you don’t.”
The mystery Kate had to solve was how to ditch her stupid brother. He was so annoying. 
“I’m hungry,” Kate said. 
This distracted Roland. “There’s so much food. But it’s not all done. The cousins are in the kitchen.”
Roland began introducing Kate and himself to various family members. It was 1991, and nobody dressed the same. Kate watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” last Christmas and loved how everyone wore fancy clothes, even when just at home. Most of her family wore tshirts, golf shirts, and Hawaiian shirts with orange leaves and neon lines. The women wore dresses, but not the kind from that movie. These dresses were plain, mostly muted colours, and they were covered mostly neck to toe. Kate felt funny in a pretty dress around so many dull ones. 
Kate met cousins, distant cousins, cousins-in-law, second and third cousins, and friends of the family. Many were happy to see her, and impressed that the two children were so enthusiastic about shaking hands and taking hugs. Kate heard the words “happy birthday” so many times it blurred. A great aunt had a holder for her cigarette. Most everyone smoked. That part was the same as the movie, at least. Kate wanted one. A great uncle drank a beer, and when he shook her hand she felt the condensation mix with hot, claustrophobic sweat. It was the first cool handshake of the day. 
Roland pulled Kate aside and said, “I’m hungry, too. Let’s get something to eat.” 
They found their way to the kitchen, greeting people along the way. The adults all had drinks and smokes. Music played from the tape deck, one Whitney Houston song after another, her mother’s favourite singer. Finally, they fit through the tiny hallway that connected the family room to the kitchen. Kate saw four women in the kitchen, and one man grabbing a beer. The women peeled vegetables, chatting about how old their children where and what trouble they were in their various sports. 
“Jacob is in the banting league now, he’s doing so well, but I wish he wouldn’t get his jersey so dirty.”
“Boys will be—”
“Bernice, I swear to god.” 
“What? I’m just saying, boys will be—”
“It’s just soccer, Morissa, he’ll grow out of it.”
“I love soccer,” Kate said, interrupting. 
Without a skipped beat, one of them, probably Bernice said, “Of course you do sweetie. You’re very good at it, too.” 
Kate was not sure she’d ever met this Bernice lady. But she just agreed with her. 
“It’s my birthday,” Kate proclaimed. The ladies continued to putter, clean, cut, and toss away things. 
“Of course it is,” Morissa, presumably, said. “You’re the reason we’re all here. Do you want to help? Here, take this peeler. Help me with the potatoes.” 
“Um, okay,” Kate said, not really wanting to help but trying very hard to not seem like she didn’t want to. She wanted these women to like her, or at least introduce themselves. But that had been the case with nearly everyone she’d introduced herself to with Roland’s help. Nobody particularly seemed to know her, and if they did, they did not treat her like any sort of big deal. It’s not that she was, or at least it wasn’t that she felt like it, but if they were all here for her, if this was her birthday and it was in her house, she figured more people might want to take notice. She didn’t think this was unreasonable, but then again, she didn’t know any of these people, either. Maybe she had to treat them like a big deal first?
“What’s your name?” She asked the woman next to her who’d handed her the peeler. 
“I’m Morissa. I was married to your Uncle Luke but not anymore.” 
Kate didn’t know how to do this particular kind of math. But she peeled a potato and said okay. She wanted someone to compliment the dress, even if it wasn’t her favourite. It was her mother’s, though. 

Tracking sleep

I've had a Fitbit for almost a week now, and the thing I'm noticing most is how erratic my sleep patterns are. Last night was the worst one. 

In all the reviews for the Fitbit, I read that it "helps" get you better sleep. I'm assuming this is from awareness. I've had bad nights like this before, but it's never been shown to me the next morning in such detailed measurement. But I'm wondering, what do I do with this? How do I fix it? I can go to bed earlier (I was actually in bed around 10:30, just couldn't fall asleep until after midnight), but how do I fix all the restlessness? 

Writing Practice, May 31 2015

I just hope you are happy. 

I just hope you are so happy. 

I just hope you are the happiest. 

I just hope. I just hope. I just hope. 

I want to make you happy. But first I have to know if I am allowed, have the right. If that is what you want. 

I want to make you happy but I don't know what that would actually feel like. Nobody has, to my knowledge, ever wanted to make me happy. 

I do not know if you even want me in your life, but I know I do want to make you happy, even if that isn't something I can picture. They say, visualize your goal. You happy, I can't see it. It doesn't form. 

I just hope you are happy, even though I cannot help you. 

Writing Practice, May 30 2015

Here are the things I do not know:

Whether I am anyone's hero.

If I have saved anyone without them knowing it, or, if I have done something good without my knowledge or the knowledge of those I helped.

If my actions or expressions of thought have impacted the world in any way outside of those tangible things. I know I have created garbage. I know I have stolen oxygen, and food. I don't know if I have given anything.

If I am the most impressive person in anybody's life.

If I have ruined people, led them from the path, broken their faith, inexorably ripped portions of their life into pieces they did not want inexorably ripped.

Whether my ego and confidence has given to more ego and confidence in others; if I have evangelized.

If I had any taste, any at all.

If I have plagiarized not only works but feelings and mannerisms and asides. If I have taken portions of a personality and grafted the piece to myself and wore it for years without realizing I was only pretending to be someone more fun at parties.

If other people had plans for me, and what became of those plans.

What became of my old plans.

If I buy this thing instead of this other thing, how many people in the world have I wounded.

Writing Practice, May 29 2015

Note: This is a re-do of yesterday's practice. It fills in detail and changes some lines. Yesterday was very much just a sketch, this edges closer to actual short story. Time constraints led to the last paragraph, which is a pretty rough bow.

 Danny scoffed at his wife. They'd been married ten years and he'd become better at scoffing at her than he'd figured he would. He could put it on a CV.  

 "It says I have to go." He held a letter, torn open by a fingernail, the left side of the letter frayed, matching its envelope. It looked like it had been separated by tiny wolverines.  

Danny's wife cracked her neck. Her name was Illis, which Danny once was short for Illinois. He called her by the state whenever he thought little of her, which was a lot. "No, nobody has to go on the bachelorette." 

The letter, which he held and had read to her, as she came through the door, waving goodbye to the man who drove her home from work, explained the whole situation. He was trying to explain it to her, but he was doing a poor job out of a pretty high lack of respect. He said, tersely as possible, "Do you know that? Do you know that it's an optional thing?" 

"Of course I know it. They're contestants. It's like a game show." She put her coat down. It smelled like the guy's car who dropped her off. Danny knew the guy's name, too. Ponty. Apparently.  

His wife, who had now taken off her shoes and held out her hand, asked to be shown this crumpled letter from a production company neither of them had heard of.  

Danny handed her the letter, and said, "Let me ask you something. Do you know anyone who's ever applied to be on this show. You know what? Any show. The Price is Right? Wheel of fortune?" 

Anymore, Danny and Illis didn't like each other very much.  

"Look, there's just no way it works that way," she said, reading the words that stated that this was pretty much how it worked after all.   

Illis wasn't prepared for this conversation, but it happened quickly and both took their shots. Danny never admitted that maybe he submitted himself as a contestant; Illis never admitted that she's been sleeping with Ponty for years. It was all a little much for a 6pm argument, and perhaps the wrong time for every element. But somehow, in the light through the tatters, it didn't work out in the end.  

 

Writing Practice, May 28 2015

Note: I had higher hopes for this one. It's something I'd like to come back to tomorrow and fill out more. 

Danny scoffed at his wife. They'd been married ten years and he'd become better at scoffing at her than he'd figured he would. He could put it on a CV.

"It says I have to go."

Danny's wife cracked her neck. Her name was Illis, which Danny once was short for Illinois. "No, nobody has to go on the bachelorette."

"Do you know that?"

"Of course I know it. They're contestants. It's like a game show."

"Let me ask you something. Do you know anyone who's ever applied to be on this show. You know what? Any show. The Price is Right? Wheel of fortune?"

"Look, there's just no way it works that way."

"Answer the question."

"No, I don't know anyone."

"Do you know anyone who knows anyone? Think of how many people we had at our wedding. We know lots of people who know lots of people."

"It's never come up."

"Huh."

An incomplete list of words that are now startups

Sometimes the simplest lists are the best lists.

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