Nelson Lowhim's Blog, page 113
February 15, 2016
The Symphony
For Valentines, me and the SO went out to a symphony. Tchaikovsky's piece on Dante. Beautiful work and one I highly recommend you listen to as soon as you can.
I think it was then that I truly thought of symphonies as something more than just musical [2]. In fact, I'm certain that next time I will go with my pen and notepad to make sure that some ideas (for stories) won't be missed. I do recommend that other people try it for that reason alone. [3]
[1] Who knows? Perhaps this is an example of losing some interest, but I beg to differ. I should note that this is also a matter of the string section evoking this more than anything else. I listened to a string quartet a few weeks prior, and that was certainly a beautiful moment as well.
[2] I've mentioned that art has truly been something I enjoy more as I age, I think classical music is another. Sure, I'll listen to Future as much as anyone, but classical hits another part of the brain. I'd even go so far as to say that listening to classical music in my house doesn't work as well as sitting down to just listen to it. I imagine that music purists will view my mind wandering as troublesome at best.
[3] The people watching at intermission was interesting, but I would not note it as my favorite place to do it. There tends to be little variety at such shows and a very specific age comes here.
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
I think it was then that I truly thought of symphonies as something more than just musical [2]. In fact, I'm certain that next time I will go with my pen and notepad to make sure that some ideas (for stories) won't be missed. I do recommend that other people try it for that reason alone. [3]
[1] Who knows? Perhaps this is an example of losing some interest, but I beg to differ. I should note that this is also a matter of the string section evoking this more than anything else. I listened to a string quartet a few weeks prior, and that was certainly a beautiful moment as well.
[2] I've mentioned that art has truly been something I enjoy more as I age, I think classical music is another. Sure, I'll listen to Future as much as anyone, but classical hits another part of the brain. I'd even go so far as to say that listening to classical music in my house doesn't work as well as sitting down to just listen to it. I imagine that music purists will view my mind wandering as troublesome at best.
[3] The people watching at intermission was interesting, but I would not note it as my favorite place to do it. There tends to be little variety at such shows and a very specific age comes here.
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
February 11, 2016
That Edge Node: To tell stories via data
I mentioned that about a year ago having visited an amazing data visualization show in Barcelona. It was in a modern art museum and was easily the most impressive thing I had seen in my time in museums. As a story teller, what got to me was how data could be used for more than just utilitarian purposes. At the show there were some art installations, as well as stories told. And that latter matter is what got to me. How I could possibly tell stories via these methods.
Take this, for example. That someone could take the entirety of the Star Wars world and make it something we can view (though that might only be translatable by the most hardcore of fans) is interesting. What will be interesting is if one can properly tell stories or give full on narratives in this manner. I imagine it's only a matter of time. Thoughts?
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
Take this, for example. That someone could take the entirety of the Star Wars world and make it something we can view (though that might only be translatable by the most hardcore of fans) is interesting. What will be interesting is if one can properly tell stories or give full on narratives in this manner. I imagine it's only a matter of time. Thoughts?
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
February 10, 2016
Interviews. That which matters.
It's one of those ironies of life, or rather one of those hypocrisies of my character, that I look at interviews with other people [1] and proceed to make large assumptions about their character based on what they say. Of course, I know exactly the limitations of the interview, the roles one plays and the filters every answer must go through, or the context that the author assumes versus what others may assume upon reading or hearing that answer, to say nothing of the available thoughts when the question is asked. I poke a little fun at the process with this random pseudo-essay of a short story I wrote recently.
Again, now that I look at it, I am aware of all the ways one can answer these questions, the roles that one plays, and, ultimately, the picture someone is trying to put forth. Looking at some of my predictions and answers, I think I was trying my hardest to be measured, as measured at least sounds level headed. But now that I'm reading it, it's filled with what I can only consider platitudes.
Like I said, it's more of an attempt to put up airs. But is this what people expect? [3] Or perhaps going out on a limb, showing too much emotion (unless apologies are in order) is not allowed? Then too rambling on for too long will make one seem like a blowhard (trying to provide some of that context). So what does an interview provide? For us, the listeners/watchers? Do we get to know anyone? We get to hear them tell a story, ostensibly about themselves. And it's better than nothing. But would a version of interviews that tries to get behind a mask be something that matters? When are we ever without a mask?
And when it comes to writing—an activity that tends to balance the conscious and subconscious parts of the mind—what does an interview have to offer? Even if someone is completely honest about their work, are they the sole authority on the matter? Let's say that you like a specific fictional book, what could the author add to the matter. Some background, perhaps, and perhaps even some pieces about the creation of the piece, but I subscribe to the theory that states a piece of writing is a creation of life in its own right and it becomes what others would like it to be. So whatever a writer can say about it is minor. [4]
Hard to say what matters in such a situation. [5] Would removing the mask through drugs or tricks be the logical conclusion?
As for my interview... is it worthwhile and does it speak of me as writer, to me as a human being? What are your thoughts?
[1] In fact, this was originally going to be a post on interviews by the likes of Franzen and even DFW. Those icons for very specific subsets of elite, usually white, America. I speak especially about the latest interview with Franzen, to say nothing of his twitter comments (and my reactions to that).
[2] Again, let's speak of Franzen's interview where he rants against twitter, then in a later interview clarifies what he meant to say.
[3] Hell, could it be that with the advent of social media and the odd mobs that will lynch someone for any one sentence, context etc be damned, will only lead us further into the land of platitudes and nothing worthwhile said.
[4] Another author is Salman Rushdie. I absolutely love a book of his I'm reading, Satanic Verses , and yet I'm loathe to give any of his interviews, or appearances in shows much credence, being that I'm completely against his statements against Islam. What to do? There is a beautiful creation from his mind. And there are his comments. Of course, separating him from that creation would help me with some dissonance (though, to be fair, I have a model of the world that includes both without too much rule twisting).
[5] Don't for a second think that I'm missing the boat here. That I know the main impetus for an interview is simply a vehicle to put out some information, and make the author seem like someone you would like to buy things, that book, from.
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
Again, now that I look at it, I am aware of all the ways one can answer these questions, the roles that one plays, and, ultimately, the picture someone is trying to put forth. Looking at some of my predictions and answers, I think I was trying my hardest to be measured, as measured at least sounds level headed. But now that I'm reading it, it's filled with what I can only consider platitudes.
Like I said, it's more of an attempt to put up airs. But is this what people expect? [3] Or perhaps going out on a limb, showing too much emotion (unless apologies are in order) is not allowed? Then too rambling on for too long will make one seem like a blowhard (trying to provide some of that context). So what does an interview provide? For us, the listeners/watchers? Do we get to know anyone? We get to hear them tell a story, ostensibly about themselves. And it's better than nothing. But would a version of interviews that tries to get behind a mask be something that matters? When are we ever without a mask?
And when it comes to writing—an activity that tends to balance the conscious and subconscious parts of the mind—what does an interview have to offer? Even if someone is completely honest about their work, are they the sole authority on the matter? Let's say that you like a specific fictional book, what could the author add to the matter. Some background, perhaps, and perhaps even some pieces about the creation of the piece, but I subscribe to the theory that states a piece of writing is a creation of life in its own right and it becomes what others would like it to be. So whatever a writer can say about it is minor. [4]
Hard to say what matters in such a situation. [5] Would removing the mask through drugs or tricks be the logical conclusion?
As for my interview... is it worthwhile and does it speak of me as writer, to me as a human being? What are your thoughts?
[1] In fact, this was originally going to be a post on interviews by the likes of Franzen and even DFW. Those icons for very specific subsets of elite, usually white, America. I speak especially about the latest interview with Franzen, to say nothing of his twitter comments (and my reactions to that).
[2] Again, let's speak of Franzen's interview where he rants against twitter, then in a later interview clarifies what he meant to say.
[3] Hell, could it be that with the advent of social media and the odd mobs that will lynch someone for any one sentence, context etc be damned, will only lead us further into the land of platitudes and nothing worthwhile said.
[4] Another author is Salman Rushdie. I absolutely love a book of his I'm reading, Satanic Verses , and yet I'm loathe to give any of his interviews, or appearances in shows much credence, being that I'm completely against his statements against Islam. What to do? There is a beautiful creation from his mind. And there are his comments. Of course, separating him from that creation would help me with some dissonance (though, to be fair, I have a model of the world that includes both without too much rule twisting).
[5] Don't for a second think that I'm missing the boat here. That I know the main impetus for an interview is simply a vehicle to put out some information, and make the author seem like someone you would like to buy things, that book, from.
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
February 9, 2016
On death. From a barely cognizant ape
I've been in a melancholy stupor lately. A family friend died. Harsh, yet needed, those rush of memories that follow such an event as one's mind tries to relive moments with that person. That reliving is done through experiencing some of the emotions, re-acting the moments together. This was a fine human being, with a heart of gold, that much was beyond doubt.
In the end, facing death, she chose not to reach out to those who knew her [1]. Perhaps that doesn't mean anything, but I sense that she felt herself a burden. Society had made her feel this way, had pushed her out [2]. So it goes. But damn, why? Why include even friends in that group who would wish to help? Did we not help enough? Not reach out enough? Is that part of society's pushing out of a person? [3] I don't know what exactly to make of it nor the heavy weight on my heart. So it goes, dear reader, so it goes.
So rest in peace, dear friend. I wish it were different.
[1] Not outside of immediate family and a couple of best friends.
[2] I'm not blaming anyone. As James Baldwin says, for those who act even slightly differently, society will treat them as nothing (and this isn't even a conscious process), and sooner or later that will eat away at the individual (it's worse on the more empathetic ones, and the sociopaths... well they rise, don't they?). In the end, the person thought enough about her cancer to not even tell us about that. A wedding that occurred at the time might have been the reason (did she not want to ruin the moment with her news? If so, what kind of thinking is that? What is life but the mixture of the bitter and the sweet?). Still, that's no reason. Why would that news ruin anything?
[3] So one, I, can't help but feel a little guilty. Was I too, in not reaching out often enough, guilty of being part of that societal movement to make her feel that way? I sense that sometimes. And I try, try my damnedest to leave good in my wake. But I am no saint. Of that I'm sure, this far in my life. And of course, there's a level of selfishness in this thought as I think of my place in society, my writing and the reactions they get from the mainstream, to say nothing of those I know. A burden I would never want to be. And yet if this episode is anything to go by, others (like me) would not care, would hate it, and still there's that harsh wind of what is the writing doing? (those questions: how many did you sell?) {1}So it goes, but now that I see the other side, there is no such thing as a burden to a human. But it matters, dear reader, it matters what mask you're wearing {2}.
{1} Again, there's a dichotomy: society saying one thing, not wanting that weak link, and there's the love of those around you. Life is one way, but you must create that shelter.
{2} For if I truly felt this way, I would hand, to every beggar and homeless person or charity all I own, outside of that which would keep me with food and shelter. And yet I don't. Why? Society has some ready made answers for that: that you must care for self first; that you don't know these poor people, that charities can be scams, that beggars too can be rich people who have found a way to get money off suckers (how many times have I heard that! Read some Orwell on the matter. Back then too were the same stories: rich beggars, beware! And yet he found it to be anything but the case when he was down and out). I'll say less of those who think that anyone poor or who has hit a streak of bad luck deserves it in some way or another, but I will say that it's only borderline fascism creeping up. No, it doesn't mean that such people or societies are ready to erect work camps, death camps, with some variation of the "freedom in work" as the slogan, but that fascism and other methods of cruelty are ingrained in aspects of humanity and should thus leave us ever vigilant.
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
In the end, facing death, she chose not to reach out to those who knew her [1]. Perhaps that doesn't mean anything, but I sense that she felt herself a burden. Society had made her feel this way, had pushed her out [2]. So it goes. But damn, why? Why include even friends in that group who would wish to help? Did we not help enough? Not reach out enough? Is that part of society's pushing out of a person? [3] I don't know what exactly to make of it nor the heavy weight on my heart. So it goes, dear reader, so it goes.
So rest in peace, dear friend. I wish it were different.
[1] Not outside of immediate family and a couple of best friends.
[2] I'm not blaming anyone. As James Baldwin says, for those who act even slightly differently, society will treat them as nothing (and this isn't even a conscious process), and sooner or later that will eat away at the individual (it's worse on the more empathetic ones, and the sociopaths... well they rise, don't they?). In the end, the person thought enough about her cancer to not even tell us about that. A wedding that occurred at the time might have been the reason (did she not want to ruin the moment with her news? If so, what kind of thinking is that? What is life but the mixture of the bitter and the sweet?). Still, that's no reason. Why would that news ruin anything?
[3] So one, I, can't help but feel a little guilty. Was I too, in not reaching out often enough, guilty of being part of that societal movement to make her feel that way? I sense that sometimes. And I try, try my damnedest to leave good in my wake. But I am no saint. Of that I'm sure, this far in my life. And of course, there's a level of selfishness in this thought as I think of my place in society, my writing and the reactions they get from the mainstream, to say nothing of those I know. A burden I would never want to be. And yet if this episode is anything to go by, others (like me) would not care, would hate it, and still there's that harsh wind of what is the writing doing? (those questions: how many did you sell?) {1}So it goes, but now that I see the other side, there is no such thing as a burden to a human. But it matters, dear reader, it matters what mask you're wearing {2}.
{1} Again, there's a dichotomy: society saying one thing, not wanting that weak link, and there's the love of those around you. Life is one way, but you must create that shelter.
{2} For if I truly felt this way, I would hand, to every beggar and homeless person or charity all I own, outside of that which would keep me with food and shelter. And yet I don't. Why? Society has some ready made answers for that: that you must care for self first; that you don't know these poor people, that charities can be scams, that beggars too can be rich people who have found a way to get money off suckers (how many times have I heard that! Read some Orwell on the matter. Back then too were the same stories: rich beggars, beware! And yet he found it to be anything but the case when he was down and out). I'll say less of those who think that anyone poor or who has hit a streak of bad luck deserves it in some way or another, but I will say that it's only borderline fascism creeping up. No, it doesn't mean that such people or societies are ready to erect work camps, death camps, with some variation of the "freedom in work" as the slogan, but that fascism and other methods of cruelty are ingrained in aspects of humanity and should thus leave us ever vigilant.
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
February 8, 2016
Another Film Festival
My recent face to face with an underground film festival had me thinking about another film festival I had the luck to see, in Brooklyn. Featuring short animation, it didn't seem like much, but I hadn't anything else to do, so I braved the cold and odd subway changes to make it to the bland theater that smelled like cigarette smoke. I moved through the crowd outside and to the inside where no smoking signs were posted everywhere, along with signs about not drinking, doing drugs, giving up, below each sign was a pile of graphic pamphlets. I moved towards the entryway. The crowd here was an odd assortment of the lighter-skinned residents of that borough with all of them playing with the affectations of intellectualism. Having experienced much of this before, and having a known allergic reaction to it, I steered clear and sat in the back.
Most of the movies were under 5 minutes, though that didn't make some of them any less painful. One had a half-man half-bird staring at a desolate post-apocalyptic landscape. That's it. Now, it may have being saying something equivalent to life is suffering, or speaking to the inevitability of a certain outcome, but I did not care for it. It should come as no surprise that the film was a product of Europe, not to disparage that part of the world's movie products—there is much to love. But sometimes...
Another movie, this one from Latin America, was about a chess game of all pawns versus all queens. Again, I can understand the production costs of such a movie would be cheap, and thus perfect for an indie, but what can one make of such a story? In the end all the pawns are led away in chains while others are hanged and yet others are tortured and dismembered, the screen fading to black as the queens laugh. By this time, I was squirming in my seat, hating that I had taken half a day to make the trek from the Bronx.
The next movie was about a man experiencing something akin to groundhog day. At first he's unsure about why things are exactly the same as the day before, but when realizes the truth, he takes advantage of his knowledge to gain riches, power. But when he realizes that this affords him nothing lasting, he goes on a rampage, murdering and killing, trying his hardest to make the world feel his despair.
When this fails—or perhaps when he is grows weary of these actions—he becomes a saint, helping people however he can and when even that leaves no mark upon his world, he continues to help people, though he grows strangely distant and even shaman-like. It ends there, this short film.
Now I moved to the back of the theater and bummed a cigarette. I coughed, having not touched one for years. Another one followed as a mockumentary of King Leopold (yes, in animation, this is Waltz with Bashir territory) and started with the acts of charity he carried out, then slowly moved to the Congo and the acts of horror there.
Luckily, one of the full sleeved women there had a bottle of whiskey and she handed me the bottle. My face must have been quite the sight and I gladly accepted. The final film I saw was in a single room. A man stood over a boy who was on the in front of a computer, both look apprehensive. Then the boy's finger hovers over the mouse, the man's lips start to move, and the screen flashes. Soon a mantra is coming out of the man's lips: but we can't hear it. There are screams coming from the screen. Finally, the man yells. The boy presses the button and a flash goes off. The screams go silent.
By this time, opium was being passed around. I left because I couldn't bear another movie, nor could I handle needing something that strong just to stay inside and watch another one of these movies.
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs! Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
Most of the movies were under 5 minutes, though that didn't make some of them any less painful. One had a half-man half-bird staring at a desolate post-apocalyptic landscape. That's it. Now, it may have being saying something equivalent to life is suffering, or speaking to the inevitability of a certain outcome, but I did not care for it. It should come as no surprise that the film was a product of Europe, not to disparage that part of the world's movie products—there is much to love. But sometimes...
Another movie, this one from Latin America, was about a chess game of all pawns versus all queens. Again, I can understand the production costs of such a movie would be cheap, and thus perfect for an indie, but what can one make of such a story? In the end all the pawns are led away in chains while others are hanged and yet others are tortured and dismembered, the screen fading to black as the queens laugh. By this time, I was squirming in my seat, hating that I had taken half a day to make the trek from the Bronx.
The next movie was about a man experiencing something akin to groundhog day. At first he's unsure about why things are exactly the same as the day before, but when realizes the truth, he takes advantage of his knowledge to gain riches, power. But when he realizes that this affords him nothing lasting, he goes on a rampage, murdering and killing, trying his hardest to make the world feel his despair.
When this fails—or perhaps when he is grows weary of these actions—he becomes a saint, helping people however he can and when even that leaves no mark upon his world, he continues to help people, though he grows strangely distant and even shaman-like. It ends there, this short film.
Now I moved to the back of the theater and bummed a cigarette. I coughed, having not touched one for years. Another one followed as a mockumentary of King Leopold (yes, in animation, this is Waltz with Bashir territory) and started with the acts of charity he carried out, then slowly moved to the Congo and the acts of horror there.
Luckily, one of the full sleeved women there had a bottle of whiskey and she handed me the bottle. My face must have been quite the sight and I gladly accepted. The final film I saw was in a single room. A man stood over a boy who was on the in front of a computer, both look apprehensive. Then the boy's finger hovers over the mouse, the man's lips start to move, and the screen flashes. Soon a mantra is coming out of the man's lips: but we can't hear it. There are screams coming from the screen. Finally, the man yells. The boy presses the button and a flash goes off. The screams go silent.
By this time, opium was being passed around. I left because I couldn't bear another movie, nor could I handle needing something that strong just to stay inside and watch another one of these movies.
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
February 2, 2016
A Short Story up; an unjust scree on dust jackets
Well, I have a short story up sf-books, a nice place for sci-fi work. Check it out when you get the chance. As for the next novel, I will get to that Sisyphean task as soon as I can. Enjoy the linked short, as I think it will lead to other versions, not to mention something bigger.
Not any more. Or not for a long time. I still cannot understand why people like them. I like hardcovers, but the first thing I do is throw out those infernal dust covers the first chance I get [2]. Who can read with them on? And aren't hardcovers with the graphics directly printed on the hard part just as good? And no, I have never seen a book in some dust-filled land protected from that dust because of some flimsy paper.
So, reader, why do you like dust covers? Because I'm guessing someone out there likes these things. Also, if you're getting rid of your dust covers, send them to me. I will make amateur art out of these throwaways.
[1] The dust covers, that is, I'm no barbarian.
[2] Now that my better half wants them, I have to be more surreptitious about this disposal
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
Not any more. Or not for a long time. I still cannot understand why people like them. I like hardcovers, but the first thing I do is throw out those infernal dust covers the first chance I get [2]. Who can read with them on? And aren't hardcovers with the graphics directly printed on the hard part just as good? And no, I have never seen a book in some dust-filled land protected from that dust because of some flimsy paper.
So, reader, why do you like dust covers? Because I'm guessing someone out there likes these things. Also, if you're getting rid of your dust covers, send them to me. I will make amateur art out of these throwaways.
[1] The dust covers, that is, I'm no barbarian.
[2] Now that my better half wants them, I have to be more surreptitious about this disposal
Good writing, huh? Share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs of running this damn thing
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
February 1, 2016
City Series, part dos. Witch craft
I spoke of my friend and his exodus from our fair city. And so it goes, you may say, but though I may have not known all his reasons for leaving our country and still less about him moving to an anarchist coop in Barcelona—one of the few remnants of that city’s civil war legacy, its ability to dream even—something was more amiss than I let on. No, the real reason came to me in the form of a mutual friend who had worked with him on "x-project" and now needed to leave the country. He couldn’t leave by the normal routes, as one could imagine, being that he was wanted by more than one government agency. When his name was then placed on the witch list—you know, that list that changes via wants of those in power rather than actual definitions—I knew it was serious, and I knew that we would have to sneak him out via a ratline.
I didn’t ask questions as I sat there with him in the dark basements apartment in the Upper East Side. We knew some illegals who had ratlines out of the city via boat and onto a sailboat which would take him to Barcelona. There he would hopefully find refuge in the arms of the underground community of anarchists.
Having never been in the presence of a witch before (apparently, it’s all witches and no warlocks, sex be damned), I remained unbelieving, silent, and apprehensive. When the van came by around midnight, we still hadn’t exchanged a word. And as I ate our halal food—with that perfectly roasted spring chicken—his smoke filling the air, the van idling outside, I wondered how it was that he, a middle-class faithful, could even have achieved such notoriety.
In the van, hoods over our heads, he started to pray in some foreign tongue, or rather, in an odd combination of English, math, and programming descriptions. My nerves frayed, I finally asked him what he had done to result in his running out of the country like this.
Witchcraft, he explained with a smile. I didn’t want to believe him because my main impetus for helping him was that the witch list was in fact a false list used for political purposes. But his face was dead serious and sucked the air out of my lungs; I was unable to reply. Silence and the sound of the old van’s body panels rattling over potholes filled the air. I could smell something like cumin and blood. Soon we were at the boat house, somewhere in the Bronx. We had to wait for a gap in the boat patrols before we left.
I wanted to ask what kind of witchcraft but instead asked if the witchcraft was real, or if he was joking. His words were spoken like that of a man who knows there are only a few more moments left in his life: he explained that his was indeed witchcraft, but the kind that twisted a screen’s reality. What he and my friend in Barcelona—had done was to spread certain words, phrases, ideas into the wide web and allow these words to infiltrate any and all texts: focusing on communications and news stories. The result had been mass hysteria. But the thing about this spell was that it had become a life unto itself and so nothing was going to stop it—hence the reason he had to leave and why the friend from before had to leave.
And so it goes. I watched him leave on the boat and never really heard from him again. The effects of the spell he created were covered up with great skill, though one could never really trust what one was reading anymore. Not on a screen, at least.
And I was left to fend for myself, a writer using the specific tools of literature to cast spells. Or trying to, even though after hearing that witch’s language, and somewhat understanding its effects, I knew that I may very well be speaking a language that had weak spells while this new language, or form of language, or new religion, was much more powerful than that which I had at my disposal, and that any spell I had at my disposal would succeed only with wings from the other language. And I at once felt weak and impotent, imagining that this was how Neanderthals felt, watching the hordes of Cro-Magnum come through to crush them and their past.
I’m ranting now. I’m more or less thinking what it means to write, and to write fiction at that. What does it mean if it can’t cast spells as strong as I may want?
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs! Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
I didn’t ask questions as I sat there with him in the dark basements apartment in the Upper East Side. We knew some illegals who had ratlines out of the city via boat and onto a sailboat which would take him to Barcelona. There he would hopefully find refuge in the arms of the underground community of anarchists.
Having never been in the presence of a witch before (apparently, it’s all witches and no warlocks, sex be damned), I remained unbelieving, silent, and apprehensive. When the van came by around midnight, we still hadn’t exchanged a word. And as I ate our halal food—with that perfectly roasted spring chicken—his smoke filling the air, the van idling outside, I wondered how it was that he, a middle-class faithful, could even have achieved such notoriety.
In the van, hoods over our heads, he started to pray in some foreign tongue, or rather, in an odd combination of English, math, and programming descriptions. My nerves frayed, I finally asked him what he had done to result in his running out of the country like this.
Witchcraft, he explained with a smile. I didn’t want to believe him because my main impetus for helping him was that the witch list was in fact a false list used for political purposes. But his face was dead serious and sucked the air out of my lungs; I was unable to reply. Silence and the sound of the old van’s body panels rattling over potholes filled the air. I could smell something like cumin and blood. Soon we were at the boat house, somewhere in the Bronx. We had to wait for a gap in the boat patrols before we left.
I wanted to ask what kind of witchcraft but instead asked if the witchcraft was real, or if he was joking. His words were spoken like that of a man who knows there are only a few more moments left in his life: he explained that his was indeed witchcraft, but the kind that twisted a screen’s reality. What he and my friend in Barcelona—had done was to spread certain words, phrases, ideas into the wide web and allow these words to infiltrate any and all texts: focusing on communications and news stories. The result had been mass hysteria. But the thing about this spell was that it had become a life unto itself and so nothing was going to stop it—hence the reason he had to leave and why the friend from before had to leave.
And so it goes. I watched him leave on the boat and never really heard from him again. The effects of the spell he created were covered up with great skill, though one could never really trust what one was reading anymore. Not on a screen, at least.
And I was left to fend for myself, a writer using the specific tools of literature to cast spells. Or trying to, even though after hearing that witch’s language, and somewhat understanding its effects, I knew that I may very well be speaking a language that had weak spells while this new language, or form of language, or new religion, was much more powerful than that which I had at my disposal, and that any spell I had at my disposal would succeed only with wings from the other language. And I at once felt weak and impotent, imagining that this was how Neanderthals felt, watching the hordes of Cro-Magnum come through to crush them and their past.
I’m ranting now. I’m more or less thinking what it means to write, and to write fiction at that. What does it mean if it can’t cast spells as strong as I may want?
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
January 29, 2016
Sculpture as art
In a very secluded part of Lower Manhattan, there lies a little known park, no more than 5x5 feet, called Plutocrat's Park (though not officially). I happened to come across this one day as I was loitering near Wall Street. To call it small would be an understatement. And perhaps to call it a park would be stretching the definition of that word as well, for there was no plant life near this barren park. Composed of a a curved clay ground I sat down and felt an unwelcome prick.
Upon further examination, I realized that out of the clay protruded micro people cast from metal. I had to lie down to realize that the entire clay base was filled with these people and that they were all naked and pulling upon slabs of rock. The slabs were all being pulled towards the edges of the park to make a wall (half made at this point). On the top of this wall were people with whips; though they wore flowing robes.
I found it an odd space, and odder still that there was no one around and no inscription in place. The metal looked worn enough to be old, but I wondered how old could such a piece of art be? I like art, if you didn't know and seeing something like this made me wish that all sculptures tried harder to say something [1]. But that could be just me.
[1] Sometimes it seems I see two kinds of sculptures: the hero worship kind, built for the same ideals as those in Rome and Europe (and the USSR) built them for, and the post-modern kind which don't really say much, though some can be interesting.
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
Upon further examination, I realized that out of the clay protruded micro people cast from metal. I had to lie down to realize that the entire clay base was filled with these people and that they were all naked and pulling upon slabs of rock. The slabs were all being pulled towards the edges of the park to make a wall (half made at this point). On the top of this wall were people with whips; though they wore flowing robes.
I found it an odd space, and odder still that there was no one around and no inscription in place. The metal looked worn enough to be old, but I wondered how old could such a piece of art be? I like art, if you didn't know and seeing something like this made me wish that all sculptures tried harder to say something [1]. But that could be just me.
[1] Sometimes it seems I see two kinds of sculptures: the hero worship kind, built for the same ideals as those in Rome and Europe (and the USSR) built them for, and the post-modern kind which don't really say much, though some can be interesting.
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
Scuplture as art
In a very secluded part of Lower Manhattan, there lies a little known park, no more than 5x5 feet, called Plutocrat's Park (though not officially). I happened to come across this one day as I was loitering near Wall Street. To call it small would be an understatement. And perhaps to call it a park would be stretching the definition of that word as well, for there was no plant life near this barren park. Composed of a a curved clay ground I sat down and felt an unwelcome prick.
Upon further examination, I realized that out of the clay protruded micro people cast from metal. I had to lie down to realize that the entire clay base was filled with these people and that they were all naked and pulling upon slabs of rock. The slabs were all being pulled towards the edges of the park to make a wall (half made at this point). On the top of this wall were people with whips; though they wore flowing robes.
I found it an odd space, and odder still that there was no one around and no inscription in place. The metal looked worn enough to be old, but I wondered how old could such a piece of art be? I like art, if you didn't know and seeing something like this made me wish that all sculptures tried harder to say something [1]. But that could be just me.
[1] Sometimes it seems I see two kinds of sculptures: the hero worship kind, built for the same ideals as those in Rome and Europe (and the USSR) built them for, and the post-modern kind which don't really say much, though some can be interesting.
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
Upon further examination, I realized that out of the clay protruded micro people cast from metal. I had to lie down to realize that the entire clay base was filled with these people and that they were all naked and pulling upon slabs of rock. The slabs were all being pulled towards the edges of the park to make a wall (half made at this point). On the top of this wall were people with whips; though they wore flowing robes.
I found it an odd space, and odder still that there was no one around and no inscription in place. The metal looked worn enough to be old, but I wondered how old could such a piece of art be? I like art, if you didn't know and seeing something like this made me wish that all sculptures tried harder to say something [1]. But that could be just me.
[1] Sometimes it seems I see two kinds of sculptures: the hero worship kind, built for the same ideals as those in Rome and Europe (and the USSR) built them for, and the post-modern kind which don't really say much, though some can be interesting.
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
January 27, 2016
Ah, that fractal life
Well, thanks to Electric Lit for bringing this little interesting study into the light.
In Poland, researchers
found that many of the classics do indeed have fractal aspects to their writing (an example of science following art?—in terms of ). Very interesting findings. Of course here at my blog I already
have a series that's fractal
(as well as a
piece about the author Algo
who writes in the fractal manner), so it's nice to see something like this out there in the world. Not, of course, to say that I am the first to think in such a manner [1].
This fractal image as narrative comes across as closer to reality than the normal way of telling a story (no matter how used to the latter way we may be). I hope to accomplish my next novel in such a manner.
[1] Though this has given me a breakthrough in Romania, of all places, as the fractal story caught the eye of a professor there working on chaos theory in literature. Good times. So if you find me somewhere there, I want that tweeted.
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs! Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
This fractal image as narrative comes across as closer to reality than the normal way of telling a story (no matter how used to the latter way we may be). I hope to accomplish my next novel in such a manner.
[1] Though this has given me a breakthrough in Romania, of all places, as the fractal story caught the eye of a professor there working on chaos theory in literature. Good times. So if you find me somewhere there, I want that tweeted.
Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
Nelson Lowhim's Blog
- Nelson Lowhim's profile
- 14 followers
Nelson Lowhim isn't a Goodreads Author
(yet),
but they
do have a blog,
so here are some recent posts imported from
their feed.
