September 30, 2005

Writing playlist

Someone requested the current version of my "writing" playlist, so here it is. I'm still tweaking it ... I had Eminem's "Lose Yourself" in here at one point and keep toying with putting it back in. And there's a couple of others that need to be repeated more frequently. I also have got to replace some of my early U2 records as some of those early, early songs were on my early writing mix tapes. I'll try to find the mix tape I used to write my first book and post that old one this weekend. This particular writing playlist is a generic, get-the-muse-over-here-and-let's-get-busy kind of playlist. Once I start working on something seriously, I'll develop a playlist specifically for that piece.

For me, when i'm writing a long creative piece, I have to have a soundtrack. There's one novel that I've been working on in fits and starts where both major characters have their own playlist which suits their individual personalities.

Current "Generic" Writing Playlist:
"Wake Me Up When September Ends," Green Day, American Idiot
"Time Passages," Al Stewart, Time Passages
"Time In A Bottle," Jim Croce, Jim Croce
"Reminiscing," Little River Band, All-Time Greatest Hits
"Fast Car," Tracy Chapman, Tracy Chapman
"I'm With You," Avril Lavigne, Let Go
"Let The Day Begin," The Call, Let The Day Begin
"Under The Milky Way," The Church, Starfish
"Destination," The Church, Starfish
"Van Diemen's Land," U2, Rattle And Hum
"Enjoy The Silence," Depeche Mode, Singles 86-98 Disc 1
"Personal Jesus," Depeche Mode, Singles 86-98 Disc 1
"Wendy," Tapes, Miccah
"Life in a Northern Town," Dream Academy
"Dear God," XTC, Skylarking
"Save A Prayer," Duran Duran, Greatest Hits
"Return To Innocence," Enigma, Love Sensuality Devotion
"One By One," Enya, A Day Without Rain
"Lazy Days," Enya
"Orinoco Flow," Enya, Paint The Sky With Stars
"Book of Days," Enya
"Unwell," Matchbox Twenty, More Than You Think You Are
"Bohemian Rhapsody," Queen, Greatest Hits I
"Freshmen," Verve Pipe
"Superman," Five for Fighting, America Town
"Mother," Pink Floyd, The Wall (Disc 1)
"Landslide," Fleetwood Mac
"Songs About Rain," Gary Allan, See If I Care
"Wake Me Up When September Ends," Green Day, American Idiot
"River," Indigo Girls, 1200 Curfews (Disc 1)
"Thin Line," Indigo Girls, 1200 Curfews (Disc 1)
"Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee," Indigo Girls , 1200 Curfews (Disc 1)
"cordova," Indigo Girls, All That We Let In
"One Headlight," Wallflowers
"Nightswimming," >R.E.M., Automatic for the People
"Try Not To Breathe," R.E.M., >Automatic for the People
"Low," >R.E.M., Out Of Time
Belong," R.E.M., Out Of Time
Texarkana," R.E.M., Out Of Time
"Country Feedback," R.E.M., >Out Of Time
"Philosophy of Loss," Indigo Girls, Come On Now Social
"gone again," Indigo Girls, Come On Now Social
"cold beer and remote control," Indigo Girls, Come On Now Social
"Kid Fears," Indigo Girls, Indigo Girls
"Blood And Fire," Indigo Girls, >Indigo Girls
"Welcome Me," Indigo Girls, >Nomads Indians Saints
"Cool Change," Little River Band, All-Time Greatest Hits
"Live to Tell," Madonna, Immaculate
"Concrete Angel," Martina McBride, Greatest Hits
"Rest Stop," Matchbox Twenty, Mad Season
"You Can Sleep While I Drive," Melissa Etheridge, Brave And Crazy
"Speed," Montgomery Gentry, My Town

So that's the current playlist and I can feel it starting to work its mojo. Between that and the discussion on BlogExplosion's shoutbox last night about National Novel Writing Month, I'm even getting some ideas for complete re-tooling of an old idea. I'd stopped working on that novel long, long, long ago because being in high school at the time, I realized I didn't have the subtlety to do the idea justice. Also, at the time, I was fighting being seen as a "genre writer." Now, I don't care. I love the SF genre. There is so much incredible stuff going on in the genre, so many ideas and topics and issues that are important to me (and, of course, I think they should be important to everyone). Now, don't get me wrong. I don't think a novel should be "about An Issue." Nope. A novel is about a story you need to tell and about the characters. If you can also, by the by, work in an issue that fits that story - and often it makes the story even deeper and more focused - then great.

Anyhow, that's the playlist and a bit of discussion on my ideas about creative writing. What are your ideas and what kinds of songs do you listen to while writing?

Posted by Red Monkey at 6:18 AM | Comments (7) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

September 28, 2005

fall

If there's one season I hate, it's fall. Even with as much as I hate being cooped up inside during the winter, even with as much as I hate the cold -- especially now that I'm living in Indiana.

As the weather starts to cool off and that nip hits the morning air as I walk out to my car, I can feel the impending doom of winter building. And that feeling of the impending winter, fighting with the snow and cold and nasty, short grey days, just sucks all the life out of me.

It doesn't help that my allergies will kick into overdrive in the fall and just makes the whole thing even worse.

I used to be able to circumvent this a bit when I was teaching. After all, the semester would only be about five weeks old at this point in the year. I'd have finally solidly learned all my students names (I stink at names and faces -- I'm a names and personalities kind of person). The first paper would be turned in and I'd be so distracted by trying to get those graded within 2-3 days, that I'd be able to ignore the need for a light jacket and trudge on to classes, loaded down with folders of papers and responses.

Yeah, I guess I'm a little melancholy today. It's been in the 40s and 50s when I leave for work in the morning. I still haven't been able to make myself grab a jacket as I walk out the door, though. And then I get to my pointless job and wonder ... if I was still teaching, where would we be in the semester? What would we be doing in class today? How are the "kids" who would have been "mine" doing? Are they getting the lessons? Is their writing improving? Are they having fun (or at least as much fun as they can have in a freshman writing class)?

When I packed up my office, I didn't really go through most of my papers. I packed them into boxes and took them straight up into the attic. It was just too painful to try to go through all of that and admit that that part of my life was over - at least for a while. But I keep hearing our mutant chipmunk up in the attic, scurrying around like he does. Is he going through my papers for me, shredding them up for a nest amongst the insulation?
I'm afraid to go up there and find out.

I still can't face those boxes of papers. It's been about a year and a half since I taught a class.

I really hate fall now. Almost as much as the kids who're simply sad that summer is gone and school is beginning again.

Posted by Red Monkey at 11:07 AM | Comments (0) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

September 23, 2005

nIghTmaRes

Didja ever have one of those nightmares that wake you up, not screaming and thrashing, but with every muscle perfectly tensed and still, frightened to move at all?

I am so glad that it's Friday. Maybe I'll get some sleep this weekend.

---

I can hear him struggling with the door. Another peal of thunder, the long lingering kind where the bass goes on forever. The electricity's out again and I can't help but think that BG must have planned this for a night with a thunderstorm. One more cheesy touch to his idiotic fantasy life.

I'm trying to convince M that we need to move and we need to move now. There's no time to pause to call the cops. We have to make the unexpected move now, while we have the time. In fact, what can I do to buy us more time?

Another flash of lightning and low rumbling thunder. We run to the master bedroom and I lock the door although that won't make him pause for long. Not with as pissed as he is right now. I don't know why he didn't break a window. It's as if he has something to prove to the front door right now -- that no doors will ever keep him out. And, of course, there is no back door. Of course. We have to go out a window and we have to do it fast and quietly.

With the exception of the recently remodeled bathroom, though, none of the windows in this tiny little bungalow even open and that's where we're headed. M locks that door as well as I start trying to get the window opened, undoing each of the four flathead screws before we can get out of here and hope to be gone before he realizes we're not in the house anymore.

Yeah. Stupid dream logic. It's really not a very scary dream. And why in the world does this house have only one door and just one functioning window????

But, dream logic rarely makes much sense to me after I wake up.

Well, I'm running late for work, so I'd better skedaddle.

Posted by Red Monkey at 5:11 AM | Comments (1) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

September 20, 2005

A Piece of the Possum

When I was five, we moved to Austin, Texas, and in my heart, I never left there. There's something about the Hill Country in Texas ... no matter what else you may think about Texas, boots, horses, the Shrub (yes, I mean the ex-National Guardsman who pretty much loses interest in everything and walks away), wilderness, snakes, rednecks, regardless of all of that, Austin is the most beautiful place in the world to me.

At the time, we lived waaay out on the outskirts of town, up on the North end, just off the highway and down the road from a quarry. Balcones Woods, as our community was called, was mostly woods when we moved there -- in fact, Dad took a section of the fencing down so we could go walking in the woods behind our house. Of course, my sister and I weren't allowed out in the woods without him, but it was fun to get as close to the gap in the fence as possible to see how long it took before we got yelled at.

I loved watching the rabbits and the deer wander into the yard and didn't really understand why Dad was trying so hard to keep them out of the garden -- they could eat all the green beans they wanted as far as I was concerned! I was utterly fascinated with all the wildlife (except the scorpions -- I even played with the "baby" ribbon snakes on a regular basis).

Mom and Dad converted our garage into a playroom for my sister and I -- and for Dad's train set (don't touch!) and his tools (don't touch those either!). Jenny and I were out there playing one day and Mom opened the side door to take the trash out.

She promptly screamed and slammed the side door.

"What's the matter, Mom?" I asked calmly. I was about seven and used to these little outbursts.

"There's a big ugly 'possum in the trash can and now I can't throw away the trash."

"I'll take it."

"NO!"

She stood there, quivering, next to the side door. She couldn't seem to put the trash down (it's dirty, after all) and she couldn't seem to move, either.

I moved toward the door. "I'll just knock the trash can over, Mom. Then he'll run away and you can toss the trash out." I generally tried to be helpful. Generally.

"NO!" She finally moved. "I'll call your dad at work."

"Why?"

"I'll get him to come home and get rid of the 'possum."

"I said I would do it, Mom."

Now, here's where the story gets either interesting or sad, depending on your frame of mind. I tend to find it hysterically funny. Most days.

Mom stared at me in shocked horror. "You can't!"

I rolled my eyes. "All I gotta do is knock the trash can over, Mom. 'Possums aren't that heavy."

"No! It has rabies and it will kill you."

Now Mom decided that it did have rabies after her split second look. Not that it maybe had rabies, but that it definitely did.

"I'll run back inside real fast," I assured her.

"No." She was still standing at the doorway, staring distrustfully at the door, as if that crazy ole 'possum was going to tear it down any minute now.

I sighed with all the grace of a seven-year-old. "I'll knock it over with a stick."

"No, it'll get into the house and give us all rabies."

"How about this, I'll just open the door up a little bit, knock the can over with this broom handle and then shut the door real fast?"

No. The 'possum was going to magically dart into the house the moment the door opened, bite us all and give us all rabies and we'd evidently be dead before Dad even got home from work.

I rolled my eyes again. "Well then, you hold the door handle mostly shut against the broom handle. I'll knock the can over with the broom and then yank the handle back into the house and the pressure of you holding the door against the handle will shut the door before the 'possum can get in."

Now she's finally full-blown hysterical.
The 'possum was going to jump out of the trash can at the sound of the door, use its little hands to rip open the door because it was stronger than Mom and it would rip the doorknob right out of her hands, come into the house and, say it with me kids, "bite us all and give us rabies and kill us."

At that point, I decided my mother needed more help than a seven-year-old could give her and I walked off. She finally set the trash down next to the door and went off to call Dad, who, of course, did not leave work to chase away the nasty 'possum.

And I, of course, went outside as soon as possible to see if I could rid the trashcan of the 'possum and play hero (even though I knew I would get in trouble if I did it).

Stupid thing was already gone by the time I got outside.

That was the day, though, that I realized something wasn't right with my mom. I probably should have realized it before then, but hey, I was only seven after all. And it would be a long, long time even after this incident before I realized that there really wasn't much I could do to make her feel safe.

But I could always go back into the backyard, look at the trees, rocks, grass, critters and everything else and feel that all was right with the world.

Posted by Red Monkey at 10:28 AM | Comments (2) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

September 18, 2005

My Roommate

This is just too good to not pass along. My partner's sister is currently teaching English in Turkmenistan (Ashgabat, to be exact) and is staying at the American embassy with a wonderful roommate. I just have to share her latest roommate story with the world.

I’ve been seeing more of my lizard-roommate lately…perhaps that means he’s getting braver. it still makes me start to see him scuttling away, but Friday night was the worst! I walked into the kitchen to make dinner, and I saw him just underneath on of the counters, flicking himself back and forth rapidly. My first thought was, "Oh, no, something bigger is under there eating him!" and I started to worry about snakes, huge spiders, and scorpions. Then he stopped flailing about, so I went closer … and discovered that he was trapped in one of my cockroach-cum-pseudo ant traps. Let me clarify…there are none of the small plastic poison-filled tray ant traps available here. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything available to combat ants, and instead I was given some gel-goo that was supposed to get rid of cockroaches…and by get rid of, I apparently mean that it would capture them and hold them fast until they died in a place I could reach to dispose of them … gross!

I digress … so there are 3 hardening globs of this gel at random intervals on my kitchen floor, just under the counters so I don’t step in them, and the lizard was trapped in one. When I bent down to assess the situation, he began to flail again, whipping himself side-to-side as hard as possible even though his back feet were stuck fast, making a noise much akin to that of a rattle snake. Now I’m thinking, "Great, he’s going to die slowly there, and I’ll have to first watch and then pry a his body off of my floor!" I decided to attempt to rescue him … so I covered on hand in a towel in case he tried to bite me or whatever tiny lizards do. Then I used a paper towel to put some warm water on the gel to soften it to the point that he might be able to get out, all the while fearing I’d drown him or mash his hair-like toes as I tried to scoot him out of the mess. Meanwhile, he’s still hissing, but he stopped flailing … probably because I was hurting him. Anyway, it eventually worked, and he ran off.

Now I have no idea what will happen when the gel that is still on his feet re-hardens … I guess I’ll have a lame lizard, probably still slowly dying in some hard-to-reach place, like under the washing machine. I should have trapped him and released him outside, I guess, but I didn’t have the wherewithal to think that far ahead. I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see if I catch sight of him running away over the weekend … ah, good times in Ashgabat!

(And five obscure music points to the first person who names the group who sang a song with the same title as this post!)

Posted by Red Monkey at 7:33 AM | Comments (1) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

September 12, 2005

House Dreams

As a kid, I was far more interested in mom and dad's old toys than a lot of the new, hip stuff. I've already talked about dad's old parcheesi game and a little about a game called Park N Shop, but those weren't the only things I found.

Dad had a "stash" of bookcase games that he kept out in the garage when I was little. We'd converted our garage into a playroom within a few months of moving into that house in Austin. And even though we were "outside," I loved it. I could set up all those Fisher Price Little People sets and play for days without having ot pick everything up.

Dad had weird games like some stocks & bonds game and other business type games. I never saw him play them; I never actually played them, either. But I would occassionally slip the box down out of its spot and open it up. The rules were recorded in some long and involved booklet that I scanned from time to time. There was no board to play on -- instead, just cards and pieces and colorful play money. And this wonderful old graphics that didn't look anything like our board games of the 70s.

But the real treasure trove for me was my grandparents' garage. Canes made from bamboo, ancient radios wrapped in leather or made from a strange swirly, opaque plastic (bakelike). I would go through the garage and pull out five, ten of these radios and set them all up on top of each other and revel in the command center of my spaceship, imagining and anticipating the computerized era fast approaching.

That was where I found my aunt's MouseTrap! game, with its many, many pieces. In fact, at first, I didn't even realize it was a game. I just dumped all the pieces out and starting building mouse traps -- and that kept me busy for hours.

The real find, though, was a green and white and black cardboard box.

Now, you have to understand one thing before I get into this. I was never much for dolls. I like some of them. They're okay. I liked ones that were really unique or different like the soft sculpture doll that my grandma won as a prize -- it was a native american doll with a real leather outfit and nice beadwork (I've forgotten what tribe it was from, though). And I never showed a lot of interest in Barbies. Changing a doll's clothes didn't seem as fascinating to me as it did a lot of other kids.

But then I found the green, white and black box.

This was the 1962 Barbie's dreamhouse. It had a nice handle on the top and latches to keep it all closed up when transporting or storing it. But inside was a treasure trove of cardboard furniture -- thick cardboard even thicker than the back of a legal pad. There were little cardboard records to play on the cardboard tv/stereo console. There was a built-in bookshelf, vanity and closet. And hangers to hang up Barbie's clothes. Chairs, a couch, a coffee table.

And I also discovered a slew of Barbies. There were two Barbies (one was probably Midge or one of the other girls) and an Allen doll. I already had Skipper (she of the fly-away long-ass hair). More clothes than I had ever imagined existed for Barbies. There was an airline outfit complete with American Airlines bag. A doctor's outfit, bag and stethoscope! A clown outfit for Allen. Suits, tennis shoes, dress shoes, roller skates, ice skates! A sailor hat. There were green flippers to wear while snorkeling. There were even some wigs.

I could open up that old piece of cardboard and be lost for days.

I guess, for me, there's just something about the smell of vintage cardboard and the look of vintage graphics that just transports me to a whole nother plane.

I only have a few pieces left of that vintage Barbie treasure trove. I gave to of the dolls to my now ex-mother-in-law. Had my ex and I stayed together forever as I'd certainly planned, I'd never have regretted it. Now, though ... I gotta admit I wish I had them back. They're worth about $200 apiece even in all their blue eye-shadowed semi-glory. But I still have Allen -- he was easily my favorite. And I still have my Skipper doll with her hideous haircut that I gave her in lieu of cutting my own hair.

And I still have roller skates, ice skates, the doctor's outfit ... sadly, the stethoscope is missing the little end that you put on someone's chest. And the second stethoscope is just the silver yoke to put in your ears. I still have the happy little clown outfit and at least one of the suits.

But I'd only ever seen that cardboard dollhouse once in the intervening years since mom's purging of my toys and my grandparents' down-sizing and down-sizing and down-sizing (with each move, it seemed like more of my childhood just drifted away). I was in an antique store in Niles, Michigan ... and there it was, up on top of a shelf. I reached for the price tag and then refused to touch the house itself. $120 for that house, devoid of any accessories. I didn't enjoy Barbies or the house enough to pay that kind of money for it.

Yesterday, though, we were cruising around the LaPorte Antique Fair which was sadly devoid of any Commodore 64s and any Fisher Price Little People. But when we walked into the far commercial building, I about fell over.

Alone at the end of a table, the dreamhouse was opened up for all to see its cardboard glory and stellar early 60s interior design. And the price was nothing near what I'd seen at the antique mall. Decent shape, all the furniture there and all the legs pretty much intact -- not too common for cardboard furniture. All the little albums, even the beloved Kingston Trio one.

Yeah, it's at the house now. Like I could resist a piece of my childhood history like that!

I went down to the basement and pulled out the little stash of Mego superheroes, Sunshine Family dolls and the tiny stash of the Barbie collection and brought it all upstairs. Opened up the dreamhouse and started putting some of Allen's clothes on the hangers, arranging the furniture.

Holy crap, I did a HORRIBLE job of cutting Skipper's hair. I may actually get out the scissors again just to even it up. I should probably let it alone, but man!

I must have sat on the floor amidst our two miniature dachshunds in all their rapt puzzlement at my activity and messed with that Barbie stuff for an hour or more. I got all of Allen's shoes lined up in the base of the closet, moved the picture of Ken around a few times, let Skipper watch tv (when I wasn't trying to smooth her hair out and try to figure out WHAT I thought I was doing to her hair).

It's amazing that a little bit of cardboard can be that fascinating and make me that happy.

Oh, and I think I found the Parcheesi board on eBay. It should arrive this week, too.

Maybe I'm just addicted to cardboard ....

Posted by Red Monkey at 10:17 AM | Comments (1) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble