Thursday, March 7, 2013
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Better Late Than Never
So there I am, a full week after reading that story, ironing a shirt. I'm working on the left sleeve and it hits me...
"Son-of-a-BITCH!!! It was his MOTHER! It was her the whole time! She killed him so her son would get called out of witness protection by the FBI to help with the investigation, knowing he would learn the truth about his real father since he would be the PRIME SUSPECT!!!
... SHIT!"
I yelled all this in my living room with a hot iron in my right hand... Mostly naked
"Son-of-a-BITCH!!! It was his MOTHER! It was her the whole time! She killed him so her son would get called out of witness protection by the FBI to help with the investigation, knowing he would learn the truth about his real father since he would be the PRIME SUSPECT!!!
... SHIT!"
I yelled all this in my living room with a hot iron in my right hand... Mostly naked
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Don't ask me what this has to do with anything
The other day I was looking at my feet. I did it for too long and they started to frighten me.
No shit, I was scared of my feet. They just didn't look right, like some pallid monster from a Guillermo del Toro film. I had to cover them with something. Even that didn't help because afterwards I had such a hard time believing that I had REALLY been scared of my feet that I kept pulling down the blanket to look at them again. Sure enough, my feet were still disturbing as hell.
It was something to do with the way my arches swooped into my toes, and how bulbous my toes looked, cresting out from the end of my feet like gnarled waves.
I've had similar experiences with other body parts, though rarely as terrifying. The other day I found myself watching my hands type. It was baffling; these weird spidery creatures stroking and tapping at a keyboard. I knew full well they were only doing my bidding, translating my ideas from electrical impulses to motion to learned positions on a keypad that made things appear on the screen in front of me that were supposed to contain my thoughts, ideas, dreams, revelations and fears.
I wasn't concerned with the screen, I was watching the thick-jointed spiders. I didn't recognize the language they were using to talk to the keyboard. They were foreign and acting on their own. They seemed to know what they were doing, even if I didn't, and they applied their craft without taking note of their observer.
Later, when I had occasion to review their product, they seemed to have done their job satisfactorily: interpreting and streamlining the load of crap that tornadoes around the inside of my head. Looking back, it seemed the ultimate in task delegation and managerial trust.
I handed over a wheelbarrow of disorganized documents and ketchup-stained receipts and asked for a report on my desk by 5. Hands delivered.
While I am not a strict Mavis Bacon home-row typist, my typing speed and error count are unimpressive, my hands are accustomed to the keyboard. I don't have to think about typing (even if I have to go back and edit later). The freedom to put my hands to a keyboard and let my fingers parse-out the important bits and Tivo my internal monologue (sometimes it's a dialog) allows my mind to wrap itself around other things.
These things are generally trivial: how much I like blueberries (I really DO like blueberries), why my chest hair is in the shape of an X, why that lady is yelling at that old man.
One day, if I am very very lucky, I may have something important to say. Until them, you're stuck with this crap, and my hands will have to be content with describing how terrifying my feet are.
No shit, I was scared of my feet. They just didn't look right, like some pallid monster from a Guillermo del Toro film. I had to cover them with something. Even that didn't help because afterwards I had such a hard time believing that I had REALLY been scared of my feet that I kept pulling down the blanket to look at them again. Sure enough, my feet were still disturbing as hell.
It was something to do with the way my arches swooped into my toes, and how bulbous my toes looked, cresting out from the end of my feet like gnarled waves.
I've had similar experiences with other body parts, though rarely as terrifying. The other day I found myself watching my hands type. It was baffling; these weird spidery creatures stroking and tapping at a keyboard. I knew full well they were only doing my bidding, translating my ideas from electrical impulses to motion to learned positions on a keypad that made things appear on the screen in front of me that were supposed to contain my thoughts, ideas, dreams, revelations and fears.
I wasn't concerned with the screen, I was watching the thick-jointed spiders. I didn't recognize the language they were using to talk to the keyboard. They were foreign and acting on their own. They seemed to know what they were doing, even if I didn't, and they applied their craft without taking note of their observer.
Later, when I had occasion to review their product, they seemed to have done their job satisfactorily: interpreting and streamlining the load of crap that tornadoes around the inside of my head. Looking back, it seemed the ultimate in task delegation and managerial trust.
I handed over a wheelbarrow of disorganized documents and ketchup-stained receipts and asked for a report on my desk by 5. Hands delivered.
While I am not a strict Mavis Bacon home-row typist, my typing speed and error count are unimpressive, my hands are accustomed to the keyboard. I don't have to think about typing (even if I have to go back and edit later). The freedom to put my hands to a keyboard and let my fingers parse-out the important bits and Tivo my internal monologue (sometimes it's a dialog) allows my mind to wrap itself around other things.
These things are generally trivial: how much I like blueberries (I really DO like blueberries), why my chest hair is in the shape of an X, why that lady is yelling at that old man.
One day, if I am very very lucky, I may have something important to say. Until them, you're stuck with this crap, and my hands will have to be content with describing how terrifying my feet are.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Pteroberries
I've found I work best when I allow myself to do what's on my mind. If I'm not forcing thoughts and ideas, they flow more easily, I can see things from different angles, and I don't feel like I'm fighting against myself. The problem with this, of course, is that my mind is rarely fixated on what REALLY needs to get done at any given moment.
Some people (generally referred to as "productive members of society") don't have this problem, or at least not to the extent that I find I do. This is either due to some natural focus they have, or in most cases, I think, they've developed the mental discipline to get shit done when it needs doing.
Now, I can buckle down and get things done; I don't mind sweat, work or overtime, but I find difficulty when I try to work on something creative or with much longer term or looser goals. When I sit down to work on something like that, my mind says "no thank you, we'd rather think about blueberry pterodactyls."
I've had to develop some techniques to trick my brain into putting in work where I want it.
1) let it do what it wants.
I open up whatever project I want to work on, and then I open up a blank document.
"Blueberry pterodactyls you say? Fascinating, tell me more."
"... Really? Ok, well...."
Under normal operating conditions, my brain has the attention span of a Kool-Aid fueled 8-year-old, and I know the blueberry pterodactyls will run their course pretty quickly. The second the stream of consciousness stalls I switch over to my project and I use the leftover momentum to get started.
That momentum isn't going to last long though. Pretty soon the downhill coast off of Pterodactyl Hill is going to peter out and I'll find myself working against gravity again.
2) Build momentum
Ive found that my brain (and maybe yours) will tackle just about any subject, if properly warmed up to it. The problem is that real-world stuff is rarely as interesting as indigo dinosaurs.
I let myself go back to the pterodactyls when my momentum slows too much. I want to keep mental speed. I switch back to the pterodactyls and let my brain ramp up again before going back to the real work; Sometimes it's 30 seconds, sometimes it's 30 minutes.
I could probably use a merry-go-round as an analog: giving your brain a hard spin with the pterodactyls and then coasting on your real project awhile before giving it another good shove. But I would much rather compare this to that time when Bill Shatner took a Klingon ship around the sun, using it's gravity to slingshot all his homies back in time so they could apprehend a couple of whales and save Earth... Again.
I like that much better.
I just started a sentence with a conjunction and abused ellipses... Suck it!
3) Convince it that it wants something else
I cycle back and forth between whatever project I'm working on and free-writing about whatever is getting in the way. Sometimes I never get away from this pattern and I'll cycle back and forth for as long as can I stay glued to the computer, and that's usually sufficient. Sometimes though, I'm able to get myself completely off the distraction and engrossed deep enough in my project to just "go."
Tricking an 8-year-old into gleefully doing something it doesn't really want to is deceitful, it's impolite but it's also a beautiful, satisfying feeling regardless of how much or little I actually get done.
Incidentally, this post was a pterodactyl for another project.
Some people (generally referred to as "productive members of society") don't have this problem, or at least not to the extent that I find I do. This is either due to some natural focus they have, or in most cases, I think, they've developed the mental discipline to get shit done when it needs doing.
Now, I can buckle down and get things done; I don't mind sweat, work or overtime, but I find difficulty when I try to work on something creative or with much longer term or looser goals. When I sit down to work on something like that, my mind says "no thank you, we'd rather think about blueberry pterodactyls."
I've had to develop some techniques to trick my brain into putting in work where I want it.
1) let it do what it wants.
I open up whatever project I want to work on, and then I open up a blank document.
"Blueberry pterodactyls you say? Fascinating, tell me more."
"... Really? Ok, well...."
Under normal operating conditions, my brain has the attention span of a Kool-Aid fueled 8-year-old, and I know the blueberry pterodactyls will run their course pretty quickly. The second the stream of consciousness stalls I switch over to my project and I use the leftover momentum to get started.
That momentum isn't going to last long though. Pretty soon the downhill coast off of Pterodactyl Hill is going to peter out and I'll find myself working against gravity again.
2) Build momentum
Ive found that my brain (and maybe yours) will tackle just about any subject, if properly warmed up to it. The problem is that real-world stuff is rarely as interesting as indigo dinosaurs.
I let myself go back to the pterodactyls when my momentum slows too much. I want to keep mental speed. I switch back to the pterodactyls and let my brain ramp up again before going back to the real work; Sometimes it's 30 seconds, sometimes it's 30 minutes.
I could probably use a merry-go-round as an analog: giving your brain a hard spin with the pterodactyls and then coasting on your real project awhile before giving it another good shove. But I would much rather compare this to that time when Bill Shatner took a Klingon ship around the sun, using it's gravity to slingshot all his homies back in time so they could apprehend a couple of whales and save Earth... Again.
I like that much better.
I just started a sentence with a conjunction and abused ellipses... Suck it!
3) Convince it that it wants something else
I cycle back and forth between whatever project I'm working on and free-writing about whatever is getting in the way. Sometimes I never get away from this pattern and I'll cycle back and forth for as long as can I stay glued to the computer, and that's usually sufficient. Sometimes though, I'm able to get myself completely off the distraction and engrossed deep enough in my project to just "go."
Tricking an 8-year-old into gleefully doing something it doesn't really want to is deceitful, it's impolite but it's also a beautiful, satisfying feeling regardless of how much or little I actually get done.
Incidentally, this post was a pterodactyl for another project.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
I have the power?
I am the Master of my Universe.
An upright prince, I set out at dawn from Grayskull.
On the bus, Skeletor takes my seat.
We battle.
His reports are late.
He stops my package at customs.
He takes the last donut.
My Power-Sword has made me mighty, but it is only a half.
How do you defend Eternia with with less than a whole?
Where is my Battle-Cat? Where is my Man-At-Arms?
They are on Facebook.
They like my status.
An upright prince, I set out at dawn from Grayskull.
On the bus, Skeletor takes my seat.
We battle.
His reports are late.
He stops my package at customs.
He takes the last donut.
My Power-Sword has made me mighty, but it is only a half.
How do you defend Eternia with with less than a whole?
Where is my Battle-Cat? Where is my Man-At-Arms?
They are on Facebook.
They like my status.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Here we go again
After a number of false starts, let's try this whole "blog" thing again.
I think one of the reasons I failed to write more than 2 blog entries in over two years is that I was taking it too seriously. I felt like my posts needed to have "substance." As elusive and damning a substance as that is, it's no wonder I didn't post much. It's far easier to play video games than think about stuff and make sense of it (nonsense is often more fun). A more accurate way to put it would be to say that I'm lazy. I am, in many ways.
This time around I'm going to settle for volume and regular updates over anything resembling insight. So, without further ado, todays lack of insight:
- Dear Buddha, thanks for having a birthday tomorrow. Tuesdays off are a rare treat that last all week. I plan to celebrate by watching a bad movie and spending some time on the couch, hopefully not alone. Thanks again.
- My iPad is fucking sweet. How else are you gonna play the guitar with your tongue and not risk injury?
- My hair (what remains of it) acts as a natural hygrometer. It's registering high today. I am displeased.
I think one of the reasons I failed to write more than 2 blog entries in over two years is that I was taking it too seriously. I felt like my posts needed to have "substance." As elusive and damning a substance as that is, it's no wonder I didn't post much. It's far easier to play video games than think about stuff and make sense of it (nonsense is often more fun). A more accurate way to put it would be to say that I'm lazy. I am, in many ways.
This time around I'm going to settle for volume and regular updates over anything resembling insight. So, without further ado, todays lack of insight:
- Dear Buddha, thanks for having a birthday tomorrow. Tuesdays off are a rare treat that last all week. I plan to celebrate by watching a bad movie and spending some time on the couch, hopefully not alone. Thanks again.
- My iPad is fucking sweet. How else are you gonna play the guitar with your tongue and not risk injury?
- My hair (what remains of it) acts as a natural hygrometer. It's registering high today. I am displeased.
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