Morning Pages - 13.0 (The Importance of Making Coffee)

I won't go into dream-detail this time around. Suffice it to say that making coffee, of all things, at least twice played an important role in the proceedings. First time, when I found myself for some reason working once again for my former employer; second when I was part of Control (yes, oldsters, that "Control"). Neither 86 nor 99 put in an appearance, but the waiting room was quite full of evil doers, all apparently patiently waiting their turn to wreak KAOS-style havoc.

The machine itself was of an unfamiliar design and I more than once found myself irritated by the fact that the measurements were all in metric, leaving me quite at sea when it came to grinding the beans: though I think in kilometres and degrees celsius by default, when it comes to making coffee it's still table-spoons for me.

* * *
It seems I will probably not be hosting the African Diaspora this week after all. My cousins mother-in-law (and entourage) has instead arranged for a couple of rooms in the home of a retired couple - whether of there acquaintance or simply found via the internet, I am not sure. However, the ladies are elderly, and the place is in Thornhill, apparently quite a long walk from the nearest bus-stop. God knows, if I were in their place, I would prefer the cramped quarters on offer downtown over the windy desolation of suburbia any day.

But I am not them, so who knows? And besides - especially given that I haven't met the woman for some 18 years (though she knows well who I am - "That's Carl's oldest son, isn't it?" she asked my cousin when my offer had been transmitted. She and my dad get along quite well), it may be they feel the imposition would be simply a little too much.

Naturally I am in truth relieved; my place is only a one-bedroom apartment (with sun-room/office). But I am also disappointed. It would have been an interesting week, whatever the inconveniences that would have accompanied it.

Nevertheless, my nightly orgies can continue without let-up after all. Unless they change their minds and telephone me to say they are coming after all.

* * *
I'm afraid I have been neglecting the keyboard these past few days. I have bogged-down on "The Adventures of Ashera" and will not likely be getting back to it today; though she hasn't confirmed, I am tentatively committed to helping Siya move into her new place today. And tomorrow, I have an appointment about which I can say nothing - now or ever! - but that much of my day is spoken for (yes! suffer Gentle Readers! Suffer!).

* * *
My continuing quest for pre-sleep comfort-reading led me to pull off my shelf a 30 year-old issue of the excellent (I had remarkable taste as a kid, I tells ya!) old fanzine, Algol. It contained an article by Poul Anderson. Never one of my favourite SF writers, he was nevertheless a craftsman of the higher orders and I have enjoyed his work and even own a collection of his stroies.

His piece was a meandering one. Having been asked to provide some sort of memoir, he instead discussed mostly his methods and habits when it came to writing (3,000 words a day, the son-of-a-bitch!). What most struck me was when he quoted a descriptive passage from one of his own stories as an example of a "rule" he strove to follow when doing such things.

Namely, that a description should not only be visual, but should encompass all of the senses, alluding to what things feel and smell like, etc, as well as to what things look like.

Good advice, which I shall endeavour to remember. I suspect that my own descriptive passages have not been thin only - as I had thought - because my powers of visual observation are, in life, rather limited (I don't just forget names, I forget faces, too).

In fact, maybe some practice is in order.

It was a cool and quiet morning. The morning light through the dirty, stained windows of his office was bright but thin, hinting strongly at the anaemic winter sun that was soon to come. The yard beyond the glass was unkempt, an large patch of green in the midst of the city that allowed the man to imagine he was beyond the urban borders, if he squinted a little. The leaves drooped, looking tired, nearing the end of a lot and hot summer. There was little movement. Only the nearest leaves indicated the air was moving at all.

Shit. That sucks, doesn't it? Well, one must practice.

For the record: Profile, 2007/09/10

[About to update my info page, the following is reprinted here, for the record. — gd: 2009/02/20.]

September 10, 2007

Like many other blogs, mine serves several purposes, including occasional, entirely self-indulgent reports on the highs, lows and mid-points of my life; book reviews and criticism and (rarely) commentary on other media; cultural commentary in general; political commentary and rants, depending on the level of my rage and the quality of my patience; first drafts of fiction, finished or not finished; morning pages (these almost invariably under an lj-cut, as are the first-drafts); and whatever else I care to share with my adoring public - and you, too, if you're interested in reading.

I also post occasional photos, sometimes even cat-pictures, such as the following.



But not too often.

Most of this journal is open to all, though anonymous responses are screened; if you want to be notified when (if - I don't mind a good debate, but ad hominem attacks won't be tolerated) I un-screen it, please provide an email address in a separate response, which I will delete once I've approved the first one, so no one else will see it. (I will, of course, turn right around and sell it to every spammer I can find).

I use anglo-saxonisms; I don't believe in god or goddess or even flying-spaghetti monster (though I sort of wish I did the latter). I sometimes reference sex, drinking and other forms of debauchery. If I have sex with you, I'll probably talk about it unless you specifically tell me not to.

That's about it for the journal itself. Many of my interests are listed below and a great deal of my ongoing autobiography can be found within the entries readily available inside.

Briefly, I am 42 years old, single and childless. I am currently unemployed and using this time as an opportunity to get serious about my writing and also hope to start making some money through web design.

I am a laughing existentialist and a non-doctrinaire left-winger. I read a great deal and mostly avoid television, though without the sneer of contempt that many televisual-phobes seem to enjoy so much. I listen to CBC Radio regularly and read such magazines as Frank, Analog Science Fiction and Fact, Harper's, The Comics Journal and, occasionally, The New Yorker and The Economist.

I am a decent cook, give a great massage and can get along with punk-rockers as comfortably (or uncomfortably) as I do with rich folk - maybe better. I prefer pubs and sidewalk patios to clubs, enjoy wit and debate and laugh quite a lot. I like to think I am a happy, mostly well-adjusted (when I'm not depressed) product of the 20th century (albeit from an unusual neighbourhood of same) and hope to see as much of the 21st as luck and good breeding will allow.

If you choose to friend me, welcome aboard. If you tell me you've done so, I'll likely return the favour, but I reserve the right to reverse the decision. You're welcome to stick around if that happens, but there'll be no hard feelings if you opt to take your leave.

Cheers!



[Interests were listed as follows.]

afterplay, age-gap, alice in wonderland, analog science fiction, art, atheist, autumn, bluegrass, bob dylan, books, bsg, cbc radio, cerebus, consent, cooking, cuddling, cunnilingus, dhalgren, doctor who, drupal, ecology, ezines, feminism, flirting, foreplay, garlic, globe and mail, habs, harper's magazine, hockey, hot wax, j.r.r. tolkien, jane austen, kim stanley robinson, kissing, laughter, learning, literature, lsd, massage, parkdale, patti smith, peaches, pesto, philosophy, pints, politics, pubs, reading, samuel r. delany, science, science fiction, sctv, semi-colons, sexual politics, sexuality, shakespeare, short skirts, spanking, spring, stan rogers, summer, the frantics, thinking, tintin, tom lehrer, toronto, winter, wordplay, writing

The Adventures of Ashera - 3.0

More first-draft science fiction/fantasy that you're free to ignore. But ( click here if you're interested. )