an introduction

I wonder if "everyone" which is to say most think about projects of writing, almost none of which are done quickly or easily. The one occasional exception to this for me is poetry. As of tomorrow, I intend to publish one poem (in order, no less) from Voices and advertise my blogs everywhere possible by every means possible. The study is over. I kind of made the assumption--I know that's not correct English--that it would be obvious when it was. I am no longer masquerading as one of the "Great Unwashed". I don't know whether I should have taken the offered routes, don't even know if I could have stood the deals. Now comes the writing and tying things together. Done correctly, I even get paid for it. And Voices at this point can easily be used as intro, holding back the more current poetry now. I am prolific. You have to give me that. Good? I'd rather leave the judgment to others, although as matters stand or lie (depending upon perspective I suppose) I can't. My wife's told me for years I'm merely lazy. I write poetry. Getting it published has nothing to do with that. It just looks like it's necessary in order to make money, hopefully. Maybe if women are from Venus venal actions are forgivable, as are bad puns. --Glenn

Browse RSS, News and Blogging :: Firefox Add-ons

Browse RSS, News and Blogging :: Firefox Add-ons I guess I'll save that: didn't expect it, though. This makes the Google blog more of an active choice. Certainly in this one entry I can proclaim the virtues of Mozilla and more particularly Firefox. The main point here is that both are (for now, because of relative unpopularity compared to Outlook and Outlook Express, since they're native browsers to the OS) generally more secure. That is, a good many exploits timed to go off the Outlook GUI simply won't work on another browser. And both browsers mentioned are quite user-friendly...simple to use for those not up on their jargon. I'm actually making this entry because of having added tabs to a toolbar and I was seeing how it worked. I'll admit that thus far I don't find the add-on for Live Journal pellucidly clear. --Glenn 8]

toward autobiography

I remembered what I was going to make an entry about. Myself. I started on that inadvertently and ended with a sketch of 53 years, which in some respects doesn't work. I really loved my real mother. That may sound a bit ridiculous just now; it won't. She did things like explain decisions to me; she even explained rules as well as she could. Part of it had to do with the fact that she was an elementary school teacher, and part of it that she was in respects quite an unusual woman. I'm using the past tense advisedly. Strokes have that fact. It's not even in the least uncommon for people to deny they've had strokes, unless of the variety that occur while waking and cause auto accidents or something of the sort. Anyway. There are two years, about, that I remember having alone with Mom. Compared to what came after, they immediately seemed heavenly. We must have spent at least the better part of two years in Canyonville, in that tiny trailer park and tiny trailer. (I can only see bits and pieces of said trailer, mainly the front. I was diagnosed as having damage to my visual lobe. If so, it's genetic. I could never learn to connect the states with their shapes in a map of the United States. I don't mean that I was too lazy to do so--hell, I memorized the Morse code once in a night. I couldn't do it. So my memories are only loosely connected with visual images. It was during this two years that I learned first, too, about Grandfather's place and about Aunt Marjorie and Uncle Howard's place. I'm hardly going to cover that in detail (from learning how to fire a, well, firearm to watching Uncle Howard decapitate a chicken, and yes, they run around thereafter). The main point there is that there were virtually limitless spaces to wander in, and perspectives not in the least confined by buildings or for that matter pavement or power poles. From my earliest memories, there is conflict between the city and country experiences. Now...well, before John got his satellite dish: even the most noble are corrupted...the drone of the refrigerator is loud at his place, and the louder drone of a spotter plane really nearly insufferable. I think they must have paved East Evans Creek and put the power poles in just before I was adopted, in the summer of 1960. I mean that you could hear a car coming a half a mile away, and that the strike of sledge against splitting maul echoed audibly for miles, or the farting exhaust of a chainsaw. Two worlds; one where our 'yard' was twice the size of the trailer (I'm actually assuming here, but then I've lived in a trailer park since), another of 7 acres, and then Grandfather's 80 acres (he had to maintain his own bridge across Evans Creek). There aren't coherent details, though there are more fragments than I could easily recount in this sort of venue, from the delight of showering from a holey five gallon water can in winter (yes, the water was heated on the stove, and so what? not to be negative about it) to the lessons about firearms (and Grandfather knocking me head over heels when I pointed a pistol at him) to the innumerable times we saw deer. And ate deer, for that matter. By the time I was five, I was bored spitless with daycare. Bear in mind that people with birthdays late in the year kind of mess up the calculations as far as others are concerned, somehow. Anyway, I started school a year early. In between there came the trip to Hawaii I think I mentioned. My first experience of a real wind storm (a hurricane, still, in that hemisphere); the roof next door blowing off. Aunt Marie was very kind but still seemed strict. Of course, I probably still held the 'angel's trumpet' thing against her. You see, I inadvertently farted when I was a tiny kid, so she said some idiotic thing about it being an angel's trumpet. Okay, what the hell? It was a good thing, right? So I put a lot of effort into farting again, and she wasn't supportive about it at all. Bitch. --------------------------to be continued------------------------------------- (don't you dare grimace like that) --Glenn

after a long absence

This is indeed "Notes Toward", variously, and although not hidden perhaps not so obvious to, say, fellow users of LiveJournal. I am voyaging toward another version of "A Different View", though I suspect not with the same title. If not, the reason won't quite be superstitious; more along the order that I don't want my thoughts to go along that same line, where I began hinting at things rather than attempting to navigate clearly toward them. So to speak. This is a good stage too for pondering what to publish in other blogs. Form of backup too for that matter I suppose. Interesting once again learning the rules of a group, in this case in a venue where I haven't found them clearly stated; evidently it's time to try, although I realize one of my probable errors. I didn't take something literally. However, what with the changes engendered by the passage of time (and a specific span at that), I find myself oddly unembarrassed. Pity I couldn't have shed some of that baggage earlier; a form of Calvinism quite close to what we know as Puritanism if it's even mentioned today (maybe it's attained the same status as disease-ridden blankets given as gifts to the indigenous inhabitants of 'our' fair land) combined with a military family gave me an inability through most of my life to do anything without constant doubts and mitigations. That too may have lain in the way of an exploration of a concept-centered modal philosophy in terms much more likely to withstand translation into a linear medium. This is being done in this dense and undifferentiated fashion to deliberately discourage a certain kind of reader, while leaving a record probably necessary. Probable that I am classifiable as a multiple personality though no names between. Different perspectives, methods of conceptualization. Main split two, the one which was formed by disallowing certain routines and then focusing true consciousness on nonphysical experience (and nonverbal automatically), thus the difficult assimilation over last three months. --G

On Writing

On Writing A while ago I wrote an essay ‘On Poetry’. It was generally well-received; I think there were two objections, one of which will be addressed during the course of the deliberations recorded here. The other was pretty much a challenge. The theme of that latter was basically, ‘How can you say such things?’ about needing correct grammar and at least functional punctuation ‘Poetry is all about experimentation’ or words to that effect. I did as usual; I responded noncommitally and proceeded to ponder. One of my earliest ‘conclusions’ (more on that momentarily) is that in fact (bearing in mind…mind you…the correctness of many of McLuhan’s assertions, at least in direction) the separation between venues is artificial. The form varies markedly; ideally, at least, this isn’t true of content. Two considerations now come to the fore. These ‘conclusions’ are nothing final. I continually deliberate on the most absurd of things: on reality (or, if you prefer, Reality) and predestination (by various means and names); on expression and ‘truth’…on the ways (say) to describe someone’s stride… What I am trying to say if that if I appear to limit, I don’t mean to do so, and that it’s almost certainly a fallacy inspired by my writing rather than my thinking. It is very difficult to consistently make sheerly and obviously relative statements. Regard these as temporary deliberations, to be repeated. Certainly, in any case, these are opinions; I am not an authority and I don’t actually believe in them—authorities, that is. Secondly, at least most writing is inspired by something. (Offhand, I don’t see how it’s possible for it not to be inspired by something, but who’s to say? particularly when reading some writing.)This implies a certain validity to any originating concept. However true this is, it bears no relationship to the ability of the one trying to convey said concept. Here we come to a point. Several, actually. Anyway. A piece of writing can be devised for oneself, a small circle or general consumption. We haven’t yet discussed things like fiction and non-fiction, prose and poetry or any other such matter, mind. That first one seems to be a tricky concept for many people. (Come to think of it, this may apply to a lot of “conversations” but more on that later.) At one and the same time they’ll say “This is private and personal and you probably won’t understand it” and then, after submitting it for general consumption, say “Well, what do you think?” Generally in this sort of case various images are used with specific connotations not contextually apparent and thus indeed indecipherable. Or, in plain English, “You’re right. I don’t know what this is about unless you tell me [necessarily generally in fair detail], and that means it’s a failure. To which the logical, apparent and necessary answer seems to be, “Oh, but it was a private event! you just don’t understand.” Indeed. The point here is that exactly at this point one must make a decision. To wit: “Am I just writing this for myself alone, or am I trying to write something others can understand?” The first requires the ability to write. The second requires considerably more—and is just a start. Have you ever read an unintelligible letter or e-mail? The first case—writing for a private audience, oneself—nearly applies to the second when it’s submitted for general consumption. That is, there are too many ‘private things’—thus things not generally known—for the general audience to comprehend them. At this point we come to fiction and non-fiction. Non-fiction, of course, is factual and completely true—all the trillions of conflicting words of it. So we’ll probably have to go with something lame like “Non-fiction is the stuff presented as if it were true.” And I think this is a good place to pause, because I could have sworn I heard a sound akin to shattering glass. Icons—at least in the older sense—are often quite fragile. I should note here that poetry can be either. -------- Glenn

recent poem

This is an easier way to keep up blogs, and I feel nearly an obligation at this point. Besides this, this means that I'm pointing to an established circle of thinkers. And this is a current poem: http://www.livejournal.com/users/oregonnerd/58548.html?thread=155828#t155828 --Glenn

dilatory posting

I'll try to keep up more on this... viewpoints mazed in her inward paths she wanders, though her footsteps seem (to us others) to follow no certain route --her hair bedraggled, lank she seems unwashed (clothes ragged, worn to the last thread: the 'well bred' avoid her: after all poverty and madness might be catching)-- she mutters, stepping on her wended way...odd to think: if those paths had been created by others (and thus clear to us, those others) --why, then she'd be quite sane. -------- Glenn