Scale

God said let there be lights in the firmament of the Heaven, and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years.

My lifespan seems a small enough thing to me.

To a fruitfly, it might seem a wasteland of time, beyond bearing.

To a molecule ... to an atom, to a gluon ... all existing at such different scales: would my life seem vanishingly short, or extraordinary in its immensity?

A living cell might exist within a comprehensible "human" scale, though it comes and goes more quickly than we do.

The molecule - these can be broken so easily, or may hold tight for eons and eons. Some unstable and brief, some all but immortal from where humanity stands.

Down into the tenacious atom ... the nucleus ... these buzzing, speeding systems outstripping any velocity we can understand - are we great, slow, neverending collossi, or fleeting organisms, so ephemeral as to be irrelevant? So tempting to conceive a universe in the orbit of an atom. So human.

And, if space folds into itself, who is to say that scale does not ... that Horton was right, along with every one of us when we discover the mind within the brain we already had: that, though we know the universe is the greatness around us, we also occupy the greatness which encloses lives and systems and universes impossibly small? That there are systems within us; planes we do not understand which make us up. Not merely the individual cells coming and going, each one's life one necessary part of what we think is "our" own life - but symbiants - even the impulses and autonomic actions that preserve life, but we do not create.

We are minuscule and immense; it is all in how we look - outward, and inward.

And we owe debt both to the greatness beyond us, as well as the greatness we enclose, which contains all we think is "small" ... That we are both gargantuan and infinitessimal, and that our part is to BE part of both these scales: in the universe, which is the organism of which all our lives are the tiniest part: and as the universe, within which myriad forces exist, dependent upon us, or making up the magic and meat that *is* us.



My lifespan seems a small enough thing to me.

But if I do not honor its scale, it might as well be nothing at all.

Writerly

The WIP, currently being called Generations of Sunset, though this perhaps doesn't even qualify as a "working" title since it doesn't (*), is in fact still a thing.

I haven't had much to say about it of late, being distracted by such epochal life changes as a haircut, getting some cabinets for my kitchen, a sick puppy (who is fine now, she just gets an upset stomach now and then), a tiny travel plan or two, and the joy of watching someone I care about a lot falling for someone new. But I do still play around with WRITING.

For my writer pals who stop in here sometimes, I have a question. Have any of you ever given a character some trait that suits your purposes, more than necessarily follows reality?

I'm writing in a period when life expectancies were not what they are today. In The Ax and the Vase, the historical character Bishop Remigius of Rheims was extremely long-lived indeed, but this was true of the actual man, and indeed I used that longevity to speak to his charisma; that he was so venerable marked his holiness for the other characters. In GoS, though, I have a serving woman living a very long life.

It was perhaps easier for anyone, servitor or queen, to get in an extra decade or three, living at a royal court, as opposed to squalor or slavery outside of a palace.

Some people did of course live past thirty-five, even in the "Dark Ages" (well, or just before them). What I am doing, stretching this character across generations, isn't exactly fantasy. But the character's life is directly tied to my need of her presence in every place, at every birth, even through the deaths, through her time.

I don't ask other authors whether they've done this in order to get approval, but out of curiosity. Zeniv has to live a very long time because she is not merely important, but she views the coming of new generations, and is part of the setting, the changing world. She is one pair of eyes witnessing what may be a death (the dynasty of Theodoric the Great) or a birth (a new age, what we came to call the Dark Ages), or may just be the world as it is.

This doesn't quite rise - or sink - to the question of ethics in writerly choices, but I am curious about choices like this that other writers make.

Has any of you ever stretched the parameters of your setting, of history, or usual expectations to accommodate your needs for the story? How?


* As with so many things I think to be clever, the title is a bit of a pun. For many of us, sunset marks an ending - it is the end of the day. But we forget, that is only one way to look at things. Sunset is the beginning of the next day; your dreams are not a closing out of the day past, but the first thing in your mind before you wake to a new day.

The Trick Question is: "WHAT was terrifying?"

Janet Reid is running another flashfic contest this weekend.

Smooth, ensconsed, and safe. Comfortable. Desolate. Warm.

Oppressive.

Deserted. Alone. Imprisoned.

Hungry.

Wanted … crunch, and edge, and contrast, and cold. Wanted … out.

No chink to pry. No way to gnaw out.

The urgency was physical.

Kick. Strain. Peck. Hours, it took; eternity.

Jettisoned.

Blue sky. It was terrifying.

Most beautiful thing in the world – the whole world: outside the egg.

Okay.

Now that the contest is over and Nate Wilson ran OFF with it (and sightly ro), I want to ask about this story, and whether it works.

Given Lilac's comment on it the other day, I wonder whether a clue is necessary: that what was breaking out of this egg was monstrous. I hoped the harshness of some of the words I chose pointed that way, but that would not be so much "beautiful"as horrifying.

With a 100 word limit, this clocks in at a mere 62, but I felt no desire to add to this piece. Does it need more heft? Does it creep anyone out, or does it just read like a wee little bird fighting to find the world?

I would LOVE to hear from y'all, and not just Reiders! Many thanks to anyone who might share your opinions.

Dreams're Weird

Does this ever happen to you?

You dream so much, and so oddly - perhaps, or perhaps not waking UP with each fresh Hell as your brain presents them - that it ends up being such a bad night's sleep it feels like you didn't sleep at all?

Image: Wikipedia
By Gut Monk

Stupid brain, going around making up weird stories. Where'd it ever pick up a habit like THAT!?

Intrepid Baby Jesus - Dustbunny Adventures - and Is it Like the Flag ... ?

So, yesterday I came home from work and discovered the donkey, the manger, and the cow on the floor, having been toppled by a happy kitten who left the Holy Parents amusingly ooh-ing and aah-ing over nothing in the stable.

Baby Jesus has been nowhere to be found.

A friend at work suggested perhaps he’s probably had quite an adventure.  Intrepid little baby Jesus.  (… or is that Baby Jesus? Does the Baby become title case in its holy use?)

In any case, the intrepid little baby Jesus/Baby Jesus was not under the couch, and couch-crouching was roughly my limit once I’d replaced the animals and non-miraculously empty manger, and so we have yet to discover (though hope springs eternal) whether Intrepid Baby Jesus (this title case thing could go on forever!) is, as I surmise, playing happily with dust bunnies under the Boob Tube (see … ?).

All this comes but one day after I put out the nativity in the first place, and it is somewhat dispiriting (har), because the entire holy family were only replaced LAST year as Christmas presents, after my 23-year-old figures in Fine Corinthian Resin suffered the loss of Joseph and Baby, thanks to a drive by Penelope-ing.

Hee.  Penelope-ing.  *Gigglesnort*

Okay, not funny.  We’re speaking of Holy Things, and being respectful (I swear).

My original Joseph had a truly gruesome head wound, in that the entire back of it was gone.  Baby Jesus, for his wee yet weighty part, was chewed in a pretty disrespectful way.  Puppy teeth just can’t resist a good, somehow-gummy-but-sturdy chew on the finest hardened chemicals.  Nom nom, Original Baby Jesus.

The good news is, New Baby Jesus didn’t fall prey to actual teeth (Penelope is baby-gated out of the living room, and Gossamer never puts anything but kibble into his mouth).  The bad news is, until I crouch again, He is lost.  Not quite so inspiring a Christmas message as His Birth, but the failure to look provides the room for hope.  If he’s not under the TV, I may resort to Pla-Doh, not sure I can ask for new Holy Family figures every year.  Mom, of course, was mildly scandalized Gossie used the Holy Baby as a toy.

Me, I don’t know how he got on the table and only knocked over the cow, the donkey, and the baby, but he’s a remarkably nimble little demon.  With velvet toes.  So there’s that.


Here is my question, as regards flags.  When you have two holy figures to retire - is it like the American flag?  Do you burn them?  (Seems contra-indicated, given that stuff about chewy chemical goodness.)  I suspect I know an archaeologist who would suggest a burial - perhaps one of them here on my coast, and the other on his, just to be smart-alec.  Perhaps the right choice.

What would you do?


The remaining/unretired Nativity set, for its part, remains where it was ... for now.  I live dangerously.

Kind of like the Intrepid Baby Jesus.  I have this mental image he’s miraculously weaving pet fur into tiny little harnesses, and riding the dustbunnies quite ragged.  Yes:  wearing palazzo pants.

Schrödinger's Back

My mom and I made plans, through this week, to bail on all the usual Mother's Day brunches and shopping opportunities, and just want to do our own thing, go where the wind takes us.  I haven't canceled this plan yet, but I have asked for one five-minute indulgence before we get properly on our way:  my mom gives good back rubs, and I am in much need.

A little while ago, upstairs getting dressed to go over to her house (and I look pretty cute - AND am wearing a pair of her earrings I used to just dream of and adore when I was a little girl), I noticed a little pain in my upper back.  It's been bugging me here and there - that meaty spot between the shoulder blade and spine, but buggings don't get in the way of life, and with a back like mine, that's just how it goes.

Then I picked up my purse and water and the gift bag and tissue to go downstairs and put together the little fun things I got for mom.  And as my right leg took just the very first step on my stairs, the few pounds of weight from the handbag (admittedly large, and admittedly laden with not just my usual stuff but also my tablet) apparently did a little magic on that meaty bit, and I found myself frozen on that first step, unable to breathe, wishing I could so I could scream, and realizing the pain was so intense and so acute that I was actually fighting down the rather burning urge to actually throw up.

Good times.

I made it down the stairs, and decided, okay, it's my upper back, I can walk, this isn't going to do anything to our day.  Made my way to the couch, where I now sit with a couple NSAIDs working their way around and two good firm pillows at my back (they're *always* on this duty; some day, I want a new - shallower - couch).  Talking with mom a few minutes ago, I heard Goss in the kitchen messing with the gift bag, and stood up.

Mistake.

I damn near lost my ability to breathe, and probably ruined her mood to boot.  Happy Mother's Day ... erm.

So here I am, letting the analgesic do its thing, giving it half an hour or so before I try to move again, and entirely unaware whether I'll be able to do so competently when the time comes.

Whatever happens, my plan is to enjoy a day with my mom.  Aieee - I can do this thing ...



Still.  Hard not to hope the cat's actually alive.

History Lessons: the Strange Mix of Memory and Forgetting

This is a marvelous post about a nation's history curriculum and how unnatural selection in what we teach, and what therefore comes to pass as "common knowledge" is shaped.  Religion, race, nation itself.  Knowing sources.  Thinking we know any answers is the point at which it is impossible to truly understand.

Nuanced understanding, even when new and unexpected perspectives don't persuade, is the most important part of any discipline.  Read Katherine Langrish's post if only for the quote from Robert Bellah.

I'm reminded forefully of this piece of Frankish myth-making ...

“Let us set out the beginnings of the kings of the Franks and their origin, and also the origins of the people and its deeds ...  Priam and Antenor, two Trojan princes, embarked on ships with twelve thousand of the men remaining from the Trojan army.  They came to the banks of the Tanis River.  They sailed into the Maeotian swamps, penetrated the frontiers of the Pannonias, and began to build a city as their memorial.  They called it Sicambria, and lived there many years, growing into a great people.”
--Liber Historiae Francorum, author(s) unknown.

Okay, now, go!  Read!

Interview: Alec Shane

Today is the day!  I emailed the questions to literary agent Alec Shane of Writers House last night, and today I found a shiny new interview in my Inbox.  Everybody - please enjoy ...




DLM:  Before you became a literary agent, you spent some time in Hollywood as an assistant, a martial arts coach, a production assistant, and a stunt man.  What was the moment you decided to leave the West Coast - or did you decide to *come* to the East Coast?

AS:  My time on the West Coast was never a permanent move; I’ve just always been a big proponent of doing as much as you possibly can while you still have the opportunity to do so. Life is all about collecting experiences and having some great stories to tell your grandkids, and that’s mainly what my trip out West was about. When I felt my time in LA had run its course, I came back East, as this is where I’m from originally.


DLM:  Was it really their great-looking building that brought you to Writers House?

AS:  Pretty much. When I first started looking for a job in publishing, I didn’t know anything about the industry. I just kind of started researching based on some of my favorite books, and I eventually found my way to Writers House. It looked exactly how I would expect a literary agency to look, and combined with their wonderful client list and even more wonderful people, it was an easy decision. From the moment I first walked in the door, this is where I knew I wanted to be.


DLM:  It looks like your entire publishing career has been with Writers House, starting as an intern four years ago.  Would you give us a look at the arc you have had there, and what it takes to become an agent?

AS:  I have been very lucky to have Writers House as my first and only publishing job. Like pretty much everything in life, it’s all about being at the right place at the right time, and there just happened to be an assistant position available as I was completing my internship. I interviewed with Jodi Reamer, and I was offered the job. The rest is history, as they say. As for what it takes to become an agent – ask me that question again in about 30 years. I may possibly have an answer for you then.


DLM:  Now that you’re actively building your own list, what genres or topics do you most want to see?

AS:  I grew up on Stephen King, and so I’m a huge horror fan. I also love mysteries, thrillers, and all things sports. On the nonfiction side, I’m always reading interesting biographies or books that look at well-known historical events from a completely different angle. At the end of the day, though, as long as you can make me miss my subway stop or keep me up all night reading – or too scared to turn off the light - I’m yours.


DLM:  Are there stories or subjects you definitely do not want to represent?

AS:  “Definitely” is a strong word; like I said before, if I love the story, then I’m open to it. In general, though, I’m not much of a romance guy. I also don’t really like to read about people with problems that 99% of the world would absolutely kill to have.


DLM:  Aspiring authors have a morass of sometimes-contradictory advice and unwritten rules to navigate in creating queries - some agents insist on having a word count, for instance, while others hate seeing such administrivia.  In terms of content, are there any must-haves or deal-breaking elements to avoid for someone who would like to query you?

AS:  No real deal-breakers, no. But I would advise, for querying me and for your career in general, to know the difference between “breathe” and “breath.” That’s like fingernails on a blackboard to me.


DLM:  What advice or parting thoughts would you like to share with readers - not only aspiring authors, but lovers of literature, history and Trek nerds, or possibly even stunt men wannabes?

AS:  If you don’t love what you are doing, then you need to find something else to do. Life is way too short to be unhappy.

The Fix is Not In ...

... so I still can't comment even on MY OWN BLOG (yeah, been a wild hair less than trigger-happy proactive about that digging-up-X's-tech-advice intention).  So, Mo, in answer to your question, the criminal or despised stereotype for me is:

Feminist

Artifactory

When I was in college, Religious Studies was the big deal discovery for me (not that, apparently, it did me much spiritual good for a long time ... but that's a certain kind of freshman for you). I loved Taoism, and hated to leave that unit behind for Buddhism. Buddhism's emphasis on eliminating tanha, the attachment to Things, made me feel guilty and ugly. I have always adored the sensation of emotional hunger - interpersonal; abstract ... concrete. I'm not replete with love of luxury, but I do believe in talismans.

As human as it is - I both understand cautioning humanity against indulging the Pathology of Stuff we obsess upon - and resist the idea that imbuing objects with meaning, with association, with emotional value is a sin. I don't want to substitute exchange rates for relationships, but I do believe that humanity's susceptbibility to and penchant for symbolism have much beauty going for them. I don't want to be called a sinner because the gifts my father gave me - especially Einstein, which was a bequest he thought about and made with the weight of knowing he was dying, are "things" and therefore beneath the spirituality of a human. The ring my mother let me have, which he gave to her ... the mask my brother carved, which is more than art to me ... the hair stick he made me ... the paintings of my nieces ... the bookshelf I built with dad ... the books that reside upon it.

These things are not vanities - even for a woman like me. They aren't the folly of someone with no sense of what is important. They are, so many of them, the very manifestations of what *is* important, what does matter. I don't hold them with greed - my attachment isn't twisted. Even my father's ashes - an artifact many in the world would find disturbing - are a reverent treasure for me, not just an example of the fact I cannot let go.

We're often exhorted to let go. To relieve ourselves of Things and Stuff. To value what is "real".

What is real is that my father knew I had grown up staring into the incredible thing that is negative space - the white, beneath the yellow and red paint that make up my Einstein - and knew my mind had gone myriad places, drawn something ineffable from that painting. What is real is the passionate and romantic love he bore my mother, which he expressed sometimes, in a way she loved, by giving her gold. What is real ... are books. Things that carry something. Meaning.


***


I have never loved someone and found that love was turned to hatred. I've only once ever loved that the feeling turned out to suffer mortality. Even for the person that can be said of, I still have respect and no thought of hatred.

I don't turn on those I bring to my heart, and for those I hurt, or been unworthy of as we all are from time to time, I offer what recompense I can.

When we are hurt, we become ungainly. We act at top speed, and clumsily. Sometimes, the instinct is to use a Thing as a weapon. TV court shows are littered with the spurned, suing for return of things, suing for recompense for possessions destroyed, demanding physical accounting, when emotional balances can't be met. "He owes me the price of those tires" ... "she didn't give me the ring back" ...

We're weak creatures. And things are talismans. Sometimes what starts a sinless gift becomes the avatar for pain.

I wonder where the line is. Where a venerated relic becomes the source of tanha, of greed. How long is the line from spiritual to venal ... and where is it the vain girl becomes the ugly woman, holding on to Things (and Stuff) for their sake ...

Just a Question

What is with men and photos of themselves in their cars? Often with sunglasses on? What is that supposed to be about?

Here's a Question

I can reconstruct the possibilities which might lead to my going outside, when I first did today, and finding, say, a beer bottle or something on my car. Neighbors being sociable in their yard on a fine Saturday night - spilling into my driveway - someone leans on the car that doesn't belong to them on property that doesn't either.

Don't love it. But I could figure that out.

What I can't quite get my head around is how a glass of milk came to be sitting there.



And then I have to ask myself - why does THAT seem so bizarre?

Mysteries of life. At least the cup print is washed off.

*Shrug*