Two posts in one day? Absurd!

And yet, it is so! This one will be short, though...

...and the kitten, after weeks of struggles to express itself, finally exclaimed to the world, "I've found my mews!"

The Great Leap Forward

Or is it a tiny one?

I'm not sure, but I recently had a eureka moment in the writing project that I've devoted the most time to of late. I previously had a protagonist, an outcome, and a few situations to get there. Each piece was coming along well, but there wasn't much substance. I thought there was enough for a short story, but I was caught trying to unify the concepts into a single moving story while keeping the length down.

The epiphany came after, when watching a movie, I came up with an idea for another story, and quite a few details from an antagonist's point of view. As this concept began to take shape, I realized more and more that this antagonist and his actions were the perfect counterpoint to my hero's story. With only a few additional pieces of characterization, I had a sort of dark twin.

Now, I've only written about 600 words of this new addition so far, and the similarities in the characters are not quite so clear yet, but the foundations are there. I don't yet have the flow that will weave all the scenes together, or a definite placing of each situation in relation to the others. I do think, now, that I finally have enough material to seize and turn into a novel-length tale. It remains to be seen, though, how it all comes out on paper and if I can produce a coherent sequence. For the moment, optimism reigns!

I'm not sure why I feel inclined to post to my blog about this, when I should be writing further. I suppose in the past reflections on my writing process have helped me to focus. It certainly doesn't hurt to evaluate my strengths and weaknesses periodically. Yet somehow this always seems like a waste of valuable time.

Caution: Rant ahead

Worst. Commute. Ever.

A commute that usually lasts approx. 40 minutes took me 1:25 this morning. Absolutely unacceptable. A small part was due to my lack of observational skills when reading, but that should've only cost me five minutes. The breakdown that follows is why I was 45 minutes late and very frustrated.

First, I just missed a train at Silver Spring. Should've been no big deal, right? Well, it's true that the next train was only two minutes behind, but it kept stopping between every station because of delays with the train I missed. Now, I realize that the train I didn't catch was delayed as well, but mine was delayed even further because of the cleanup after those delays. So that's that piece of brilliance.

So, I arrive at my customary transfer station, Gallery Place - Chinatown, just a bit behind schedule. Again, no big deal, right? Except. Always except. It turns out that the yellow and green lines were also experiencing delays (which it sounds like I would've outpaced on the train I missed), in both directions, for some such malfunction or other. So I waited patiently, thinking "oh well, at least I'll get a few more pages read while I wait." This next part is what was my fault, though. Usually, what happens here is that the first train after I arrive is Green Line, which I don't want. This was, as expected, the case. Also usually, though, the following train is Yelow Line, which I do want. I guess today they added an extra Green somewhere to help clear the delay, but I didn't notice this due to my book and my autopilot. I usually am anal retentive about double checking, but today I was already mildly aggravated so I just leapt on.

This also should have caused only minor problems (or none if I caught the mistake before Le'Enfant Plaza). What happens, though, is that when the Green and Yellow Lines split you end up one stop out of your way. So, when this happened I immediately got off, crossed the station, and got on the return train that was just arriving. Should've been no problem, right?

Here's another except. Except, the delays in the other direction were still happening. So the train moved about three feet, and then came a message about a dozen times about how sorry they were, and thanking all of us for our patience. It didn't help that the gentleman operating the train 1) didn't know how to accelerate or brake properly, with all the stops and starts and 2) was apparently a mental midget as all of his apologies were stammered and stuttered and clipped. This did not enhance the experience.

Success! The train was moving. The operator announced that Le'Enfant Plaza loomed ahead. But the train stopped again. The operator began "I'm sorry but...we appreciate your...We've been asked to make an announcement...I apologize..." I think it took him three or four more intros like that to get to "We're experiencing another Yellow Line delay due to a sick customer on the train at the sation ahead. Personnel are on the scene."

This was the last straw for me, but apparently not for the cosmos. Once I disembarked to turn back around toward my destination, I sped over to the opposite platform in anticipation of a train. Of course again the next two were Green Line, useless hunks of metal and plastic and humanity. At last the proper train arrived, and angels sang (or at least laughed at me melodically). I sat down, and we were away. Of course this didn't stop them from stopping between every station, again. I'm not exactly sure why, either, since the previous yellow line train left Le'Enfant at least 6 minutes before.

At long last, I arrived at Crystal City. The trek was finally at its end...or was it? Not before, of course, the requisite crowd of the morbidly obese blocking the escalators and gates. Also not before the large crowd of other delayed persons caused me to miss the first two elevators, and after the third stopped on all 7 floors before mine.

OK. I am now calm. but, one last thing.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHH!

Get 'em, Slick

Slick Phalanges exited Rhipauff's executive conference room without exiting his world of confident bliss. Not only had all the praise for the deft exploitation of Alley Girl gone to him, he'd managed to steer the new single decision so that the windfall would go straight to his cronies at MediaFarm. When he owned half the globe, he thought, he might look back on today as the ultimate scale-tipper. Calculating his next dozen or so moves, he held the door open for the Executive Director.

"Hey, Slick...bounce up to my office in fifteen!"

At that request, the next fourteen passed in a haze of euphoria. This was absolutely the day. In a way that was a shame, because he'd really hoped more...experiments would be necessary to get the big break. Well, even from the top there were always reasons to get one's hands dirty. So it was with great anticipation that Slick arrived, one minute early, at the office of Lee Quiggsley Dastard, CPA, DDS, MPA, XYZ PDQ, Executive Director.

"Come in, come in," began Dastard. "We have much to discuss." If you've ever seen a creationist propelled through time to a dinner party with H. Erectus, then you know the look that crossed Slick Phalanges's eyes. Otherwise, just accept that it was not best pleased and very confused. For on Dastard's desk perched a lovely family portrait, next to which rested a striking still image of a bread-knife beheading. Phalanges goggled into a distressingly clear image of his own eyes.

"Yes, quite grisly, isn't it. It's such a tragedy that we were unable to identify the fellow with the cutlery. Of course, you've been called here to discuss matters of a much more pleasant nature." With each word Slick's devious mind spun faster and faster, finally coming to rest with its little clicky flag stuck on the tine between "internal maniacal laughter" and "celebratory cash register noise." He wasn't quite out of trouble, but this was something he could work with.

"Of course, sir. What are your needs?"

Dastard rose, and strolled around to the front of his desk. He leaned back, ankles crossed in a casual pose and lifted the greusome image gently. "Well, Slick, you've shown some real ambition lately. You certainly went for the throat on this Alley Girl situation, and that's something we need here at Rhipauff Records. It seems that as a direct result of your employment here, things have come to a head, through your ability to cut through some of the issues holding us down. Your recent decisions have shown real resolve and achieved immediate results. That's why I'm promoting you to Assistant Executive in charge of Special Operations. I'd like to give you manus liberi, but please understand that if results change we may be forced to...reevaluate even your early decisions." Slick was too deserving of his own name to miss the poignancy with which "throat," "head," and "cut through" were said. This was a good deal, and he was in a position where he'd have said yes to even a terrible one. Dastard deserved his name, too.

Slick shook Dastard's offered hand. "Sir, I believe we can work together here. I'll take everything you've just said straight to heart." As he pranced out through the opaque glass doors, he added to himself "yours, of course." Now that Lee Dastard was firmly on his experiment list, the day truly couldn't get any better.

On Music

Was it the segment - on Sesame Street, I believe, though my memory has unified the television of developmental years into a single mosaic - proclaiming "rhythm is everywhere"? Was it the intoxicating transcendence attached to singing in church? Correct in belief or not, there is power in a hundred voices melodically affirming faith. Was it theme songs, Disney movies, lullabies, ad jingles, Christmas carols, kum-ba-yas, or parades? It certainly wasn't singing "ta, ta, ti-ti ta"" with my grade school music teacher. Her methods might have been generally proper but they sure didn't make me want to learn music.

Something, including any, all, or none of the above, switched on the music in me. From the beginning of memory and presumably before I have craved music: to hear, to sing, to play (but not to dance, never that), and to feel.

Whatever chose my interest - God, god, or gods; the universe, fate, chance, biology, environment, the music itself, or me - was a fan of the underdog. I wasn't drawn in for my musical talents. I knew early that I didn't have perfect pitch, and it became increasingly clear that in one sense I am tone deaf. What I mean is that while I can recognize when two instruments are out of tune with one another, I am utterly incapable of determining which is incorrect and in which direction. This led to a lot of embarrassing moments of frozen terror while I pondered whether I was sharp, flat, or pockmarked with grainy bumps. This same embarrassment arose when after years of tromboning I still couldn't recognize the accuracy of pitch of one horn playing alone.

I was also ungifted in voice quality, lung capacity, and muscle memory. There are other areas of deficiency, but those sum the problem well. I suppose I did have the math proficiency requisite to success in music, and the ability to read and interpret symbols. I was also possessed of a certain amount of resourcefulness.

The lack of natural talents and abilities didn't deter me from blundering ahead. I discovered that while I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, I could send it where it needed to go with a system of pullys, levers, hoists, and boxes. I was never really able to "feel" the music, but this mental Rube Goldberg approach brought me to a respectable level of proficiency.

So far, the results of my duct-tape remedies have produced a competent trombone player and a nearly competent singer. I can read most music with at least an approximation of correctness, but to capture its style I must hear it once (or more). It continues to amaze me that the same rhythm and pitches can be played correctly many subtly different ways. I liken it to "finding the zeroes" in algebra. Upon sight reading, though, I always seem to pick the wrong interpretation .

I suppose full disclosure would force the past tense upon me, as I have allowed a year to pass since playing or singing music save sing-alongs with the radio or at concerts. I am not ready to believe, though, that my time as a trombnist has ended more than temporarily. I don't claim excellence, but I do claim competence and derive enjoyment from playing.

It's something of a paradox that I achieved even competence. Practice happened, but not with stunning regularity. I never studied music theory, so I didn't even try to compensate for my shortcomings by application of my strengths. Competent or not, it is clear that I am a member of a group or section and not a soloist. I was never able to acquire "my own sound," nor did I evolve the ability to maintain tone quality at great volumes. And dear lord, don't ask me to improv. To extend this truth to my vocal chords, I can read choral music and sing a part more or less properly, but my range is sorely limited in both directions and my voice just isn't that pleasant on its own.

So why all these ponderings on music? Mere reflection, perhaps, but also an acknowledgement of what music has always stirred in me. There are few things in life not improved by good music, and most are improved even by bad music. It was my privilege to learn this lesson early, and so my thoughts often turn to melody and harmony. I will close with a recollection regarding music's black-sheep cousin: dance. A friendly lady who was (and still is) active in my childhood churh had a great repoire with the children among the congregation, and was particularly prone to praise my achievements and helpfulness. She had several pet phrases at her command, such as "he's no flat tire." Her favorite, or at least the one I earned the most often, was "I'll dance at your wedding." Even then, I could only think "Good. That's one less I'll have to dance."

Peculiar

Minister: I now pronounce you man and wife.

New Husband: Well, you're going to have some awkward conversations in the future.

New Wife: Thank God for pre-nups!

Readers of this blog: wha?

Kind of funny

I just received an email from the National Eagle Scout Association. Unfortunately, in my inbox the sender is abbreviated to "National Eagle Scout Ass." Perhaps someone should tell them.