Now playing: James Newton Howard - The Belly Of The Beast
via FoxyTunes
We took a drive a few days ago to see the pretty fall colors, and two things struck me. The first was the variation in the spectrum of leaf color. I had expected to see reds, yellows, and maybe even oranges, but what I didn't expect was the healthy amount of greens mixed in. The fact that it didn't look completely one or two colors gave it an almost alien aspect that was gorgeous to look upon: I can see why my mom was going on and on about fall color. The other thing was how my first reaction was "This would be totally cool to put on film! Look at those colors! No-one's ever seen something like that before!" I then checked myself as I realized where I was from and the fact that, last I checked, New England was fairly well populated. I did take a small consolation that I had indeed not seen any such color on film before, and that there might be some novelty left in such things.
Yesterday we visited one of the Stinehours, a family the Keiths have known for years and years and who ran a press for years and years at which both my father and grandfather worked. It recently came to be that the Stinehour press had closed down, but we visited the eldest Stinehour boy (well, man, he and my dad have been good friends) at his own studio. Aside from having hundreds upon hundreds of books, wonderful art and neat printing machines, there was also a stylized cutout in his loft that read...
ΨΥΧΗΣ ΙΑΤΡΕΙΟΝ
...which he told me was the apocryphal inscription on the main entrance at the Library of Alexandria. There was also a neat poster which had a really cool saying about Printing Offices, and I should have taken a picture of it.
And today we drove over to Burlington, VT, stopping on the way (as usual) at Ben and Jerry's HQ. The one thing that tickled me was a shirt in the gift shop that had, printed in the slightly faded Abercrombie lettering, "Body by Ben and Jerry's." I almost got the shirt, but settled for a button instead, as such a statement straddled the line between humorously self-referential and woefully true.
Right now we're currently staying in a wonderful, two leveled suite just across the way from Lake Champlain, and considering staying another day (we're only booked for the night) to take in the sights.
Enough, More Later.
- James
Monday, September 29, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Lancaster Snippets, Part 1
Now playing: Hideki Sakamoto - prime #59
via FoxyTunes
So this first part isn't exactly in Lancaster, but it is the journey towards, so I'm weaseling it under the title. The second leg of the flight confirmed my suspicions that all you need to travel First Class is plenty of moolah (or unused miles). There was this crazy character that sat about three rows ahead of us. It was bad enough that it was one of those old people who dress like they're present day teenagers, but this lady also LOOKED all of 85, which wasn't pretty. I was itching to point her out to my parents (horrendous platinum blond wig and all), but that proved hard as we couldn't quite get away from her until we were all out of the airport. The last thing I wanted to do with my jet-lagged brain was go "LOOK MA, IT'S THE CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON!"
The second story is our first night at the local hotel, where we'd been before and had a good time. This time, however, we managed to get a craptastic room: stains on the carpet, paint peeling from the ceiling, a slightly acrid smell, and the most uncomfortable couch I've ever sat on. To compound the problem, at least 5 flies managed to find their way into the room, and we were having a hell of a time trying to get rid of them. I got a few of them by hand (Thanks for the technique, gramps!), but we finally called the front desk and asked for a flyswatter.
So I was expecting one of those cheap, plastic numbers that seem to have a top speed that's just a tad slower than the fly, but I was surprised when they brought us the mistress of all flyswatters. This sucker had a simple, coiled metal handle and, I kid you not, a tooled leather swatting end. This thing had WEIGHT. I tried it out on one fly and the room rang with one of the loudest THWACKS! I've ever heard. The hilarious thing was, I found that I no longer heard any more buzzing from the rest of the flies in the room, and I had to work to hunt them down. A couple of loud noises later, our room was free of flies. We got moved to a far better room, but we're holding on to the swatter for good measure.
Enough, More Later.
- James
via FoxyTunes
So this first part isn't exactly in Lancaster, but it is the journey towards, so I'm weaseling it under the title. The second leg of the flight confirmed my suspicions that all you need to travel First Class is plenty of moolah (or unused miles). There was this crazy character that sat about three rows ahead of us. It was bad enough that it was one of those old people who dress like they're present day teenagers, but this lady also LOOKED all of 85, which wasn't pretty. I was itching to point her out to my parents (horrendous platinum blond wig and all), but that proved hard as we couldn't quite get away from her until we were all out of the airport. The last thing I wanted to do with my jet-lagged brain was go "LOOK MA, IT'S THE CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON!"
The second story is our first night at the local hotel, where we'd been before and had a good time. This time, however, we managed to get a craptastic room: stains on the carpet, paint peeling from the ceiling, a slightly acrid smell, and the most uncomfortable couch I've ever sat on. To compound the problem, at least 5 flies managed to find their way into the room, and we were having a hell of a time trying to get rid of them. I got a few of them by hand (Thanks for the technique, gramps!), but we finally called the front desk and asked for a flyswatter.
So I was expecting one of those cheap, plastic numbers that seem to have a top speed that's just a tad slower than the fly, but I was surprised when they brought us the mistress of all flyswatters. This sucker had a simple, coiled metal handle and, I kid you not, a tooled leather swatting end. This thing had WEIGHT. I tried it out on one fly and the room rang with one of the loudest THWACKS! I've ever heard. The hilarious thing was, I found that I no longer heard any more buzzing from the rest of the flies in the room, and I had to work to hunt them down. A couple of loud noises later, our room was free of flies. We got moved to a far better room, but we're holding on to the swatter for good measure.
Enough, More Later.
- James
Friday, September 26, 2008
Greetings from Stevens Terrace
Now playing: Yuichi Tsuchiya - Vampire Killer
via FoxyTunes
Made it safe and sound to the ol' Keith Family house in Lancaster, NH. The red-eye was long but cushy; we finally made use of our many, many accumulated miles and upgraded the longer legs of our journey to First Class. You get some actual food! for the cost of your plane ticket! Admittedly it's no longer in the vein of "actual roast beef sandwiches" that my previous (and first) encounter with First Class was, but it was still pretty good.
I'll be updating with stories as I have time, I'm still getting used to the time difference and shaking off the jet lag. There will be stories, oh yes there will :)
Enough, More Later.
- James
via FoxyTunes
Made it safe and sound to the ol' Keith Family house in Lancaster, NH. The red-eye was long but cushy; we finally made use of our many, many accumulated miles and upgraded the longer legs of our journey to First Class. You get some actual food! for the cost of your plane ticket! Admittedly it's no longer in the vein of "actual roast beef sandwiches" that my previous (and first) encounter with First Class was, but it was still pretty good.
I'll be updating with stories as I have time, I'm still getting used to the time difference and shaking off the jet lag. There will be stories, oh yes there will :)
Enough, More Later.
- James
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Remembrance
Currently in Earphones: Memories of "Corazon Gitano" by Pimpinela
At the top of my bookshelf, now way up near the ceiling of my old room, there lies a book. It's an interesting book, as the majority of the pages are nearly pristine. Hardly grounds for individuality, given the number of books I own, but the odd thing is that the cover bulges out, like it's been well thumbed numerous times. Despite this there are no creases along the spine. I remember looking for it by name, years and years ago, hundreds of miles from home, and buying it without question, for I had been told there were answers in it. No, it wasn't a philosophy book, I got it from the sci-fi/fantasy section. The person who recommended it was in to codes and ciphers, and liked to be roundabout in explanations.
At the moment it's propping up a number of trade paperbacks. You see L. Sprague de Camp, Michael Crichton, Charlie Stross, Neil Gaiman, and probably get an idea of the theme of this shelf. Pulling it from it's horizontal position, you probably prop up "Rivers of Time" as it begins to teeter, no longer supported. Taking this odd book, bulging on either end with the cover curled but the pages white with un-use, you clamber down the ladder you used to get to the eyrie of books and sit down, the book on your lap. The cover shows an illustrated woman in a dark dress hovering over muted text and a brown, featureless landscape. The title is a rather obvious nod to Yeats and the author currently has a monopoly in the "D-E" section of every sci-fi/fantasy bookstore shelf. As you can see, I shared the indirect habit of the person who pointed me in the direction of the book.
The curved cover lifts to show two two sheaves of paper, folded in two. The first is actually two pages folded together, white printer paper with the tell-tale alternating red-and-blue text that can only be an IM conversation. It's a muted argument, that seems to end well but on uncertainty. The young boy (clearly the name in red) must have had an inkling as to it's importance: He took the trouble to print it out. The second sheaf of paper confirms your suspicions as to the person who owns the book. It's a piece of lined notebook paper, the kind you can tear out of a spiral-bound, and the edge is all raggety. They never do come out clean, despite the perforations. On it, scrawled and crossed out, is some of the most pretentious romantic doggerel you've ever seen. There's some good rhymes and maybe a few lines scan properly, but good thing it looks like a preliminary. It also is all over the place, some lines break and meters change. There's feeling in it, as most poetry has, but make no mistake, it is sophomoric.
Having seen everything that the front cover has to offer, you stuff the hastily folded sheets back in and open to the next gap, about halfway through and past scores of pristine, untouched pages. Another folded sheet of paper, some more doggerel scrawled on it, and a pin holding the folds together. You see part of a darkened rectangle and text in the corners, clearly a printed out picture from long ago. You remove the pin and unfold the paper, and on it is a picture of a girl. Her black, curly hair reaches down past her shoulders, her skin a light brown and dark brown eyes that have managed to catch the light of the flash such that they look a deep, soft reddish color. The most ghostly of Mona Lisa smiles graces the edge of her lips. You can see bookshelves stuffed to brimming behind her. You think what you will of her before re-folding and pinning the paper, then placing it back where it was. You notice, as you move on, a light dog ear on the page the picture was marking. There is nothing else to indicate why this page, but you've only just opened the book, haven't you?
Near the end there are two marked pages. The first has a small piece of red-folded paper, a drawing done in silver ink: a tree with a swing on it, on a hill during a starry night. There's a name on the bottom right hand corner, but it's been worn partially away. On the inside are a quote, an expanded "Love like you've never been hurt" excerpt, and a message about meeting somewhere at this time and this place. The writing is small and elegant, a girls hand. On the back, you notice with a smile, is "P.M. Publishing," handwritten in the same silver ink with a crescent moon and starts. Very carefully done, as the simple line borders on the front and back attest. Tucked within this note, maybe or maybe not having anything to do with it, are a ticket stub for a 3:35 pm showing of "The Last Samurai," and a pink copy of a receipt. The only interesting thing on the receipt are the printed words "SR BALL." You replace them in the red note and stick it back between the pages from where it came.
You come to the last gap, only a few pages later. This page is interesting in that it marks the beginning of a story, as you find that the book is not one tale but a collection of shorts. The one thing that springs out at you is the title, "TALLULAH." There are some light print marks, indicating that this was the only thing read in full, and you see that the paper marking the pages looks similar to the picture from earlier. It's folded the same way, another pin (long with a spherical black head, like the other) holds it together and contributes to the strange bulges in the book. You can see that it's another picture, and un-pin and un-fold it to get a good look.
It's a picture of a boy and a girl. You recognize the girl from the previous picture, but her hair has been coiffed and runs in ringlets down her back. A delicate white necklace is draped around her neck, accentuated by the dark satin strapless gown she's wearing. Next to her, the boy is just visible, his upper body blocked by the head of another young man in the foreground of the picture. Both the boy and the girl are sitting down and leaning forward, only the girls arms, crossed and resting on her knees, are visible. A corsage with white flowers is around the girls far wrist, and if the young man in the foreground was gone, you'd see a similar boutineer on the boy's shirt, held in place by two long, black-headed pins.
Both of their faces are shiny with perspiration. The girl is smiling, and it's part camera smile and part real smile: stiffness of the corners of the mouth look forced, but the faint lines from the corners of her nose to the corners of her mouth denote some real happiness. The boy looks unused to smiling, at least for a camera, and only the small curve at the one visible corner of his mouth hints at the smile to come. The last thing that catches your eye are their two visible hands: her un-corsaged left hand crossed over her lap to his left hand draped across his kneecap. They're not holding hands, but you can see that they're touching. You concede it might be a trick of perspective, but all you've seen up to this point might lead you to believe otherwise.
You look to the print on the marked pages, and find snippits about lost love, about change and about about remembering the good. You find an emphasis on female characters asking the male ones to remember how things were, not how things became. All told it's not any more than a couple of hundred words, but the theme is clear. Perhaps you can understand why the rest of the book is pristine.
Having taken what you can, you close the book and climb back up the ladder to replace it on my high bookshelf. You pick up the de Camp and the Crichton and the Stross that have inevitably fallen over and stand them up straight, lying the strange, bulging, pristine-worn book on its back. It does a good job of holding up the others.
Perhaps you have enough pieces of this little puzzle, perhaps you want more. You might be driven to ask me about it, but I would only smile and say "She would probably like it that way."
Enough, More Later.
- James
At the top of my bookshelf, now way up near the ceiling of my old room, there lies a book. It's an interesting book, as the majority of the pages are nearly pristine. Hardly grounds for individuality, given the number of books I own, but the odd thing is that the cover bulges out, like it's been well thumbed numerous times. Despite this there are no creases along the spine. I remember looking for it by name, years and years ago, hundreds of miles from home, and buying it without question, for I had been told there were answers in it. No, it wasn't a philosophy book, I got it from the sci-fi/fantasy section. The person who recommended it was in to codes and ciphers, and liked to be roundabout in explanations.
At the moment it's propping up a number of trade paperbacks. You see L. Sprague de Camp, Michael Crichton, Charlie Stross, Neil Gaiman, and probably get an idea of the theme of this shelf. Pulling it from it's horizontal position, you probably prop up "Rivers of Time" as it begins to teeter, no longer supported. Taking this odd book, bulging on either end with the cover curled but the pages white with un-use, you clamber down the ladder you used to get to the eyrie of books and sit down, the book on your lap. The cover shows an illustrated woman in a dark dress hovering over muted text and a brown, featureless landscape. The title is a rather obvious nod to Yeats and the author currently has a monopoly in the "D-E" section of every sci-fi/fantasy bookstore shelf. As you can see, I shared the indirect habit of the person who pointed me in the direction of the book.
The curved cover lifts to show two two sheaves of paper, folded in two. The first is actually two pages folded together, white printer paper with the tell-tale alternating red-and-blue text that can only be an IM conversation. It's a muted argument, that seems to end well but on uncertainty. The young boy (clearly the name in red) must have had an inkling as to it's importance: He took the trouble to print it out. The second sheaf of paper confirms your suspicions as to the person who owns the book. It's a piece of lined notebook paper, the kind you can tear out of a spiral-bound, and the edge is all raggety. They never do come out clean, despite the perforations. On it, scrawled and crossed out, is some of the most pretentious romantic doggerel you've ever seen. There's some good rhymes and maybe a few lines scan properly, but good thing it looks like a preliminary. It also is all over the place, some lines break and meters change. There's feeling in it, as most poetry has, but make no mistake, it is sophomoric.
Having seen everything that the front cover has to offer, you stuff the hastily folded sheets back in and open to the next gap, about halfway through and past scores of pristine, untouched pages. Another folded sheet of paper, some more doggerel scrawled on it, and a pin holding the folds together. You see part of a darkened rectangle and text in the corners, clearly a printed out picture from long ago. You remove the pin and unfold the paper, and on it is a picture of a girl. Her black, curly hair reaches down past her shoulders, her skin a light brown and dark brown eyes that have managed to catch the light of the flash such that they look a deep, soft reddish color. The most ghostly of Mona Lisa smiles graces the edge of her lips. You can see bookshelves stuffed to brimming behind her. You think what you will of her before re-folding and pinning the paper, then placing it back where it was. You notice, as you move on, a light dog ear on the page the picture was marking. There is nothing else to indicate why this page, but you've only just opened the book, haven't you?
Near the end there are two marked pages. The first has a small piece of red-folded paper, a drawing done in silver ink: a tree with a swing on it, on a hill during a starry night. There's a name on the bottom right hand corner, but it's been worn partially away. On the inside are a quote, an expanded "Love like you've never been hurt" excerpt, and a message about meeting somewhere at this time and this place. The writing is small and elegant, a girls hand. On the back, you notice with a smile, is "P.M. Publishing," handwritten in the same silver ink with a crescent moon and starts. Very carefully done, as the simple line borders on the front and back attest. Tucked within this note, maybe or maybe not having anything to do with it, are a ticket stub for a 3:35 pm showing of "The Last Samurai," and a pink copy of a receipt. The only interesting thing on the receipt are the printed words "SR BALL." You replace them in the red note and stick it back between the pages from where it came.
You come to the last gap, only a few pages later. This page is interesting in that it marks the beginning of a story, as you find that the book is not one tale but a collection of shorts. The one thing that springs out at you is the title, "TALLULAH." There are some light print marks, indicating that this was the only thing read in full, and you see that the paper marking the pages looks similar to the picture from earlier. It's folded the same way, another pin (long with a spherical black head, like the other) holds it together and contributes to the strange bulges in the book. You can see that it's another picture, and un-pin and un-fold it to get a good look.
It's a picture of a boy and a girl. You recognize the girl from the previous picture, but her hair has been coiffed and runs in ringlets down her back. A delicate white necklace is draped around her neck, accentuated by the dark satin strapless gown she's wearing. Next to her, the boy is just visible, his upper body blocked by the head of another young man in the foreground of the picture. Both the boy and the girl are sitting down and leaning forward, only the girls arms, crossed and resting on her knees, are visible. A corsage with white flowers is around the girls far wrist, and if the young man in the foreground was gone, you'd see a similar boutineer on the boy's shirt, held in place by two long, black-headed pins.
Both of their faces are shiny with perspiration. The girl is smiling, and it's part camera smile and part real smile: stiffness of the corners of the mouth look forced, but the faint lines from the corners of her nose to the corners of her mouth denote some real happiness. The boy looks unused to smiling, at least for a camera, and only the small curve at the one visible corner of his mouth hints at the smile to come. The last thing that catches your eye are their two visible hands: her un-corsaged left hand crossed over her lap to his left hand draped across his kneecap. They're not holding hands, but you can see that they're touching. You concede it might be a trick of perspective, but all you've seen up to this point might lead you to believe otherwise.
You look to the print on the marked pages, and find snippits about lost love, about change and about about remembering the good. You find an emphasis on female characters asking the male ones to remember how things were, not how things became. All told it's not any more than a couple of hundred words, but the theme is clear. Perhaps you can understand why the rest of the book is pristine.
Having taken what you can, you close the book and climb back up the ladder to replace it on my high bookshelf. You pick up the de Camp and the Crichton and the Stross that have inevitably fallen over and stand them up straight, lying the strange, bulging, pristine-worn book on its back. It does a good job of holding up the others.
Perhaps you have enough pieces of this little puzzle, perhaps you want more. You might be driven to ask me about it, but I would only smile and say "She would probably like it that way."
Enough, More Later.
- James
Monday, September 15, 2008
Ahh, wondered when this might happen...
Now playing: The Corrs - My Lagan Love
via FoxyTunes
And I was so sure that I could get through life with a modicum of faith in humanity. Mind you, it's not Scalzi's fault, but this entry truly made a little part of me die...
http://scalzi.com/whatever/?p=1734
Is it just me, or is that really, really depressing?
Enough, More Later.
- James
via FoxyTunes
And I was so sure that I could get through life with a modicum of faith in humanity. Mind you, it's not Scalzi's fault, but this entry truly made a little part of me die...
http://scalzi.com/whatever/?p=1734
Is it just me, or is that really, really depressing?
Enough, More Later.
- James
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Not Brothers for Nothing
Now playing: James Newton Howard - Deacon's Speech
via FoxyTunes
Mainly I just wanted to post this to show off a nifty image capture program I found online (and will probably buy), but I've recently been going through the Granada TV Sherlock series and have taken a liking to Mycroft. Pictured above is the man himself (left, portrayed by Charles Grey) and Sherlock (right, the wonderful Jeremy Brett). The liner notes of the box set I got for my birthday lament the fact that Conan-Doyle used Mycroft sparingly, a sentiment I share wholeheartedly. I suppose the main reason like the character is that he's a creature of habit, something I can relate with, as well as being rather lazy. What I really like is how he's a foil for Sherlock, the latter being full of nervous energy and craving constant stimulation, and the former sedentary and prone to napping frequently. Despite these differences, they're both intellectual equals (though as the article says, Mycroft might exceed Holmes in this department, the one trait I don't claim similarity with).
I think what makes these characters continue on is how this character dichotomy can be found in a great number of relationships, be they familial, friendly, or otherwise. I definitely know a pair of brothers who have Sherlock/Mycroft qualities (and have oft imagined myself as the more awkward, but competent Watson following close on their heels). And like Conan-Doyle, I've definitely spent more time with the Sherlock than with the Mycroft, but have enjoyed both their companies immensely. Such immediate applicability seems to lend to their longevity as characters, as well as their appeal.
Anyway, I've run out of insights (or brain droppings, take your pick), and I want to go play with this new program more. Expect to see more pictures accompanying posts in the future.
Enough, More Later.
- James
via FoxyTunes
Mainly I just wanted to post this to show off a nifty image capture program I found online (and will probably buy), but I've recently been going through the Granada TV Sherlock series and have taken a liking to Mycroft. Pictured above is the man himself (left, portrayed by Charles Grey) and Sherlock (right, the wonderful Jeremy Brett). The liner notes of the box set I got for my birthday lament the fact that Conan-Doyle used Mycroft sparingly, a sentiment I share wholeheartedly. I suppose the main reason like the character is that he's a creature of habit, something I can relate with, as well as being rather lazy. What I really like is how he's a foil for Sherlock, the latter being full of nervous energy and craving constant stimulation, and the former sedentary and prone to napping frequently. Despite these differences, they're both intellectual equals (though as the article says, Mycroft might exceed Holmes in this department, the one trait I don't claim similarity with).
I think what makes these characters continue on is how this character dichotomy can be found in a great number of relationships, be they familial, friendly, or otherwise. I definitely know a pair of brothers who have Sherlock/Mycroft qualities (and have oft imagined myself as the more awkward, but competent Watson following close on their heels). And like Conan-Doyle, I've definitely spent more time with the Sherlock than with the Mycroft, but have enjoyed both their companies immensely. Such immediate applicability seems to lend to their longevity as characters, as well as their appeal.
Anyway, I've run out of insights (or brain droppings, take your pick), and I want to go play with this new program more. Expect to see more pictures accompanying posts in the future.
Enough, More Later.
- James
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
A Musical End note
Now playing: Maroon 5 - Tangled
via FoxyTunes
If I were more articulate, I might have made use of this early-college (for me) song...
(See Now Playing for info)
I'm full of regret
For all things that I've done and said
And I don't know if it'll ever be ok to show
My face 'round here
Sometimes I wonder if I disappear
Would you ever turn your head and look
See if I'm gone
Cause I fear
There is nothing left to say to you
That you wanna hear
That you wanna know
I think I should go
The things I've done are way too shameful
Your just innocent
A helpless victim of a spider's web
And I'm an insect
Goin' after anything that I can get
So you better turn your head and run
And don't look back
Cause I fear
There is nothing left to say
To you
That you wanna hear
That you wanna know
I think I should go
The things I've done are way too shameful
[x2]
And I've done you so wrong
Treated you bad
Strung you along
Oh shame on myself
I don't know how I got so tangled up
Sic est.
Enough, More Later.
- James
via FoxyTunes
If I were more articulate, I might have made use of this early-college (for me) song...
(See Now Playing for info)
I'm full of regret
For all things that I've done and said
And I don't know if it'll ever be ok to show
My face 'round here
Sometimes I wonder if I disappear
Would you ever turn your head and look
See if I'm gone
Cause I fear
There is nothing left to say to you
That you wanna hear
That you wanna know
I think I should go
The things I've done are way too shameful
Your just innocent
A helpless victim of a spider's web
And I'm an insect
Goin' after anything that I can get
So you better turn your head and run
And don't look back
Cause I fear
There is nothing left to say
To you
That you wanna hear
That you wanna know
I think I should go
The things I've done are way too shameful
[x2]
And I've done you so wrong
Treated you bad
Strung you along
Oh shame on myself
I don't know how I got so tangled up
Sic est.
Enough, More Later.
- James
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