| Storyteller of the Day #458 |
[Dec. 24th, 2009|12:12 am] |
It's a common practice in the Dactyl household for Emily's parents to read stories aloud, to Emily or to the two of us. Here is Emily's mom, sitting by the cold heater with a curled-up Nora, reading John Bellairs's The Face in the Frost. I was never very good at reading stories aloud - my throat always caught on the sharper consonants, or the writing would melt together in my mouth and come out as some indecipherable mess, and I could feel my listeners losing interest as I read. Both of Emily's parents are rather good at reading, though, and can convey very well the author's wit and charm, even if they stumble on the occasional latin words. A good reader makes the writing seem important, and keeps the listener attentive, and it's rather nice to listen to both of Emily's parents when they read.
People always told me that if I wanted to be a writer, I would need to do public readings. I would rather leave it to someone with a good reading voice, I think~ |
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| Nuh-uh of the Day #457 |
[Dec. 22nd, 2009|11:08 pm] |
Mackenzie, Riva and Alina have all returned from their respective schools, and we climbed into Emily's loft today to avoid the vicious fumes of fried peppers a story below us. We were quickly beset by the nuh-uh triceratopses, who scaled us as if we were mountains and subjected us to their gainsays. We nearly succumbed to their influence, unable to descend into the fallout below, but the danger subsided before too much time passed and we proceeded to cut lemon cookies into christmas trees and bats.
I am with Emily now, and she is singing everything she knows while I write. All is well. |
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| Ordeal of the Day #456 |
[Dec. 22nd, 2009|03:22 am] |
Here is our adventure in its final stages, as Anton and Ben roll in Ben's new gargantuan 53-inch TV. Getting it to Ben's house from its original owner near Games of Berkeley was a huge undertaking, a lengthy process which made the screen's brilliant glow all the more rewarding when we finally plugged it in.
We bought the screen from a college-age man with a medieval haircut and sharp eyebrows, like a young and naive King Arthur before he pulled the sword from the stone. His name was rather prosaic - I've already forgotten it - but I think a name like Tristan or Charlemagne would have better suited him.
The television, fortunately, was fitted with wheels, so we were able to leave the building without too much difficulty, though we were a bit dubious about riding in the elevator with it, afraid that it the elevator might plummet under our collective weight. Anton, playing the noble martyr, descended with the screen while Ben and I raced to meet him downstairs.
Our original plan was to cart the TV back in Anton's minivan, but we soon discovered that it was far to big to fit easily inside, and too heavy to lift with any degree of confidence. We decided to just roll the monolith the ten blocks to Ben's house.
Moving such a massive object along the street is a slow and precarious process; we needed to be delicate with the screen, for fear that it might topple over, or that the rough ground would vibrate some vital tubes out of its machinery. As we pushed it along, every crack in the ground became a gorge, every bump a mountain; we were giants carrying a doomsday device over the earth, and any misstep could send it hurtling out of our control. We imagined it might break loose and roll down the hill, serendipitously weaving between traffic and through crowds, scarcely scraping by babies in their strollers till it came to rest in a grassy field, untouched and safe. Crossing the street, I felt like a plate-glass carrier in an action movie, and half expected a sports car chased by cops to roar down the street and crash right through our payload, throwing shards of glass and splintered plastic into the air.
At one point Ben suggested we could use the television to ford a river, assuming we didn't die of dysentery before we had the opportunity.
Unfortunately, televisions are not designed for long-distance travel, especially not across cracked concrete, and about halfway to our destination one of the little plastic wheels broke off. There are a total of eight wheels on the behemoth, but we were afraid of losing any more, and so I enlisted the help of my father to get us the rest of the way home. He was quite willing to give us aid, and quickly arrived with his red pickup. The four of us managed to hoist the screen into the truck's bed, Anton and I climbed in alongside it to keep it steady, and we drove off. I smiled and waved to other cars, enjoying the strange feeling of inertia and the soft wind as we moved along. Cars feel much freer, and rather more dangerous, when you ride without seat or seatbelt.
Once we arrived at Ben's house and placed the TV back on solid ground, we had to prove ourselves in one last trial before our adventure's end - the stairs up to his back porch. We were quite resourceful here, collecting an old closet door from the basement, a discarded rug near the recycling and a cardboard box from Ben's home and constructed a passable ramp, smooth and soft enough to push the screen upstairs without damaging it. It was a feat of makeshift engineering, and we were all quite proud of ourselves when the job was complete.
The gargantuan screen glowed brightly and the bass speakers rumbled like bubbles of molten rock, and Ben was almost paralyzed with happiness from our success and his new TV.
(did I mention it cost only $100? That alone made it worth the trouble - though I dare say the trouble itself was the best part of the night)
Despite all the adventure, I'm still sad that I wasn't able to see Emily afterwards. I've seen little of her the last few days, and this must be righted as soon as possible. Tomorrow will be a good day. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 21st, 2009|07:16 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  disappointed | ] |
Well. Here we meet again. And live's still not all it was cracked up to be. I moved out of my dads house and I reeally can't believe how he treats us it's like everything about him just screams ass hat. He invited me and big brother over for sinner than he invited some drug aaddi r rweekers over and it was just resixulous. I'm this close to calling CPS. I just wish I knew what to do. It's like "come over kids, so I can ignore you and disregaurd your feelings some more. That is why you moved out right?" what an ass. If I wanted to come over and see your new family I would have said something. Please don't ever call me again. It comes down to would I rather have my brother live with my drugged out dad or with complete strangers. Things are tough. But when I get my own place he can stay with me. If life came with a blueprints it wouldn't be as fun, right?
I really just want some direction. |
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| Clue of the Day #455 |
[Dec. 21st, 2009|03:58 am] |
| [ | Tags | | | photo of the day | ] |
| [ | music |
| | but if you think I'm gonna tell you, think again | ] |
[There is some strong language, and it is a bit offensive, so be warned. Keep in mind that my friends are all quite respectful people, and nothing they say here reflects their actual beliefs]
I was a bit apprehensive about posting this video, but I felt that it was a good human moment despite its rather offensive nature. If you don't know the game of Taboo, the goal is to get your teammate to guess the keyword by giving clues, without saying specific "taboo" words (for example, you cannot use the word "inches" when describing a tape measure). This forces you to find new ways to describe words, which can be quite a challenge sometimes.
I think I can understand Anton's train of thought - imagine, for example, the TV girlfriend who is allergic to her boyfriend's pet dog, and offers an ultimatum: either the dog goes or she goes. It can be difficult to articulate this idea when racing against the hourglass, though, and often the clue-giver will panic and say something ridiculous when he might have found a much simpler clue (for example, mentioning the Bourne movies: The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, The Bourne Ultimatum).
Don't let this strange sense of humor bother you too much - Anton means not what he says, and neither does Ben; this line of thought runs parallel with racist jokes and other dark humor, which is funny only because it's so ridiculously bad; none of us would ever take these ideas seriously. Witness Ben at the end of the video, who swats away Anton's ridiculous clue, while Anton also laughs at himself.
I have to appreciate moments like this, as terrible as they are - we can only use this kind of humor with very close friends, who know us well enough not to judge us when we say awful things. These are good friends of mine, and I'm glad to have moments like this, filled with pastries and apple cider at almost two in the morning. |
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| Sight of the Day #454 |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|03:48 am] |
More than nine months ago, I took a photo from almost this exact place, standing alone and staring out over the brightly sleeping city. I climbed Indian Rock again tonight, this time with friends, and we discussed theoretical physics and space travel in the mild night air.
This was after a late showing of Avatar, which, despite being supersaturated with clichés, was a fantastic movie. A story's strength doesn't necessarily lie in its plot, but rather its telling, and in its details, and Avatar succeeded in both respects beautifully.
I love all these people who, in their striving to tell a story, create entire worlds, explaining each and every element involved. Even more interesting, in a way, is a world created by many people, each person working to his or her strength. I'm reminded of Slartibartfast from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, who made Norway with great pride. In Metroid Prime there are little schools of fish that swim to avoid your shots, then come together again when it's safe - someone made them. Avatar's director hired a linguist to invent a new language for the Na'vi, a musician to build a new musical structure (which I can't name properly, since the science and art of music both elude me), a biologist to create wildlife and an interconnected ecosystem, and a physicist to explain the floating islands (via some magnetic system). And so they have created a world which is not only beautiful, but believable in many ways, even though it is so fantastical.
I'm making a world too! I mustn't forget! And you'll be a part of it too, and we can swim together in the Collective Unconscious! |
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| Fingerprint of the Day #453 |
[Dec. 19th, 2009|01:18 am] |
And I mean that a nearly literal sense - this is very much the day's fingerprint, a distribution of color and clouds and the intricate textures of trees which is unique from that of any other day. I opened the door to greet Emily, saw her in her velvet red, like the clothes of a faerie, and the sky that framed her was beautiful. Between the blue and the red it cradled a subtle pink that my camera simply could not see (was I made colorblind by my digital eye?)
This is a sight that I used to see every day, coming home from school, and I'd somehow forgotten it in the few months I'd been gone.
The sky is always a swirling soup, always a different flavor, and always delicious~ |
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| Glow of the Day #452 |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|01:14 am] |
For the first time in three years, we've gone out to buy a Christmas tree, and the entire process of carting it home, setting it up and decorating it held the same colorful energy it had when I was little. Our apartment is small and we picked a tree to match - about four feet tall - so I carried it up the stairs by its trunk, needles upwards, wielding it like an olympic torch, and as Joe mounted it onto the tree stand I dissected the Christmas lights.
Untangling the lights is as much a holiday tradition as the tree decoration itself, and there is something rather satisfying about straightening out the vines of chromatic flames, clicking and unwinding them into a manageable string. Winding them around the tree is a delicate process; bringing them around the back of the tree feels like wrapping a loved one in a wool scarf, and to keep the colors balanced one must find the best branches to support the wire.
When I was little the flashing lights cast nightmare shadows on the walls, with alternating patterns of pine needles forming monsters and dark forests, but the fright is gone now. I think perhaps Mr. Skellington might have approved of that sort of visualization, though.
Mom has a beautiful collection of ornaments, from a rocketeer Santa to sugared fruits to elegantly shaded glass bubbles that turn the lights into constellations, and I found that I appreciated some of them more now than I ever did before. Finding branches that could hold their weight, I decided that it was an important thing to build a collection of ornaments when I have my own home someday, to take out and admire for a few weeks each year. I still have some of the glass creatures Ben got me a few years ago, and made sure to find a good place for the bee by a green flame.
Our tree is decorated, glowing, with its ankles swathed in a white sheet. I'm excited~ |
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| Forge of the Day #451 |
[Dec. 17th, 2009|02:49 am] |
Here is an inside look at the Pastry Forge, where cookies, pies, tarts, cakes and all other manner of breaded confections are crafted through ancient alchemical techniques. The cinnamon chocolate chip cookies here have nearly completed their metamorphosis, and will soon emerge into the world in their final form, as sweet, chewy delights.
I wish I could leave the camera in with the cookies to record their transformation, but unfortunately cameras are made of far feebler stuff than sugary goods, and could not survive in such a hostile environment.
It is through such infernos that the sweetest creations are forged. Think of it as a rite of passage, as the cookie's final demonstration of its goodness; only those who are pure of heart will endure such a trial without losing their sweetness. The rest will come out blackened and bitter, and then you will know who you can trust to lift your spirits. |
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| Public Works Notice of the Day #450 |
[Dec. 16th, 2009|02:04 am] |
I found this sign (which reads Soon Obsolete at the top) posted on a wooden fence outside someone's house. There's an identical sign near the Bart station, on a chain-link fence, and because it looked both official and ridiculous, I had to investigate.
From the website of the Elsewhere Public Works Agency:
OUR MISSION
Time control. Historical evidence indicates that ordinary men & women once had quite a bit of time of their own. Anthropologists have estimated that our smelly prehistoric ancestors worked only about three hours a day, on average. These ancestors may not have lived well by our standards, but they had plenty of time to think, play, socialize, perform rituals & look around at the nature of their world. One book on folklore states that the Elsewhere Public Works Agency came into being in such a time. . .
The mission statement prattles on like a berserk Lemony Snicket, listing their services in as vague and long-winded a way as possible. I appreciate that they describe Elsewhere as extra-dimensional and effervescent, but I think there is a limit to how obtuse your mission statement should be before it loses force.
After watching Fight Club for the first time, they seem like a relatively mellow version of Project Mayhem, and now I'm thinking of a few different organizations that strive to make life more interesting, or more free, or more meaningful, that rebel against the consumerist clockwork of society. Improv Everywhere comes to mind, though it has no particular political tilt, and operates solely for the sake of fun.
I am all for leaving mysterious signs for people to find, and scattering secrets and clues throughout a city, and indeed I intend to do some such project myself eventually, but something about Elsewhere seems a bit off. Maybe it's because their website tried to sell me a black box for $14.95. Maybe it's because the Bart fence they posted on was meant for safety rather than as an impediment. They just don't seem entirely sincere, and may perhaps be rebelling just for the sake of rebellion.
Search for them on Google and see what you can find. Their website is rather difficult to use, and filled with words that mostly amount to gibberish, despite their official tone.
I think I would like to do a similar project, though, and a better job at it. We could build a better Elsewhere, and one that is not so vaguely critical of the state of the world..
There are so many organizations and stories and graffiti scribbles that tell you to just take an active role and make your life into something you want it to be. And that's something that you should be doing! Do it! (But why is it so hard?) There must be a better way to get people to start thinking proactively. |
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| Shoe of the Day #449 |
[Dec. 15th, 2009|02:47 am] |
"Take a picture of my ghetto shoe," my sister said. I asked her what made it ghetto, and she said it was pretty and from Nike. Kids these days and their newfangled lingo.
That's my bed in the photo, I suppose, bare as can be. I haven't slept in my room since September. Since then my mom has taken the bed for herself, and brought her belongings in to mingle with mine. It's a little difficult to think of the room as my own, now, and so I find that I don't have any particular room to myself anywhere. In Santa Cruz I share a room with Trevor and Sal, and here my room is a sort of internet nexus point, so my sister spends a rather large amount of time here.
It doesn't really bother me - I don't really need a private nook, so long as I can occasionally find a quiet place to read. It just underlines the fact that home to me is not really any specific place, but rather the people I'm with - I'm at home with Emily, and with my friends when we play card games, and when we all gather round on squashy sofas or in the grass with koosh folk.
I feel a little bit like the air itself hums a different tune here in Berkeley than in Santa Cruz, and I hum along with it. That is to say, perhaps, that depending on the people I'm with, I am a slightly different person.
But I suppose that is an idea approaching the self-evident, so I needn't dwell too long on it.
I hope you had a beautiful day. |
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| Birth of the Day #448 |
[Dec. 14th, 2009|01:05 am] |
A waxen hand, white as parchment, emerges from the waters of life, still warm and malleable. Reluctant to leave, its molten skin drips into the wellspring, forming stalactites (stalactyls?) that will crown the fingers forever.
These pale fingers, smooth and warm to the touch, boast no fingertips, but carry inside them all the textures you would find on your own hand. Seen from within, they are a vast labyrinth with delicately carved walls which would excite even the most experienced spelunker; from without they are small and gentle, and curl when they fall asleep.
This image is a little bit what I imagine it would look like if two fluid worlds were to collide, or to form from a single planet's mitosis. The little liquid bridges refract light in the most beautiful way; I would love to go sailing from one side to the other. |
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| Shadow of the Day #447 |
[Dec. 13th, 2009|01:41 am] |
It rained intermittently throughout the night, and when we woke the sky was full of dewey morning light. Through the warmly glowing curtains we could see a unicorn and the figure of a crescent moon which I mistook for a whale, its back arching as it dove through the air.
Later in the day, on our way to meet friends, the sky was gray and the leaves were all damp and golden, and everything hummed in silver. I stopped in mid sentence to admire the light and the atmosphere.
Less than half an hour from then, the clouds gave a little shrug and sent some rain down upon us, and Emily and I hurried to escape from the threat of a torrent, our hair beaded with water drops.
Ralph drove us home, and the streets were all slick and black, the world reflected in little streaks along each side of the road.
For now the sky is quiet. One could fill an entire book with all the shades of mood that rainy skies can evoke, I think... |
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| Smile of the Day #446 |
[Dec. 11th, 2009|10:29 pm] |
Here again is Emily's lovely smile, no longer obscured by pixels and the distance of hundreds of miles. Her mother knitted her a new sock, soon to be joined by a twin, and it goes rather nicely with her striped sleeves and patchwork pants. It's wonderful to see her again, and to have so much time with her.
My battery is about to die. Goodnight! |
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| Return of the Day #445 |
[Dec. 11th, 2009|01:32 am] |
And with the end of finals I've completed my first quarter at UC Santa Cruz. I spent the first half of the day finishing my statistics final, and for the next few days I'm going to be exulting in the that that I've made it past all the data analysis and 95% confidence intervals and residual standard deviations. I'm looking forward to next quarter - chemistry, physics and multivariable calculus should all be fascinating - but for now I'm home, and it's good to be here.
Mom drove Pearce and me back through the rain, and the green and red streetlights popped as they passed through raindrops on the window. It's an image from when I was little - I remember my dad driving me to preschool on a rainy day, and at the corner by the Bart station, the streetlights all looked like stars.
The more I think about it, the harder it is to remember.
My brain's been filling with numbers and laws. It's time to rest. |
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