Three Years Ago

The Cryptozoologist

I open the door gingerly, magazine tucked under my arm.  This building is new to me, I'm not entirely sure where I am.  Ah, the common room.  This is what I was looking for.  But there's already someone here, one of the residents.  She glances up as I slide into the dark room.  I claim a chair near the door and sit in silence, watching the end of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe with this college girl I've never met.

Joel had wanted a chance to talk to Swaagh, so he asked me if I minded adjourning for a bit.  I didn't.  He said there was a short story I should read, so he gave it to me, along with directions to the common room.  I'm always happy to read, so I came willingly.

Soon, the credits roll and she sits up to switch on the lamp.  She collects her dvd and smiles at me as she leaves.  I get up and take the vacated place on the couch.  It's wonderfully squishy.  Holding The New Yorker under the light, I find my place and settle in to read The Cryptozoologist for the first time.

a corkless jug of ink

the author s desk

i discovered archy and mehitabel in my lit book one day.
there was a poem and a brief bio of the author.
a cockroach and a cat and no punctuation?
i was intrigued, so i did some digging and stumbled on the don marquis website.
and then i was hooked.

i chose "the author s desk" because i thought it would be something we, as writers, could relate to.
because who doesn't have a jumble of odd things lying about? 
whether it be on a desk or in a drawer on shelves in a closet (happy thought, indeed), the pile is there.

stray snacks, lost laundry, unfinished papers, forgotten photographs.
socks and songs and salad.
half-read books, ancient receipts, broken pens.

i like the image it presents
the picture is clear
the rhythm is easy to ken
it pleases the ear
the style is different
but the reason makes sense
archy certainly has made his defense

ahem. 
for the record? 
one should really not attempt writing rhymes at 11.30 at night.
it's not quite sane.

Awe-Inspiring Imbecility

Niagara

I think I shall quote and comment.

On the Canada side you drive along the chasm between long ranks of photographers standing guard behind their cameras, ready to make an ostentatious frontispiece of you and your decaying ambulance, and your solemn crate with a hide on it, which you are expected to regard in the light of a horse, and a diminished and unimportant background of sublime Niagara; and a great many people have the incredible effrontery or the native depravity to aid and abet this sort of crime.

Photographers: Annoying people and making good on tourist traps since [at least] 1871.  (I can say that because I am one.)

Any day, in the hands of these photographers, you may see stately pictures of papa and mamma, Johnny and Bub and Sis, or a couple of country cousins, all smiling vacantly, and all disposed in studied and uncomfortable attitudes in their carriage, and all looming up in their awe-inspiring imbecility before the snubbed and diminished presentment of that majestic presence whose ministering spirits are the rainbows, whose voice is the thunder, whose awful front is veiled in clouds, who was monarch here dead and forgotten ages before this hackful of small reptiles was deemed temporarily necessary to fill a crack in the world's unnoted myriads, and will still be monarch here ages and decades of ages after they shall have gathered themselves to their blood relations, the other worms, and been mingled with the unremembering dust.

Did you realize that's one sentence?  Good heavens.  I think the marvelous thing about Twain is his ability to mock photographic posing, romantic prose, and human beings in general all in the same, paragraph-long sentence.  And make it work.  Talent, ladies and gentlemen.  Talent.

We now began to creep along flimsy bridges of a single plank, our persons shielded from destruction by a crazy wooden railing, to which I clung with both hands-- not because I was afraid, but because I wanted to.

Oh, really?  Hm.  Why don't I believe you?

I never was so scared before and survived it.

Quite.

"Is the Wawhoo-Wang-Wang of the Whack-a-Whack happy? Does the great Speckled Thunder sigh for the warpath, or is his heart contented with dreaming of the dusky maiden, the Pride of the Forest? Does the mighty Sachem yearn to drink the blood of his enemies, or is he satisfied to make bead reticules for the pappooses of the paleface? Speak, sublime relic of bygone grandeur-- venerable ruin, speak!'

Oh help.  I can hardly breathe.  I love this guy.

I went away from there.

I don't blame him.  I would do the same.

Poker and seven-up, and a vain modern expense for soap, unknown to your glorious ancestors, have depleted your purses.

Honestly now, what can you say?

Remember Uncas!-- and Red Jacket!-- and Hole in the Day!-- and Whoopdedoodledo!

Hm, not sure I remember the last chap.

However, thus far he thinks only sixteen of my wounds are fatal.

Good news!  ...Maybe...not...?

Suffice it to say I love Mark Twain.  He somehow combines wise and witty and sarcastic and arrogant and entertaining and ridiculous.  And he does a remarkable job of it.

Now good night, my illustrious guttersnipes.  Watch out for Irish Indians.

Commas and Fluff

Living Like Weasels

I like this essay.
Like is a weak word.
It should be added to the list of evil words.
Anyway, my point was this is an essay I enjoy and appreciate, so I wanted to write a moderately intelligent and thoughtful response.
But my brain is totally fried.
Fluffed, rather.
My fluffs, who look something like this, are now fighting amongst themselves.
A group of them decided to form a band and began walking back and forth, banging on drums.
(Headache?  Uh, yeah.)
Being tired, the others weren't too happy about their comrades' decision, so they started chucking popcorn.
And now they're all running around and whacking each other with pillows.
It's actually kind of entertaining.
Maybe I can get something done while they're distracted.
The thing that strikes me most about this piece is not, as you might expect, the content.  What I see is the language.  For example, just look at her comma placement.

I have been reading about weasels because I saw one last week. I startled a weasel who startled me, and we exchanged a long glance.

Twenty minutes from my house, through the woods by the quarry and across the highway, is Hollins Pond, a remarkable piece of shallowness, where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk.

Listen to the rhythm, the pattern.  One clean, straightforward sentence.  I have been reading about weasels because I saw one last week.  Factual, isn't it?  Straight to the point.  Informative.  And then she expands on the thought, but she does it with a certain style.  I startled a weasel who startled me, and we exchanged a long glance.  There's a distinct pause when she adds the extra clause.
Hey, see the rhyme I just made?
Totally on purpose.
Not really.
Also, I just misspelled rhyme.
This means I should probably go to bed.
But I'm too lazy.
Getting ready for said location is entirely too much work.
Take note of the third sentence.  Twenty minutes from my house, through the woods by the quarry and across the highway, is Hollins Pond, a remarkable piece of shallowness, where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk.  Trim it down to the heart and you have Twenty minutes from my house is Hollins Pond.  Throw in a modifier to make it more personal: where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk.  It's already sounding more restful, isn't it?  Sunset, it's quiet, peaceful...  The next addition gives a sense of location, as well as an idea of the juxtaposition of nature and modern civilization: through the woods by the quarry and across the highway.  And what, exactly, is there?  Simply a remarkable piece of shallowness.  It's an unexpected, underrated refuge.

Now I and my fluffs are going to bed because I'm too tired to think any more.  So this is an abrupt ending.

p.s.  I just found the part where she says ensconced in the lap of lichen and it struck me as absolutely lovely.  I appreciate alliteration.  Good night.