cry havoc

A few days ago, lilithsaintcrow posted about the I can do it betters, and that's had me thinking about my running internal commentary when I read (fiction or nonfiction), and even a bit about when I post critiques and reviews.

It seems to me -- from what I can recall, at least -- that it's been a long time since I've read anything and actually thought, "I can do that better." I mean, although my daily focus is not story-writing per se, I have done enough of it in enough different styles to be able to say with some confidence that it would not automatically be true that I could do anything better. It would, though, be true that I can do it different.

( Which I think results in some other kind of critique thought-process, where in deconstruction I can see how the author was aiming for A, B, and C, but I'm also detached enough to see that D, E, and F were options, character- or plot-wise. )

The biggest irony about this post? ...is the fact that the draft I'd been working on (prior to losing it all in iMac deaththroes) was a review of Saintcrow's Watcher series. Whoops. Timing, timing.

Now I'm in the mood for some pound cake. Damn it.

Some of you may remember when I was grinding my teeth over the possibility of attending a HS reunion, a notion that filled me with so much goddamn ennui that words nearly failed me. (But not quite.) Regardless, a sort of compromise was achieved -- more like, I felt kinda bad that I have no really positive memories of anyone in HS except for maybe three or four people, only one of whom has ever kept in touch with me -- and since that one friend's not on LJ, I rather ungracefully agreed to maybe, y'know, kinda, sorta, looking at signing up on facebook for, uh, I dunno. I guess so if my friend wanted to shove my name in front of former classmates, even if every name mentioned drew an almost complete blank with me.

So anyway.

About two weeks ago, I guess, I finally said to myself, well, fuck it, get this over with. Then I can go back to being eternally grateful that the fuckheads who were our senior class representatives (whomever they are; I barely remember my senior year, let alone who we freaking voted for) decided to abruptly shift the reunion to August & not over Homecoming weekend, which meant I could slide out of attending on the pretense of not enough warning, etc etc.

( Carrying on: imagine me dutifully signing up for facebook, and this is where the amusement begins, of course. )

Market data-mining, my freaking foot. If I wanted to be a freaking statistic, I would've gone ahead and become a junkie adolescent parent with a full scholarship to Harvard. At least then I would've been some kind of an exciting statistic, not to mention been able to sell my partially-plaigarized autobiography for a gazillion dollars.

1. Reply that you wish to take part, and I will pick four of your icons.
2. Make a post (including the meme info) and talk about the icons I chose.
3. Other people can then comment to you and make their own posts.
4. This will create a never-ending cycle of icon squee!

recession picked these four:



( Icon the first... )



( Icon the second... )



( Icon the third... )



( Ahhhhh, this one has its own entire LEGEND. )

Over the past few days, for some reason I keep ending up reading a variety of blogs focused on racism (a number of which are due to following links through fascinating conversations about the current primaries etc). I came across one blog post that -- while I'm sure there was a certain amount of tongue-in-cheek mixed in with a clearly bitter and angry attitude -- I've been turning over and over in my head.

The short version was this: when a (non-color) person says, "I don't see race," what they really mean (according to the blog author) is "I'm not comfortable with the issue so I'd rather pretend it doesn't exist."

Uh.

Excuse me while I laugh hysterically.

Okay, I think I'm calmer now. I'm over the knee-jerk response of saying, "that generalization is ludicrous," followed in rapid succession by the impulse to cry in glee, "what amazing mindreading skills you have, my dear!"

Lack of ire isn't due only to maturity; even when younger, I had a hard time reacting defensively in a "are you talking to me" way. The best memory-example I have is of being cornered by angry classmates insisting that having my nose in a book meant I had to be saying I was better than them -- and that this behavior therefore made me racist. ( Given I didn't want to get the crap beaten out of me by a girl a head taller than me, I gave her words careful consideration, because if she had a point, I'd rather concede it than just argue for the sake of arguing and get my nose broken in the process. )

I also know that we tend to overlay assumptions based on what we're used to seeing. ( As a natural evolution of that contemplation, I started thinking about yet another essay, which called for more 'people of color' in the SFF world. )

Next, I'll be discussing antimacassars. Stay tuned!

The thing is, I've realized over the past month that I truly dislike working from home. Not in the sense of "every now and then", and hardly in the sense of "because I can't seem to get displined enough to do work" -- it's that I resent the fact that work is here, in my space, in the first place.

( This makes for a cranky, lazy, and avoidant Sol. ) So, naturally, now I'm going to go hang shelves in the kitchen. Will post pictures later of latest progress.

1. Last night someone must've been picking up the room service tray from outside my room -- around 3am -- but it sounded like someone was in the bathroom knocking stuff over. And then, pause, and knocking more stuff. Another pause, and more things hit the floor -- enough by that point I got up, put on my glasses, and went to see. Everything was fine. So I presume it was someone just being very clumy with the room service tray.

2. This morning around 6am, someone knocked on a door -- maybe across the hall, maybe next door. I recall distinctly waking up long enough to say, "unh-hunh, I'm getting up, sorry," and then realizing I wasn't home, CP wasn't reminding me it was 9am and an hour after I'd wanted to get up, but I didn't get back to sleep, not really. People kept knocking on doors all around me, I suppose delivering breakfast. Ended up getting up half-hour before alarm went off. Sigh.

3. zania has given me the long-distance fashion blessing on a single-breasted quasi-peacoat empire-banded knee-length black coat. It's one of those few times I wish I did have photography capability on the phone, just to take a picture and send to fashionista friends to say, "okay, does this look okay?" But at 40% off, it seems like a good investment... if I can figure out a way to squeeze it into my luggage. Hrm.

4. So tired. Ready to come home now.

also, #5: airplane rides can be cramped, uncomfortable, and generally annoying, but nothing makes them hell like being congested. My ears crackled with every swallow (once popping of their own accords, and I'd forgotton how painful that can be). I hate the crackling. Makes me feel like someone shoved a bundle of cellophane into each ear.

"SCIENTISTS SAY SOL IS COMPREHENSIBLE"
excerpt from Cahokia Town Journal
(printed monthly, subscription availble for $5 in three easy payments)
page 6, back cover, reprinted from Weekly World News

( The Journal for Ethnomyogenetic Studies has released a long-awaited white paper... )

The scary thing is that the folks who know me in person might actually agree with a number of these...