spacematic.net

Those who claim creativity as a passion are bound by only one commitment. That is, they must create. At least this is the case if they want to earn the right to talk about it, wake up the next day, look themselves in the mirror and experience a modicum of deserved good feeling about who they claim to be. “Shit or get off the pot,” as Randal Graves would say. For this to happen, a person cannot simply wait for inspiration to strike. I should know… I’ve been waiting for a while now, and poor spacematic.net has suffered in the waiting.

I thought I had it all together after my amazing trip to Los Angeles last September, and this being the very next entry in sequence after that glimmer of tentative inspiration and hopeful yet half-hearted effort, one can readily see the fruits of such thought and how quickly they withered on the vine without proper cultivation. A river of creative thought may flow constantly in one’s mind, but its mere presence or the occasional glimmer of insight is not enough. Such currents only feed the root of what may eventually become a bounty of creative output. If such rewards are to be realized,  hands must get dirty, soil must be tilled and a certain measure of blood, sweat, tears, and the sacrifice of one half of a good goddamn must be paid to the muse in a measure of time. Without devotion to the task, you’re merely daydreaming. And as with all dreams, if attempts aren’t made to relate, record and sometimes (if you’re lucky) understand them, they are put upon the fire of fleeting consciousness. Brilliant, but quickly forgotten.

That’s not to say I’ve been doing nothing all this time. Mind you, there was a period when that actually was the case. Namely, the years of 2006 through 2008 was a span I often refer to as the “horse latitudes” of my life. There was no wind in my sails. Unlike those dreaded dead seas that trapped the sailors of  antiquity, there was no discomfort, neither was there hunger. There was just the  frustrating passage of time, all the while tamping down my desire, keeping my creativity hostage from the people I cared most about. The better part of me hated this self-imposed captivity. I don’t mince words here. How I say it now was exactly how I felt then. But how does one get to the point where they simply lack the desire to be productive?

(continue reading…)

Among my friends, the news that I’m re-organizing my book for June publication has reached critical mass and the cat is officially out of the bag. As such, the first question out of most people’s mouths is “So how’s the book coming along?”
To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I think it’s going well. It’s hard to tell these days, however. I’m approaching the text from a much different perspective now, and as a result I’m going to have to re-formulate how I guage progress. When I was 23, I wrote the book in a very linear fashion. I introduced the characters one at a time. Some of them were archetypes that I knew were central to the story, others I stumbled upon by accident. I threw them all knee-deep into a rich setting and sat down to write about them every day, more-or-less discovering where *they* were taking the story along the way. Since the book started out as a short story/character study, I had no idea what a fit or just ending for such an adventure should be. As a result, the outcome seemed a little contrived and lackluster – too lackluster for a group that I had come to know and love over two years.
Once finished, I wiped my brow and let a few people read the manuscript. Some people had to deal with hearing me read the damn thing to them chapter-by-chapter. I looked for their reactions and input, using their feedback to make minor tweaks to the storyline and dialogue.
Then things went sour on several fronts in my life and I tucked the manuscript away for eight years. Elements of some characters were too close to people I knew, and the pangs of heartbreak and loss became overwhelming whenever I tried to revisit the material. Nearly a decade later, I’m back to the work of writing, trying to tie together all the loose ends and figure out where I want this story arc to go.
Since the essence of the story is the same and large chunks of the old material are going to remain, I decided that an outline would be the best way for me to approach the task this time around. I gathered up all the characters, chapters, vignettes and plot points and formatted an Excel workbook around them. Using Excel, I hyperlinked every character to the point at which they appear and cross-referenced plot elements to each other. Who knew that Excel would be such a great resource for organizing a book? Certainly not I. But it’s worked out really well so far. Having the material in such a format helps me recognize points I need to clarify, portions I need to delete and where I have room to add context, subtext, backstory and motivation. As an added bonus, I can look at the text as a framework upon which to continue building, paying special attention to points in the story where additions will make the most sense for the reader. Already, this has led me to shift chapters around and tackle the work quite objectively.
Ultimately, a writer has to understand that no matter how the book is formatted for simplification of approach, the allegiance is to the text that the reader is going to be subjected to. That’s where I am right now. I have a great outline of which I’m quite proud and interested in. Now for the hard part. The part that will make the reader believe in all this mess and enjoy the ride as much as I have. –Mike

“The recurrent rhythmical pattern in lines of verse; also, the natural tone or modulation of the voice determined by the alternation of accented or unaccented syllables. Sidelight: Cadence differs from meter in that it is not necessarily regular, but rather a more flexible concept of rhythm such as is characteristic of free verse and prose poetry.”
Such is the spirit in which I name the progress reports on my ongoing project “Symphony of Irrelevance.” A couple weeks back, I traveled down to Florida in search of historical context for the story. Even though the bulk of the tale takes place in the mid-1980’s, I wanted to be certain that I understood the setting that my older characters lived in as completely as I could. I am fortunate to say that I have gotten to know my grandparents very well, especially my grandmother (pictured above), who was invaluable in giving me first-hand accounts of what it was like growing up in the Panhandle and South Georgia.
For those of you who have read the first draft manuscript of “Symphony,” you will notice a marked departure from how I opened the story eight years ago. This new version has an even greater tie to setting and history. The (hopeful) result will be a much stronger sympathy to the characters’ plight of betrayal by both friends and the march of progress.
The history of the area and its early twentieth century inhabitants also plays a somewhat recursive role for the younger set of characters in the modern era of the story. Of special importance is how protagonist Caroline’s ties to family bind her to decisions others would find either inconvenient or cruelly self-limiting.
The overriding theme of “Symphony” has changed, as well. I’ve learned that I’m not the type of author who excels at forcing a theme on a story, especially one that has anecdotal qualities such as this one.
As for overall progress, the work is moving at its own pace. I’ve extrapolated the important parts of my week-long history lesson and distilled its relevance into a fictional context. Accuracy to real-life will be not so much overt as it will be displayed in homages and winking glances. I sure as hell don’t want anyone bashing my head in over historical nit-picking. After all, the over-riding tone of the piece is comedic, with an open-armed understanding of the troubles of a very real people living in perhaps my favorite place in the world.

So I finally got to #100. That’s a hell of a lot of writing about absolutely nothing. I’m going to take this pseudo-monumental opportunity to divulge part of my secret plan to you all. In the coming months, I will post a smattering of entries regarding progress on my manuscript “The Symphony Of Irrelevance.” If you’re so inclined to read about my tribulations and renoberations regarding this topic, you will find each vignette regarding such matters as “Cadences Of Absurdity.”
“Symphony” is a project I started in late 1995, and it has plagued me ever since. Progress in college suffered for this little demon of mine, and after two years of coffee, cigarettes and periodic isolation I emerged with a working (although sophomoric) story arc. In the years 1998 and 1999, I was sidetracked by varying degrees of personal grief combined with the distraction of having to decide what I wanted to do for a living. Then in 1999, I was distracted by the promise of new media and music.
In 2001, I was afforded the unique opportunity of both lots of money and time. From then up until now, I have pursued music, Web endeavors and historical research on the panhandle of Florida. I have learned a lot. For myself, I have learned that music is a collaborative effort, best enjoyed when writing with others. I believe that my chances for finding another band like “The Well Drinkers” to enjoy such collaboration with are waning fast. So I’ve had to re-think where best to put my talents in order to make them work for me in the context of solo projects. I came to the conclusion that writing is where it’s at. Writing is something I excel at alone. So I’m approaching “Symphony” again, in hopes of setting a blueline date of Mid-June 2005.
Of course, the blog will continue, as it provides me daily inspiration and disciplines me to some extent. spacematic.net forces me to write everyday. For those of you who enjoy my music, I assure you, I haven’t given up on that. I’m just pushing it to the back so this damn book can finally see the light of day.
This revelation didn’t come easily. I think that my friend Jarred and his mom were the straws that broke this camel’s back. At our yearly “Bucket Shop” affair, an event comprised of a great number of friends who choose to gather and catch up on the year, Marianne bluntly attacked and cornered me with “Why the Hell isn’t your damn book in the stores? What are you doing that’s so much more important than that?” When I couldn’t think of anything, I began to consider the real possibility of getting this book out of my system once and for all. It has been nagging me for nearly a decade now. That’s a long time to simply sit on things. Jarred and his mom were both given manuscripts upon completion of the original work in ‘97. They actually took the time to mark and edit, and most importantly read the story. They believed in it. Why didn’t I? I think it’s because a couple of the characters parallel real-life friendships that fell apart ingloriously. I tied my real-world sense of defeatism to the text. That was my mistake.
I rewarded the renewed effort to make amends to “Symphony” by purchasing a new iBook. This week, I will be carrying it to Florida to do a tad bit more research on the area. If blog entries are sparse, it will only be due to the fact that I can’t find an appropriate WiFi hotspot to connect to.
To those who are fearing the blog will change focus and become some sort of consistent introspection on the mind of a starving artist, rest assured. I’m no more willing to let you in on the daily troubles of my writing than an accountant is to screaming about budget woes in a a bar. I’ll report on the book when there’s significant progress or when there’s a clip or two I’d like to share. Most days at spacematic.net will proceed as they always have, with silly and over-analytical essays about the world from my perspective. Get thee behind me, Satan! I’m gonna finish this damn thing if it kills me. –Mike

Mad Pundit columnist Greg Russ likes to get cute on occasion and nitpick absurdities to the delight of his readers. Case in point, an article of late regards Dippin Dots’ fraudulent claim that it is the “Ice Cream Of The Future.” Quite to the contrary, it was created many years ago by microbiologist Curt Jones who speculated ice cream could be made even more fun through cryogenic flash freezing. The little beads that resulted from this secretive and complex process came to be known as the Dippin’ Dots we all love and enjoy today. Russ’ logic isn’t misplaced here. Dippin’ Dots was truly developed in the past at some strangely undisclosed date in the late 1980’s, according to the official company history. That makes Dippin’ Dots more accurately the “Ice Cream Of The Eighties.” Now when we were living it, we really did think that the Eighties WAS the future. Then came the Nineties to set us all straight. We learned that ladies’ bangs teased into poofy forehead claws, zipper jackets, legwarmers, tight-cuffed jeans, Jams and formula glam rock would be a horrible perpetual legacy. Therefore, we’re now happy to call the Eighties “The Past.” Still, Dippin’ Dots sticks to its claim that it belongs to the future. DD would have you believe that it is some temporal outcast, being manufactured for heathens who have no appreciation for the torment it suffered (on purpose or by accident) breaking the laws of physics so it can be enjoyed as a trivial, tasty novelty.
Wait a second… where’s my point in all this? Greg Russ may have something here. Pardon me while I get back on topic.

(Breathe)

Okay. My point was going to be that we writers commit to such silly exercises when we don’t have much else to write about. I’ve been doing this sort of thing for years. My earliest recollection of such inane time wasting was when I was all of thirteen years old and penned an investigative report to discover the secret process of “Martinizing.” Later in life, I wrote a joint letter (with my then girlfriend) to the good people at “P.J.’s Gummy Bears” detailing our distress at finding gummy fruit in our shared package of bears, especially when the box clearly stated that “P.J.’s Gummy Bears” featured “P.J.” himself. Corrective action was taken, and to this day, “P.J.’s Gummy Bears” actually features multi-colored, multi-flavored bears instead of lame orange wedges, bananas and watermelons.
So, my point is that any creative writer who commits to exercises such as these do so largely for self-entertainment or for the entertainment of his less-spontaneous, less-imaginative readers. On that note, I have to complain to Mr. Russ: If you did a thorough search on the website, I think your fraud argument would have quickly given way to the abhorrent Flash game “Dots In Outer Space.”
This precious piece of Web-waste is just one of countless examples where the Flash developer certainly has his/her scripting grammar down pat, but somehow has never bothered to master English. According to Princeton University’s WordNet, the first bothersome word, “intergallactic” can be spelled with either one “L” or two. Bullwash! GALAXY has one “L.” The suffix should then be “-ACTIC and not LACTIC, lest some poor immigrant think that you could extrapolate such filth into a verb, i.e. GALLACTATE. When galxies are forming, does that mean the universe is Gallactating? Gross! Of course, you could bring up the whole “Milky Way” argument, but that’s just stupid.
What caught my eye and struck my funnybone, however, was the last sentence. That’s what motivated me to play the game. I caught many Dippin’ Dots and eventually lost. But at no time did I hear a Dippin’ Dot “allude” to me. They made no references – benign nor snide. Of course, they could have been making inferences about my character behind my back or beyond my range of hearing, but then that would be unfair to what I presume is the intended ‘human’ player. Alas, the true challenge was far less intriguing than what was promised. I was supposed to go as far as I could without letting three Dippin’ Dots ELUDE me. Not nearly as much fun as possibly hearing what those damn Dippin’ Dots might say about me. They don’t know me!
This isn’t a criticism of Greg Russ or his writing style. It’s simply an example of me falling back-asswards into the trap of my own observation. I don’t have much to write about today.
I could write a long-winded and falsely-tender recollection about how life changed for all of us on 9/11. I won’t. I think the media says enough. They say that America’s strength lies in its refusal to change or bend to the whims of our attackers. They say that the vigilance of our people, the persistence of our workers, the indomitable courage of our vacationers and the deliciousness of our pizza are what keep us strong. To that, I heartily agree. –Mike

Jarred, I fail to cognify the ludicrosity of your speechal individualisms.
For those of you who haven’t seen my message board, go there as soon as you are through reading this blog entry. Hint: right sidebar of this webpage, up near the top, sez “message board” – can’t miss it. If you go there, you will find that there is an ongoing thread called “Crazy Translations.” Many people have taken a stab at the challenge to create the silliest translations of pop songs, almost as if it were a competition. Believe me, the competition is all in yer head. I just keep it up for laughs.
Jarred’s latest tune gives itself away in the chorus, but it’s a damn silly read all the same. Poor Jarred, stuck in the 80’s, unable to escape its soothing solid-state distortion, gratuitous keyboard solos and that oh so heavenly, infinite reverb.
I challenge you to do as Jarhead has done before you! Take your favorite era of music and massacre it on my message board for all to see! Then tell your friends!
Before I started in with this silly translation business, I used to enjoy replacing certain lyrics with “squirrel” where it seemed to fit. Examples are below:
Richard Marx: “She’s a sexy girl” to “She’s a sexy squirrel.” Gross.
Bell Biv Devoe: “That girl is poiiisooon” to “That squirrel ate poiiisooon!” Changing other words for context!
Alanis Morissette: “Must be strangely exciting to watch the stoic squirm” to the classic “Must be strangely exciting to watch the stoic squirrel.” Indeed, it must be.
Hell, who am I kidding? I still do this stuff all the time. Musicians are weird people. Steve Hardy ruined one of my own songs IN THE MIDST OF TRACKING IT by singing the “Charles In Charge” theme song over it whenever he played it back. It killed me. It left a black stain on my heart and my feelings have been forever hurt. So I got him back. He had a lyric that was begging to be mugged, pistol-whipped and left for dead on the side of the road. It went like this: “My truth is not an angle, my love is not abuse.” NOW it goes: “My truth is not an angle, my love is not OBTUSE!” HA HA! Stew in that!
Seriously, go see the message board. Read the rules, choose whether to obey them and face the consequences of participation in polite Internet society. See you there! –Mike

Maybe it’s unfair… it’s possibly snobbish and useless, but now I opine on the “adults who love Harry Potter” phenomenon. I’ve had this opinion for years, but it hasn’t been appropriate to drag it out, given the times and countless other articles on this strange affair adults have with children’s lit. Now the movie is out, and I’m going to use its pop-cultural relevance to discuss.
It’s OKAY to like children’s literature. It’s FINE to think that the book is entertaining. As I have not read the chronicles of Harry Potter, I can’t throw in my vote. The most I’ve done is read sample chapters and examined the construction of the stories. I’ve seen a movie, it was fairly entertaining.
But in recent weeks, I have a certain set of friends who are all in the 24-30 age range claiming Harry Potter to be some of the best work of the 20th century and one of the best offerings of our scarcely-lived 21st. May I remind you, gentle reader, of the age group these obtuse children’s novels are geared for? Children. In my mind, that qualifies a die-hard “best I’ve ever read” opinion to be accepted from the lips of 8-14 year-olds. Perhaps 14 is pushing it. You start wanting to be cool at fourteen and a declaration of love for Harry Potter sorta makes the cool quest moot.
I hate the stance certain people have on the “wholesomeness” of the Potter Books. Saying that the Wizards and Witches in Potter entice children to practice the black arts is tantamount to blaming Maurice Sendak for contributing to the delinquincy of a minor by way of “Where The Wild Things Are.” Better yet, Sesame Street’s Cookie MONSTER is really a demon with an insatiable hunger, and your soul is the most delicious cookie of all. His eyes are cocked and wide open, having witnessed the horrors of hell. His fur is a wicked shade of blue, representing the intense flame of his desire to consume all that is good and right in the world.
To out-and-out Potter Haters, I say “let it go.” My issue is with the adults who sit around the water cooler asking Mary if she finished Jake’s copy of the latest J.K. Rowling tome. Invariably, someone like me wanders in and becomes a fly on the wall, gradually getting snared in the sticky paper of hot Potter debate. If you think it’s fun, fine. If you think it’s rollicking entertainment, cool. But don’t assume I must be proud of you for having finished a thousand-page children’s book. This is my peeve. People read these things in two or three days and then declare themselves literary mavens. I don’t hate the books. To me, that’s like hating a beer because of the alcoholic. It’s not two-and-two. It doesn’t equate. Tell me you had fun reading it, and I’ll believe it. But don’t put on the cap and gown and go prancing all over the place for having mastered a kid’s work. After all, if it’s that sort of praise you’re after, you can gather an intramural after-work softball team capable of skinning the hide off the little league kids down the street. –Mike

Lost In The Bermuda Triangle! Terrible movie. Glad I didn’t rent it. I’m even more glad I didn’t buy it ($50.00 on VHS at Amazon!). Sorry I can’t come up with anything creative to say today. I’m just worn out from all the partying. Click on the “more” link below to read the reivew. Or you can go to Amazon and check it out for yourself. I’ll work on new content tomorrow or something.

Misery In The Living Room, September 3, 2003
Reviewer: spacematic from Destin, FL United States
The acting here is hollow, but even good actors can’t make a bad script bearable. So I will cut to the chase and blame Jeff F. King (writer) for this bittersweet sci/fi turd.
A man who is too busy for his wife finds out she is pregnant, only for the audience to soon learn they *both* look glum because she has cancer. Their oncologist advises that the child probably won’t survive to term and without chemotherapy post haste, the poor woman will die.
The caring husband (who we already hate because he’s a workaholic wife-neglector) thinks things over. Boldly throwing caution, finances and chemotherapy to the wind, he comes to the conclusion that there’s no better time than the present for a second honeymoon in beautiful Bermuda!
Once there, they rent a fishing charter from a grumpy old stereotype of a skipper and motor off into the sunset. Hubby throws the romantic hook “Just think of it as an RV, without a hundred people trying to pass you.” Audience: think of it as an RV with an inescapable diesel stench on hydraulic lifts that won’t stop rocking even when you’re sleeping. These things are built for fishing, not pleasure cruises. Anyhow, our doomed couple can’t seem to get into the romantic groove. The wife won’t drink because she’s too self-absorbed thinking about cancer and her unborn child. Our sensitive hero goes below deck for a moment, and…
The power goes out! Wife stands on the bow and stares, captivated by a magnificent electrical storm. Suddenly, she is gone. Hubby is at a loss, since all he saw and heard was malfunctioning electrical equiment.
Husband is soon at the center of a missing persons investigation. Determined to find his wife, he enlists the help of the grumpy old skipper. Skipper introduces Hubby to Tesla-disciple and science community outcast “Charly.” With hubby’s finances, Skipper’s superb seamanship and Charly’s wacky gadgets, our rogue’s gallery hatches a plan so crazy that it just might work.
After a near eternity of exposition and needless mechanical preparation shots, our rag-tag explorers of the unknown put propeller to water and head to the coordinates where Wifey went missing. With a quick power-up of Charly’s amazing Tesla Orb, they find themselves in a slightly off-color, acoustically-annoying altered reality where phantom islands appear and disappear like bad effects elements.
Hubby tears off without a whit of concern for the teammates who got him here and explores. He finds a child who loves to run from things and can cut a few wicked improv riffs from a conch shell. The boy finally quits running when he leads Hubby to, you guessed it, Wifey. The Wife is obviously great. She explains that the boy is theirs. How can it be?!?! Time in this altered reality “moves very quickly, and almost not at all.” (I’ve said more lucid and plausible things in more easily-achieved altered realities.) Charly is quick to exclaim “Einstein was right!” Translation: “Audience, accept this. It all fits into Einstein’s Special Theory of Incoherent Storytelling.” Elsewhere, scruffy old Skipper finds his lost love and decides that Green Acres is the place to be.
The heart-wrenching conclusion of this sprawling missing persons adventure is that Hubby can’t stay, for reasons Wifey won’t explain. All we know is that he has to take the kid and jet along with Charly back to life, back to reality. His happy-as-ever wife must remain on the enchanted isle if she doesn’t want to get sick again.

Husband gets stuck trying to explain how he lost his wife, searched for her, lost the skipper and gained one ten-year-old mute he’d like to call “Son.” Odd. Bermuda authorities are stumped, and don’t consider the husband a threat. Records are sealed and stored away in the Bermuda Police Department archives, along with countless other nauseating scripts dealing with mysterious happenings off their fair shores.
Granted, this is Sci/Fi, but even the solely human story elements are completely unrealistic. Characters behave irrationally to serve a chaotic and tenuous plot. This film threw out all the rules of good storytelling and innovated nothing in the process. Indeed, it deserves an “F” and all the negative and demeaning things one can think of beginning with said letter.