creative

Update: 8 march 2017

Sometimes my mind goes walkabout while my body languishes someplace forgotten.  The disconnect eats up my sense of time’s passage so that months or weeks elapse while the road seems still, making chronology seem a liar.

This isn’t, or wasn’t, one of those times.  I’m in pretty good shape this gone round.

I don’t recall when last I wrote regularly, and even if I were to look it up, the date would be meaningless.  Life is not an American high school history exam, the dates never matter so much as the ethos of their events.  As such, it’s pointless to dissect the calendar in a search for answers, because, without writing, my time is ephemeral, as my short term memory is rather shit.  I can tell you what life was like as a three year old, but I’m hard pressed to recall what yesterday’s breakfast contained.  My perception is built for the long game, for big ideas and long term recollection; for whatever reason the only minutiae that ever stick are spats of movie dialogue and biographies of fictional characters.

Having established my nature as something between Leonard Shelby and a cork at sea, the best course of action seems simply to move on, so on I shall move.

This weekend is the Philadelphia Flower Show, and while my business has been on something of a hiatus while I adapted to my new part time job, my interest in botany hasn’t abated in the slightest.  I’m excited for the show and look forward to the multitudinous displays and the many ideas they’ll give me.  I’d already planned to restart Thistlehammer Transmutational in the spring, and now is near enough.  I’ll take a few hundred pictures and a notebook full ideas home and into the studio, and with any diligence (the lack of which is my usual downfall, not luck; luck is like pneumonia, merely a description of a set of symptoms) I’ll rejoin that part of my life fully enthused.  At the very least, I’ll see some cool plants and have some good dumplings in Chinatown.

I’ve about hit the maximum word count for the internet’s mandated attention span, and as I’ve nothing specific to share I’ll end here.  My hope is to start posting more regularly, and I’ve some ideas for future posts that I think will be pretty cool.

I look forward to sharing them with you, soon.

-Alexander

Update 10 September 2016

Most of my waking time has been spent in the studio, a space far away from writing by every metric, physically divided by three floors and the insufficient reach of my wifi, mentally by the half of my brain that deals in shapes and movements, that taking over the hermit crab section which sits, watches and records.

My hands still shake, badly, but their intent is clearer, their output cleaner.  Two weeks ago I made three terrariums by hand.  It took me a month but I’ve learned to cut glass with a glass key.  My divisions are keen enough now for me to accurately cut mirror, something I’ve read is one of the most difficult types of glass object to cut cleanly.   My finishing skills have greatly improved.

I’ve discovered a hardening chemical that will enable me to better work with raw wood, putting better to use the drift wood and windfall I collect on my walks through River Front Park.

Onward progresses my plan of using recycled materials to raise environmental awareness, to operate a business that, by its existence, improves the planet.

Far from the writing frame as I’ve been I cannot put it aside completely.  Yesterday I wrote the highlights for a season long screen play.  The first idea came as a complete scene, a discussion between two unknown but familiar characters.  A great many of my ideas start this way.

I left for D.C. at noon.  I don’t remember the trip between Harrisburg and the capital city limits.  The two hours were spent ironing out plots and laying out conversations.  By the trip home I had a complete character roster, an overarching plot, a series of subplots, character back stories, an understanding of the world, and the type of interactions I want the characters to have.  It’s been a long time since my brain has handed me something so complete, my greatest fear now is that I won’t be able to get it all down before the idea begins to fade, corrode, and dissipate.

So I write here, instead, because if I don’t work on that story in can remain perfect as an idea.

Or, I write here to kick off the dust and spend the first few dried and dull strings of sentences  on something not immemorial, on something nearly transient and ephemeral.

A Passing Storm

Yesterday, there was a storm that knocked out power somewhere else.  It rained in sheets, like the rivulets at the bottom of folded shower curtains, such that I could barely see.

The wind had come after the first few drops, and stood the foliage of the old maple straight up, pulled the mass of boughs and six inch leaves into a child’s bath-time faux-hawk.

The gale passed and I looked away, only turning back at the sound of wet tires skitter-catching.  A branch larger than some small trees had fallen into the road, and drivers saw it late.

Some odd sense of civic duty possessed me, drug me out of my clothes into swim trunks and a t-shirt, then out into the street where I tugged at the wet, still green branches of the crumbled mass.  The first few shoots tore in my hand, and then the larger one, the one that wouldn’t be broken, pulled back at my apex, rocked me off my feet as the ponderous whole wrestled to toss me into the street.  I let go, re-gripped and pulled into the wet turf until I had the thing landed.

Other pieces remained, a few large, many small.  The process became like a game of Frogger, dash out, snatch a branch, dash back.  Most cars ignored me.  No genial, thankful waves.  One woman in an SUV parked in front of a branch and blew her horn while I watched.  I let her exhaust herself, let the cars with irate, one fingered drivers pass her, then I let her go.  After the street had emptied I returned to it to pull that final piece.

Today, there’s not much left.  The city collected the wood I’d gathered.  I missed my opportunity to drag it up to the porch to save for future projects.  I filled three buckets with rain, but I’ll use that in a week of dry heat.  Storms seem so special, so dramatic, but all that altered light and changed appearance results in nothing permanent.  The sun always comes, and inevitably the world smooths out again, all the wrinkles and hidden spots resolving to nothing, like childhood fears against the implacable daybreak.