I probably have less privacy here, but we’ll see. Who really wants to read the ravings of a very self-involved introvert who has no local social support?

(As for OKC, I can’t seem to not be bored with the guys I meet there, if I was ever initially attracted to them at all. The art of conversation is lost on us all. I cannot be both sides of a conversation, you schmucks.)

I just need to talk. If it’s to the ether, then it’s to the ether. I could pretend there’s some supernatural creature out there that is actively interested in my personal struggles and dramas–a friendly ghost, a small god, a fairy godmother. God knows the real people in my life don’t care–not even those I consider my closest friends. I remember there used to be a time when people showed concern for each other . . . when the effort they put into communication transcended MySpace.

Yeah, I am bitter! And I know I’m part of the problem, so I’m annoyed, too.

Part of it, I think, is my need for precision–either precision or nothing at all. And precision came with practice, and my art teachers were impatient with precision. To them, it doesn’t reflect a style. Maybe it’s true that there’s no style to it. All of my watercoloring adventures were achieved with tiny pointed brushes and as little water as necessary, even though that was my preferred medium. Lay down the pencils, overlay those with flowing black inks, and fill in the spaces with vivid watercolors. To be fair, the effect charmed a few.

Working with pastels is so different, and I don’t find it freeing at all. Pastels are thick and rough, even the smooth Sakura pastels I picked up somewhere, and above all, imprecise. I found myself wishing for one of my small brushes from days past to dip in the solvent and make a paint, but all I had were the cheapest kinds of children’s brushes, thick and artificial, unable to allow the artist to display any finesse.

The texture was maddening, and I took a tissue to the pigments and rubbed them smooth onto the paper.

When I walked away after a short half-hour, I felt a sense of growing emotional distance between myself and my box of art supplies. I even felt a little bit angry. In a way, I feel like something has been stolen from me, even though there’s no one who could have been a culprit–one can’t steal from oneself.

I get sick of simpering, “quantized, pitch-corrected, and overly inspected” (to quote Henry Rollins by way of Ben Folds and William Shatner) vocals in pop music, so it’s nice to hear something powerful that isn’t also ballad-esque.

The biggest hurdle to finishing reading the story was the multiple point-of-views wherein much of the action was being described through the eyes of characters for whom the reader cares little. This happened especially nearer the latter third of the book, when it was important for suspense’s sake to hide information from the reader to which the heroes were privy. Some of these passages were quite long, and since I cared more about the characters who had actually been fleshed out emotionally during the earlier parts of the book, I found myself skimming through parts in which, for example, a military director is observing and directing the goings-on of her departments and peers.

I am unable to recall earlier clues pointing toward the final “reveal,” either because I skimmed or because the omniscient narrator chose to omit those details. It really warrants a further, closer reading or two, but I honestly don’t think I would have the patience for it. It was a good book; I’m glad I read it, but I doubt I’ll read it again.

I do, however, want to read its predecessor, A Fire Upon the Deep. I wonder if reading them out of order will decrease my enjoyment any, but I love science fiction and will give it a go.

It drives me batty when there’s crosstalk and a movie and a dog and people keep asking me if I’m okay, too cold, too tired, etc. and so on. I know I didn’t look very happy, and I really was tired, but I felt like a bad person for being ungracious. Part of it was just too much stimulation; I really dislike watching movies in groups, anyway (and usually by myself, as well!) so I couldn’t get a grip on the banter between friends, either.

Part of it is because I knew one of the guys was trying to impress me. For many reasons–not least of which is that I am on a severe rebound–I am unable to be receptive to that kind of behavior. It’s sweet, but I can’t warm up to it. It’s flattering, but my heart isn’t in it.

What tends to lose me most with the book is that the author isn’t very good at writing women. I think he probably even knows this, or at least assumes it, because very little of it is written from human women’s point-of-view. This is in spite of narrator semi-omniscience and the fact that approximately half of the pivotal characters are female.

One is sidelined almost immediately and basically mind-controlled; she serves as the love interest of one of the main characters. None of the story is from her point of view.

One has a crush on the first main character and gets manipulated into a sexual relationship by the main villain, a sadistic, much older man. We get her point of view occasionally; fortunately, she is heroic, but since she is described primarily through the eyes of the aforementioned males, the reader gets more of the impression that she’s soft, a dupe, and shrill and annoying on top of that.

The third, a villain, is practically a robot, mind-controlled and without personality. She is the only female character of note who is not romantically attached in some way.

I’m not sure if I’m not giving the characters enough credit, if these are valid frustrations, or if I’ve been conditioned to be frustrated. For example, if most of the women are romantically attached, then that means most of the men must be.* And of course, I don’t have a man’s point-of-view to bounce this off of. And to be fair to the author, the apparent hero of the story has a sexist streak he doesn’t know how to deal with, which colors his views of, and the narrator’s descriptions of, the women.

At any rate, it’s a far, far cry from Orson Scott Card’s Shadow series, in which one of the few female characters in that entire universe, one of even fewer females ruthless enough to go to Battle School, is reduced to being wholly concerned with “making babies.” Which is exactly the term she, and by proxy Card, uses to describe pregnancy.

* A heteronormative viewpoint, to be sure, that is apparently shared (or at least not disavowed) by the author, Vernor Vinge.

What I’ve always liked about Improv Everywhere is their ability to do performance art without being malicious, damaging anything, or leaving anything behind. In this case, their performance even seemed to have done some extra good.

• Aquele Abraço
• Chiclete com Banana

He sings ‘em slow . . .

• Preciso Aprender a Só Ser

And fast . . .

• Pop Wu Wei

He records in English:

• Up from the Skies (Jimi Hendrix)

And in French:

• La Lune de Gorée

And in homage to Bob Marley:

• Kaya N’gan Daya

And in brilliant duet with Caetano Veloso:

• Haiti
• Cinema Novo

Gil is also a proponent of open source, such as Creative Commons (article here) and Free Beer. He often extolls the virtues and power of Internet culture and activism. And now he has a Youtube channel . . .

We sat around last night with martinis and cigars, enjoying one of the first warm evenings of the year, they not long back from house shopping and I after a day of puttering around the city. Today, we bought flowers and planted them out front. It’s truly spring.

My boss’s martini recipe:

• Add 2 shots of Boodles British Gin and 1/2 shot of Noilly Prat Vermouth to a shaker with crushed ice. Give it a good shake, let it rest, and then another good shake. Pour into a chilled martini glass and serve with a twist of lemon.  The martini should glitter with ice flecks.

I know some people would have issues with this recipe, but it comes from an old fashioned guy, and it tastes wonderful.

[The butler] was certainly a well-preserved antiquity, with an air of serene yet somehow guarded responsibility; in different clothes he might have looked a cabinet minister, in contradistinction to those cabinet ministers who, even in their own clothes, look like butlers.

Random Harvest (1941), James Hilton

I frequently refer to Random Harvest as my favorite work of fiction; fortunately, Australia’s Project Gutenberg helpfully provides the full text.

James Hilton wrote several books, some of which were made into movies; his novel Lost Horizon originated the term Shangri-la. The movie versions of both Lost Horizon and Random Harvest star Ronald Colman, a fine British actor who made a smooth transition from silent films to talkies with his lovely, Toucan Sam-inspiring voice.

Don’t view Random Harvest without having read the novel first, as the film spoils the plot twist badly.