Journal Replies

2,000 characters is somewhere between 4 or 5 hundred words. Most chat type writing is closer to 4 characters per word, which would be 500 words.You rejected my reply, and then when I cut it in half your damn program didn't count again, it simply repeated I was over the limit. That means that if one guesses wrong the only solution is to start all over again. Piss on that. The whole journal thing is mismanaged.

Barry R Bartle

Exaltation

It takes practice for me to be alone, truly alone.  For that reason I've omitted clicking on "Mood," an option provided for writing journal entries.  Instead of specifying the music I'm listening to, another 'prompt,' I've put "Mind chatter." To be alone I must observe my own mind chatter.  So, no music, or any other electronic distraction. To avoid being alone the fastest way would be to switch on the TV to get the latest body count from the tsunami. I can do that later.

Exaltation. What is it? Let's check the dictionary. 

Main Entry: ex·al·ta·tion
Pronunciation: "eg-"zol-'tA-sh&n, "ek-"sol-
Function: noun
Date: 14th century
1 : an act of exalting : the state of being exalted
2 : an excessively intensified sense of well-being, power, or importance
3 : an increase in degree or intensity <exaltation of virulence of a virus>   

My goodness, just look how difficult it is to be alone! The dictionary tells me that to be exalted is to indulge in an "excessive sense of well-being." Rats! In the "mood" window, which I left blank, AOL insists I specify, and WILL NOT let me leave it blank, so, AOL has chosen a mood for me, at random.  (Later: I selected "Happy" by default. Still later: I picked "Happy" but AOL wouldn't allow that, and insisted on "Silly." Is that an AOL message?) See? There is a conspiracy in the world at large to impinge on us and tell us not only what to buy and think but also to tell us what our mood is.  AOL shove it!

Writers, serious career writers, especially career writers who teach writing to make a living, elevate great writers of the past in order to find inspiration for their own writing. I understand that because I've done it, but I know that such bowing down might be fun, and help strengthen our belief that fiction writing is a noble endeavor, but for me it doesn't do a thing to help me in the act of composing fiction. What does that is being alone with my lived life now and in the past, including rereading my thoughts about dreams recorded in my Dreams Journal.

Paintings and classical music, thinking about them, remembering them, can reignite feelings of exaltation, a state helpful in not only writing fiction but in living a meaningful life in obedience to duty. In the waiting room at our pediatrician's office there hangs a reproduction of Van Gogh's rural night scene filled with deepblue swirling circles in the sky. It's easy, simply remembering that oft-seen painting, to feel some of the painter's perhaps prayerful thanks to God for creating the night sky so beautiful it made him want to 'swirl' with joy, exalted.

I learned from talk on a classical music station conducting a fundraising drive that a new recording of Beethoven's 7th symphony had found in that work new heights of exaltation expressed by the composer. Then the symphony was played. I was in the car. It was almost unrecognizable, so filled was it with strength, passion, joy, and reconciliation, the latter coming at the end. Not the composer, nor the German conductor's new reading of the work, was, definitely was not, in their exaltation, not indulging in "excessively intensified sense of well-being, power, and importance." Shame on Webster's Dictionary for being so cynical, and oh so American 21st century. Quick, someone come to my aid, bring me back to the real world by trying to sell me something. Buying and selling. There's too much damnable buying and selling and not enough exaltation from looking at the night sky. I'm going back to the real world all right for the purpose of praying more survivors have been found in and around the Indian Ocean.

Barry 

 

 

 

 

 

Idleness

You peek, there are 15 seconds to go on the microwave timer. Do you return to what you were doing in the kitchen, or see if the table is ready? I used to do those things as a reflex, but lately I've chosen to lean against something, still standing, and wait for the timer to trek interminably to zero seconds left, and "End."

In other words, when is time wholly mine? To my surprise I've discovered that those 15 seconds can be precious, private, mine, even sensuous.  

Relaxation, as I suppose everyone knows, has an impact on blood pressure. About two hours, on average, after swimming I take my blood pressure, and my resting pulse.  The pulse even that long after exercize is too high, in the 70s or 80s depending on how many thousands of meters/yards I've swum, which depends on which pool I've been to.  Lately BP has been typically 124/68. If I swim harder and longer, opening the blood vessels even more, blood pressure has been as low as 106/60 achieved partly by deliberately relaxing all parts of the body, part by part, including especially fingers, jaw, neck, and knees by slowly moving the feet forward from a sitting position while measuring.  Under tension, after arriving by car in a large parking lot at a supermarket, the BP machine beside the pharmacy measured 156/75. I'm 72.

My goal swimming in 2005 is to compete in master's (USMS) swimming, with aspirations to win in my age division in freestyle events. In the 1500 meters I might be in the top ten in the country.   (In my age division there might only be 9 entrants in that event <g>) Training has begun to be far more enjoyable by trying harder to relax both mentally and physically. I train alone. Coaches are few and far between, and Teams train too rigorously for someone my age. For example, the only time I should sprint is after having been thoroughly warmed up, near the end of a training session. Also, I frequently train in the same pool at the same time with my son, aged 9 1/2, who can already kick with a kick board faster than I can. Two days ago I peeked at his freestyle while resting, and I swelled with pride and glee to see he's already mastered the sweeping movements of the hands underwater, duplicating in propulsion in physics shared by a propeller, lending an astonishing fast glide to his progress.In his case, 'A word to the wise is sufficient.'

Arriving at the pool in exactly the same mood as required to get pleasure from the 15 seconds on the microwave to elapse, I do pre-swim stretching, imperative to avoid injury, in slow motion, indifferent, bored, same sequence every time including standing on one foot while holding the other foot against the buttock, while not wobbling and standing as erect as possible.  Mental relaxation is required to deal with being observed swimming, something that can induce tension, the enemy. Lately I kick 10 laps first, not only to strengthen a weakness, but to avoid the infantile impulse to let the lifeguard know I only look like an old guy out of the water. 

What all this is really about is needing desperately to live long enough to give my young children a boost up in life.

Barry

 

  

coincidences

Coincidences.

I wrote a longish paragraph, clicked on SAVE and the damn thing disappeared. Don't have the energy to recreate it.  Manana. Maybe.

So this is a checkup.

Barry

Fiction writing

Not a soul has been told I write this journal. Yet, I assume, it could be stumbled upon. Okay by me if anyone, or no-one reads it. I notice a huge difference between writing a response to someone's post on a writer's message board, from writing random here. Here, in limbo, with no, or little narrative aim, is more difficult.

The only other writer's journal entries, aol variety, I've read bounce off famous writing of others, which they quote, show a photo of, and in general seem somehwat parasitical. At best they attempt to whip themselves into shape for writing fiction by borrowing strength from other writers. Some journals are used as resume entries, something I find completely inexplicable. The replies to such journal entires read as if they had been paid for. I did learn on a writer's message board that one can indeed pay writers to write glowing reviews of your new, self-published novel. One of my wholly honest, and wholly favorable replies to such a journal, an entry about Willa Cather, novelist, was erased because I gave a real life response instead of what sounded like a rave review, paid for.

So, I'm groping for the best way to use this space, for my purposes. Find out from self-examination, how to continue with my novel in progress.

Barry

 

 

Christmas

Christmas has, this year, been openly mocked for the first time I've been aware of in my entire life. Feels very strange. I wonder if the pleasure in that is confined just to message boards ostensibly provided for all manner of writers, fiction, nonfiction and poetry. It's a Wonderful Life, 3 hours, no doubt because loaded up with commercials on NBC.  Sentiment is out this year. Walt Kelly's website with a song mocking Christmas disgusts me. Pogo is monumentally unfunny. I don't like living in the USA right now.       

BBartle3 

Getting started

Yesterday I received a phone call from a college classmate.  He'd found something I'd written in response to our Class Secretary's request for an update. The honesty of my reply must have made it easier for him to call.  Embarrassed, I had to admit I didn't remember him, but I did remember a conversation I'd had with him when we were Freshmen on the subject of Sacco and Venzetti.  So that smoothed the way somewhat.  We were virtual strangers before the phone call -- that probably lasted an hour -- but by correspondence we'll catch up, and perhaps meet again at the next class reunion. I've never been to one, HS or college. Another classmate said he wasn't going to the next class reunion unless in the interim he wins the Nobel Prize. Over time, not only do people die, become incapacitated, or ill, they also store up feelings of having failed, even when there is plenty of evidence of achievement, and growth in wisdom.   

Barry  (Hmmm, no spell check. I spell so badly I changed back to AOL 8.0 Plus, from AOL 9.0 Security (version) because the latter has a spell check window, at least on my screen, so big it's impossible to simultaneously view what's being checked.)

BBartle3