Okay, a friend of mine sent this to me on FaceBook: it is my life's soundtrack! Here's what to do: take the options here, such as "opening credits," open iTunes or whatever music you've got and put it on "shuffle." Hit play and whatever random song that does so is the Opening Credits to your life! Kinda of creepy sometimes...
Opening Credits:
”Finish It” ~ the Fountain
I’m just getting up, cut me some slack!
Waking Up:
”Lies” ~ Elton John
First Day At School:
”Our Happy Home” ~ David Crowder
Falling In Love:
”Hiding Place” ~ Jars of Clay
Fight Song:
”Send Your Love” ~ Sting
Breaking Up:
”Concerning Hobbits” ~ Fellowship of the Ring
:D
Prom night:
”I Can’t Tell You” ~ Yoko Ishida
Life:
”Track 11” ~ My Neighbor Totoro
Walkin’ somewhere, just strolling along, enjoying the ordinary (many cut scenes)
Mental Breakdown:
”Track 15” ~ Gundam Wing: Volume 3
Driving:
”Open Your Heart” ~ Yuki Kajiura
Smooth cruisin'
Flashback:
”When I Fall” ~ Rachel Lampa
Getting back together:
”Sleep Well Tonight” ~ Spoken
“say, she’s just as foxy as before…”
Wedding:
”Dame!” ~ Ruroni Kenshin
Victory!!!
Birth of Child:
”Written In the Stars” ~ Elton John
Final Battle:
”Mirror” ~ Gackt
That’s one upbeat boss monster…
Funeral Song:
”Sacred Love” ~ Sting
Final Credits:
”Less Than a Pearl” ~ Enya
Friday, November 14, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
The Cyclist
I was approaching the BCM (Baptist Collegiate Ministry) on campus to ask for information regarding an upcoming float trip, when I distinctly heard a man yell “help!” Having never in my life heard that command used in earnest, I turned about in no small confusion and saw a middle aged man coasting toward me on a bicycle. He stopped a few feet away and hung his head momentarily to catch his breath then began thus: “I am in a hurry and I really need some help can you help me?”
“I hope so,” – I was standing with the BCM lawn sign between us, just in case – “what is the trouble?”
“I have had a family CRISIS come up and need to catch a GREYHOUND BUS to get to [a town that I fail to recall] but I need to get back by this evening to work at Waffle House I have only THREE DOLLARS to my name but I need thirteen dollars for the TICKET here is my identification I think it is appropriate here I would HAPPY to pay you back sir I am a man of GOD I will do everything in my power to pay you back can’t you help me?”
I was greatly intrigued by how the man spoke both as a Marvel Comics panel – with the emphasis placed on too many words – and without any punctuation, but there was just a hint of the shady in this deal. I reverted back to my standing rule of never lending money to strangers and replied that I was sorry but unable to render aid (in spite of the presence of two very handsome twenties in my pocket). Then I knew this situation was off kilter, because the man gave me the most convincing look of injured trust I have ever seen. He even leaned away as though threatened. I did not succumb, however, but explained that I was just about to enter this church – here meant to indicate a center of brotherly love where the folks in charge would bend over backwards to help a man in need – to ask about a church trip and recommended asking for help there.
“Naw – I – I am trying to catch a GREYHOUND BUS!”
“I understand that, [you shady person] but you don’t have to ask about the trip, too, just ask if they can help you.”
The man assumed a mistrustful look then dismounted and approached the BCM building, leaving his bike on the curb. Peeking inside, he glanced about and exchanged words with whoever was inside then turned around and returned, brow furrowed, to his bike. A man came out after him – a Christian student that I have met on a couple occasions – and the cyclist renewed the plea as I looked on: “I have had a family CRISIS come up and need to catch a GREYHOUND BUS to get to [a town I fail to recall],” etc. My Christian friend listened patiently and agreed that this was grave indeed and volunteered ingeniously to buy the tickets online. The reply:
“Now I am THIRTY-SEVEN so I have seen some stuff and it is obvious to me that we have some TRUST issues…”
While I thought, “you bet we do!” my Christian placated the man and renewed his offer. The man made some other objections then initiated a discussion of how the tickets were to be purchased. Could they REALLY be bought via the Internet? Well, my Christian assumed they could be. Oh, so you don’t KNOW! I hope so. Of course they can! And so on, until they walked off together toward the library to do the deal.
I did not like this man. He had come riding up on a bicycle, waving a drivers’ license and begging for help. He screeched to a halt before a college student – renowned for light wallets – and begged for help in front of a church (see above definition) that is located on a college campus that is crawling with officials that surely know how to help a man in trouble. The request was well rehearsed, too, like a speech, and the bit about having left the house without enough money sort of baffled me; had he not even considered to check for loose change between the couch cushions? And if this was a crisis, why did he have to be back to his fast-food job so soon? And, not to be cliché, but there was something with his eyes, were the whites of men’s eyes supposed to be yellow? And why was his tongue so red?
I later discovered that he had gone away, having assured my Christian that he knew the man to be busy and that he would manage. He just wanted money after all.
Several days later, I exited the Student Center and almost tripped over the cyclist. He was sitting on one of the benches just outside the Center’s side doors, leaning back in the posture of one physically and emotionally exhausted. He was wearing a Waffle House uniform.
I was upon him before either of us could react and since an embarrassing about-face seemed unattractive, I paused and smiled, inquiring as to the family disaster. He assured me that all had gone well. So was he just chillin’, now? He sighed and replied, “I am DEBATING…on where I am going to stay tonight.” He then massaged his nose between his thumb and forefinger and turned a most piteous puppy-dog gaze upon me. I smiled blandly and wished him luck and he thanked me graciously, adding, “Can you spare me a couple bucks, man?” With a forlorn shake of my head, I turned and hurried away.
I took the long way around to my dorm and entered through the back door. This was terrifically creepy and I claimed a few moments in my room to recover before returning outside to make a phone call, just as the vagrant rode past my dorm on his bicycle. Within minutes, Mom and Dad had the whole story. Their verdict: call the campus coppers! This man had no business on a college campus and required immediate expulsion.
I sprinted up to my room and whipped out a notepad and wrote down everything I could remember by way of description. I silently praised Writing 1310 for training me in attention to detail; I could remember some remarkable minutiae: the fellow was about my height – about five-nine or ten – black with short hair and a mustache. His eyes were a haunting yellow and his tongue deep red, very noticeable when he spoke. He worked at a Waffle House somewhere past Wal-Mart and rode a black and yellow bicycle with a broken seat. In conversation he had a propensity for calling himself a Man of God. Well, I even knew in which direction he was last traveling! I called up the police station and relayed the information as concisely as I could and delivered also my name and phone number. Within minutes a fleet of squad cars piloted by officers that looked like former wrestlers were sweeping majestically down the street beneath my window and the golf-cart-Mounties were in tow. They blazed down Students’ Lane and under my window on their way to Beatrice Powell Street only to reappear some seconds later, now broken to individual vehicles, patrolling the whole of the southern campus. I was terrifically excited and pleased with the perceived reaction. These poor guys were bored!
I have not see the cyclist since.
“I hope so,” – I was standing with the BCM lawn sign between us, just in case – “what is the trouble?”
“I have had a family CRISIS come up and need to catch a GREYHOUND BUS to get to [a town that I fail to recall] but I need to get back by this evening to work at Waffle House I have only THREE DOLLARS to my name but I need thirteen dollars for the TICKET here is my identification I think it is appropriate here I would HAPPY to pay you back sir I am a man of GOD I will do everything in my power to pay you back can’t you help me?”
I was greatly intrigued by how the man spoke both as a Marvel Comics panel – with the emphasis placed on too many words – and without any punctuation, but there was just a hint of the shady in this deal. I reverted back to my standing rule of never lending money to strangers and replied that I was sorry but unable to render aid (in spite of the presence of two very handsome twenties in my pocket). Then I knew this situation was off kilter, because the man gave me the most convincing look of injured trust I have ever seen. He even leaned away as though threatened. I did not succumb, however, but explained that I was just about to enter this church – here meant to indicate a center of brotherly love where the folks in charge would bend over backwards to help a man in need – to ask about a church trip and recommended asking for help there.
“Naw – I – I am trying to catch a GREYHOUND BUS!”
“I understand that, [you shady person] but you don’t have to ask about the trip, too, just ask if they can help you.”
The man assumed a mistrustful look then dismounted and approached the BCM building, leaving his bike on the curb. Peeking inside, he glanced about and exchanged words with whoever was inside then turned around and returned, brow furrowed, to his bike. A man came out after him – a Christian student that I have met on a couple occasions – and the cyclist renewed the plea as I looked on: “I have had a family CRISIS come up and need to catch a GREYHOUND BUS to get to [a town I fail to recall],” etc. My Christian friend listened patiently and agreed that this was grave indeed and volunteered ingeniously to buy the tickets online. The reply:
“Now I am THIRTY-SEVEN so I have seen some stuff and it is obvious to me that we have some TRUST issues…”
While I thought, “you bet we do!” my Christian placated the man and renewed his offer. The man made some other objections then initiated a discussion of how the tickets were to be purchased. Could they REALLY be bought via the Internet? Well, my Christian assumed they could be. Oh, so you don’t KNOW! I hope so. Of course they can! And so on, until they walked off together toward the library to do the deal.
I did not like this man. He had come riding up on a bicycle, waving a drivers’ license and begging for help. He screeched to a halt before a college student – renowned for light wallets – and begged for help in front of a church (see above definition) that is located on a college campus that is crawling with officials that surely know how to help a man in trouble. The request was well rehearsed, too, like a speech, and the bit about having left the house without enough money sort of baffled me; had he not even considered to check for loose change between the couch cushions? And if this was a crisis, why did he have to be back to his fast-food job so soon? And, not to be cliché, but there was something with his eyes, were the whites of men’s eyes supposed to be yellow? And why was his tongue so red?
I later discovered that he had gone away, having assured my Christian that he knew the man to be busy and that he would manage. He just wanted money after all.
Several days later, I exited the Student Center and almost tripped over the cyclist. He was sitting on one of the benches just outside the Center’s side doors, leaning back in the posture of one physically and emotionally exhausted. He was wearing a Waffle House uniform.
I was upon him before either of us could react and since an embarrassing about-face seemed unattractive, I paused and smiled, inquiring as to the family disaster. He assured me that all had gone well. So was he just chillin’, now? He sighed and replied, “I am DEBATING…on where I am going to stay tonight.” He then massaged his nose between his thumb and forefinger and turned a most piteous puppy-dog gaze upon me. I smiled blandly and wished him luck and he thanked me graciously, adding, “Can you spare me a couple bucks, man?” With a forlorn shake of my head, I turned and hurried away.
I took the long way around to my dorm and entered through the back door. This was terrifically creepy and I claimed a few moments in my room to recover before returning outside to make a phone call, just as the vagrant rode past my dorm on his bicycle. Within minutes, Mom and Dad had the whole story. Their verdict: call the campus coppers! This man had no business on a college campus and required immediate expulsion.
I sprinted up to my room and whipped out a notepad and wrote down everything I could remember by way of description. I silently praised Writing 1310 for training me in attention to detail; I could remember some remarkable minutiae: the fellow was about my height – about five-nine or ten – black with short hair and a mustache. His eyes were a haunting yellow and his tongue deep red, very noticeable when he spoke. He worked at a Waffle House somewhere past Wal-Mart and rode a black and yellow bicycle with a broken seat. In conversation he had a propensity for calling himself a Man of God. Well, I even knew in which direction he was last traveling! I called up the police station and relayed the information as concisely as I could and delivered also my name and phone number. Within minutes a fleet of squad cars piloted by officers that looked like former wrestlers were sweeping majestically down the street beneath my window and the golf-cart-Mounties were in tow. They blazed down Students’ Lane and under my window on their way to Beatrice Powell Street only to reappear some seconds later, now broken to individual vehicles, patrolling the whole of the southern campus. I was terrifically excited and pleased with the perceived reaction. These poor guys were bored!
I have not see the cyclist since.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
If I Were A Greek God...
I was reading my textbook for Intro to Creative Writing and was intrigued by the little hints on developing characters. So I thought I would present one brainteaser of my own.
If you are like me, you may create a character that has some great qualities and background, but then wonder what to do with it. I will sit and ponder and look at the flickering computer screen and wonder, “how the name of all get-out will this chump respond?!” Here is an idea that I have toyed with before and might just put to use: make your character a mythic deity. You remember reading the Iliad and the Odyssey back in high school? If so, I envy you, because I never read those glorious works of fiction. More importantly, though, you might remember what the gods stood for: human qualities and desires; in other words, they represented the components of a three-dimensional character. Voila! That will be my test.
So we take Ivan. He is a little chump that I am making up on the spot. Let’s say that Ivan is youngish, maybe tall, with his heart set on a college degree. He also lacks a girlfriend. And a cell phone. Moreover, he doesn’t have a major or even an inkling of what life is all about, he just knows that there is something important for him to do.
Translate this into myth: Ivan is now the god of wistful youth and indistinct longing. He represents the awkward tendencies of growing up and lacking that which is hip, and yet is unsure of what he is even aiming for. No one said he is miserable, only beholding to these qualities.
There. Now Ivan has some rather static qualities and will be able to respond to (almost) any situation, thereby making him a versatile entity. I don’t know if this will be at all useful to anyone in practice, but give it a shot if you feel like it (I will try to do so, to avoid hypocrisy) and maybe my moment of geekdome will deliver. Happy writing!
First blogging!
'Elleo! This is the first blog! I named it Witness Work because I have created a persona called 'The Witness' who represents me in my writing, should I ever play a roll. The idea goes that I play an active roll in my worlds, both in the 'real world' - that of my day-to-day that I decide to record - and the worlds of fiction flying about within my head, serving as the witness to the proceedings - in the latter case, I witness my own thoughts. Hope you enjoy what I've seen!
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