They're almost here. They're just starting to appear, one by one, here and there. (I noticed the first one this morning.) The backyard (and then my kitchen!) will soon be full of wild raspberries.
14 July 2009
Almost Raspberries
They're almost here. They're just starting to appear, one by one, here and there. (I noticed the first one this morning.) The backyard (and then my kitchen!) will soon be full of wild raspberries.
12 July 2009
Out Of Balance
Do you ever wonder about that narrow line that divides charming eccentricity and more hazardous, even self-destructive behavior? Where does one end and the other begin?
I knew someone like this, once. She was bewildering to me, a mystery, but I adored the way her mind worked. Like no one else I had ever met, she was susceptible to impulse, to fun. (Once, we snuck into the abandoned house next door, for no better reason than to see what was there. She took an old spool of copper colored thread. I'll bet she still has it, somewhere.) She was passionate and creative, even silly. When she wasn't hiding herself completely away from the world at large, she often imagined it for herself with the eyes of a child.
But all that changed, almost in an instant. She took a step too far, and as if in an instant what once might have seemed charming and eccentric became anxious and disturbing.
I almost never lose my temper, but what she had done was so awful, so unforgivable that I felt foolishly compelled to confront her with the truth. She listened patiently to my anger and bitterness, and quietly slipped away from reality, out of consciousness. One moment I was speaking to her, at the kitchen table, the next, she was — somewhere else? Staring off into nothing.
This was terrifying. I can remember trying to bring her out of it, holding her hand, speaking to her softly, gently, trying desperately to apologize for the spiteful, hurtful things I had said. The warmth of my hand against her cheek brought no response. Minutes passed as hours before a tear began to fall, and she slowly, hesitantly, returned to life.
She referred to this incident as "dissociation." Her conscious mind, overwhelmed with emotions and sensations that had become too difficult to process, sought means of escape, somewhere to hide. It was familiar to her, but I had never seen her like this. This was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
I was aware that she had been prescribed medication and received therapy, ages ago, even been briefly institutionalized. (She had spoken in an evasive way of disturbing incidents from her childhood.) But with distance, the pieces of the puzzle, the reason for all that I knew and loved and hated and never understood about her, they all fit together. I came to understand that "reality," for her, was often a relative term, and that her mind was never entirely in balance — too much of the time, precarious harmony was maintained by many of those same medications (but without the least medical guidance). This is who she is, and for all the brilliant light she could radiate, there was this part of her that was darker than night. She was afraid to know and to let this part of herself be known, out of fear that the truth would frighten away anyone close enough to discover it. In that, I suppose, she was right.
Everything she had meant to me was left behind that night, wherever it was that she went.
It was difficult for me to reconcile these different aspects of her personality, to try to make some sense of the idea that the reasons for the behavior that drove me away might be the very key to the aspects of her I loved best. I gave up trying. (For some questions, there may never be an answer.) I feel ashamed to have been so judgmental when perhaps I might have been more understanding, We were very much alike, driven by many of the same needs and hopes and fears that had once brought us together, and (occasionally) I can't help but wonder about my own state of mind.
I knew someone like this, once. She was bewildering to me, a mystery, but I adored the way her mind worked. Like no one else I had ever met, she was susceptible to impulse, to fun. (Once, we snuck into the abandoned house next door, for no better reason than to see what was there. She took an old spool of copper colored thread. I'll bet she still has it, somewhere.) She was passionate and creative, even silly. When she wasn't hiding herself completely away from the world at large, she often imagined it for herself with the eyes of a child.
But all that changed, almost in an instant. She took a step too far, and as if in an instant what once might have seemed charming and eccentric became anxious and disturbing.
I almost never lose my temper, but what she had done was so awful, so unforgivable that I felt foolishly compelled to confront her with the truth. She listened patiently to my anger and bitterness, and quietly slipped away from reality, out of consciousness. One moment I was speaking to her, at the kitchen table, the next, she was — somewhere else? Staring off into nothing.
This was terrifying. I can remember trying to bring her out of it, holding her hand, speaking to her softly, gently, trying desperately to apologize for the spiteful, hurtful things I had said. The warmth of my hand against her cheek brought no response. Minutes passed as hours before a tear began to fall, and she slowly, hesitantly, returned to life.
She referred to this incident as "dissociation." Her conscious mind, overwhelmed with emotions and sensations that had become too difficult to process, sought means of escape, somewhere to hide. It was familiar to her, but I had never seen her like this. This was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
I was aware that she had been prescribed medication and received therapy, ages ago, even been briefly institutionalized. (She had spoken in an evasive way of disturbing incidents from her childhood.) But with distance, the pieces of the puzzle, the reason for all that I knew and loved and hated and never understood about her, they all fit together. I came to understand that "reality," for her, was often a relative term, and that her mind was never entirely in balance — too much of the time, precarious harmony was maintained by many of those same medications (but without the least medical guidance). This is who she is, and for all the brilliant light she could radiate, there was this part of her that was darker than night. She was afraid to know and to let this part of herself be known, out of fear that the truth would frighten away anyone close enough to discover it. In that, I suppose, she was right.
Everything she had meant to me was left behind that night, wherever it was that she went.
It was difficult for me to reconcile these different aspects of her personality, to try to make some sense of the idea that the reasons for the behavior that drove me away might be the very key to the aspects of her I loved best. I gave up trying. (For some questions, there may never be an answer.) I feel ashamed to have been so judgmental when perhaps I might have been more understanding, We were very much alike, driven by many of the same needs and hopes and fears that had once brought us together, and (occasionally) I can't help but wonder about my own state of mind.
11 July 2009
Family
It's that time of the year again, when the new families of adorable, roly-poly baby raccoons begin to make semi-regular visits to the backyard. This Mother seems more careful and attentive than most, hovering more, chirping at her children to keep them from wandering too far in exploration.
08 July 2009
TCM
July will be a terrific month on Turner Classic Movies...
You know, I don't think I've seen the 1939 adaptation of Of Mice and Men (with Burgess Meredith) since I was in High School —which, come to think of it, was perhaps 25 years ago. (I must admit, it is distinctly unsettling to me that I can refer to events in my adult lifetime as having taken place that long ago.) I've spent too many years exposed to parodies of the characters in that book that I doubt I'll be able to contain my snickering — but I'm looking forward to this all the same (on July 23).
In celebration of the 40th Anniversary of the Apollo Moon Landing, there's an evening of themed films (on July 20), including Destination Moon (1950) and The Right Stuff (1983). I've always been kinda curious about The Right Stuff, though I don't always have patience for drama when I'd prefer a documentary. Fortunately, there's also a documentary: For All Mankind (1989).
There's an evening of Jean Seberg films in the next day or so (on July 11). I did two books about her last year, but I've never seen any of her work.
I've never ever seen any of the Ma and Pa Kettle films. This shameful gap in my pop cultural experience will finally be addressed (on July 17)!
And I'll get to see MGM's remake of Waterloo Bridge, which I expect will be every bit as dull and boring as I've read, particularly when compared to the original (July 22).
And there's an entire evening of Pre-Code Hollywood Musicals (on July 29). You know how much I love that stuff!
This, you see, is why I pay whatever ridiculous amount of money I pay each month for Cable TV service. And this is why I couldn't get by without a DVR.
You know, I don't think I've seen the 1939 adaptation of Of Mice and Men (with Burgess Meredith) since I was in High School —which, come to think of it, was perhaps 25 years ago. (I must admit, it is distinctly unsettling to me that I can refer to events in my adult lifetime as having taken place that long ago.) I've spent too many years exposed to parodies of the characters in that book that I doubt I'll be able to contain my snickering — but I'm looking forward to this all the same (on July 23).
In celebration of the 40th Anniversary of the Apollo Moon Landing, there's an evening of themed films (on July 20), including Destination Moon (1950) and The Right Stuff (1983). I've always been kinda curious about The Right Stuff, though I don't always have patience for drama when I'd prefer a documentary. Fortunately, there's also a documentary: For All Mankind (1989).
There's an evening of Jean Seberg films in the next day or so (on July 11). I did two books about her last year, but I've never seen any of her work.
I've never ever seen any of the Ma and Pa Kettle films. This shameful gap in my pop cultural experience will finally be addressed (on July 17)!
And I'll get to see MGM's remake of Waterloo Bridge, which I expect will be every bit as dull and boring as I've read, particularly when compared to the original (July 22).
And there's an entire evening of Pre-Code Hollywood Musicals (on July 29). You know how much I love that stuff!
This, you see, is why I pay whatever ridiculous amount of money I pay each month for Cable TV service. And this is why I couldn't get by without a DVR.
07 July 2009
Circadian
It's Monday, isn't it? (I suppose, at this hour, it's already Tuesday.) The family is away for the week, the house is peaceful and quiet, and I've done not much more than work. Alone and undisturbed, I lose count of the hours. Afternoon passes into evening, indistinguishable from midnight and beyond.
As quickly as I become accustomed to this new rhythm, it will be over.
As quickly as I become accustomed to this new rhythm, it will be over.
04 July 2009
Private
Hidden away in my office, hidden behind — well, I'd rather not tell you just where, but hidden away in my office is a battered manila envelope, with papers, and a few other odds and ends. They're private papers — I'm an intensely private person, and this I wouldn't share with anyone, not even those closest to me.
I should throw it away. I've already thrown a few of the papers away — but for some reason, I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of the rest.
I should throw it away. I've already thrown a few of the papers away — but for some reason, I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of the rest.
03 July 2009
Complaint Dept.
I do a great deal of freelance design work for a publisher that does a great deal of business with a vendor that provides print-on-demand services. That's essentially a digital printing process, not all that different from, say, printing pages on a laser printer. The resulting quality tends to be hit-and-miss (photos and illustrations suffer the most), but I try to work within those limitations.
The covers, though, are virtually indistinguishable from a book printed by traditional methods — colors are sharp and vibrant, the card stock substantial and glossy.
I received a box of comps (or complimentary copies) of the books I had worked on today, my first opportunity to see the work I'd done on these particular projects in print. I was disappointed to discover that the print vendor is now trimming the books about a sixteenth of an inch less wide than they're supposed to be. That, and they seem to be using a slightly lighter weight of paper, which causes the spine of the cover to wrap around the front cover just a bit. What this all means is that the front covers are, when all is said and done, almost an eighth of an inch more narrow than I had expected.
The print vendor provides template files for the covers (set up to automate the process, for them, as much as possible), which I'm obligated to follow. But they haven't updated the template to reflect the changes in the way they're printing and trimming these books.
An eighth of an inch might not sound like much (and I suppose it isn't), but when I design a cover, I tend to be very particular and precise about where and how I place everything. It's frustrating to have put so much work into a project, only to be disappointed by the results. Even if most people wouldn't notice, I know I will.
The covers, though, are virtually indistinguishable from a book printed by traditional methods — colors are sharp and vibrant, the card stock substantial and glossy.
I received a box of comps (or complimentary copies) of the books I had worked on today, my first opportunity to see the work I'd done on these particular projects in print. I was disappointed to discover that the print vendor is now trimming the books about a sixteenth of an inch less wide than they're supposed to be. That, and they seem to be using a slightly lighter weight of paper, which causes the spine of the cover to wrap around the front cover just a bit. What this all means is that the front covers are, when all is said and done, almost an eighth of an inch more narrow than I had expected.
The print vendor provides template files for the covers (set up to automate the process, for them, as much as possible), which I'm obligated to follow. But they haven't updated the template to reflect the changes in the way they're printing and trimming these books.
An eighth of an inch might not sound like much (and I suppose it isn't), but when I design a cover, I tend to be very particular and precise about where and how I place everything. It's frustrating to have put so much work into a project, only to be disappointed by the results. Even if most people wouldn't notice, I know I will.