An occupied mind

My mind is saturated. So much so that the thought of writing original work seems impossible right now.

I’m just over two weeks into this new gig. The learning-tasks I’ve been told to undertake are manifold: a new platform (Microsoft AX — an ERP), a new language (X++), a new business domain (transportation mfg.), a new scripting language (Powershell), and a new and complex build and deployment process.

Needless to say, my mind is fully occupied. So much so that I have zero desire to sit down to pen fiction. Which leads me to ponder the concept of mental overload. I’m quite content right now with my mind being crammed with newness. It’s as though I had this brain-tank that was running at half full for a few years. Into it I could pour all sorts of fiction fancy. I’d fall asleep fabricating new plots and stories. Now? Now, I fall asleep juggling the new business puzzle pieces that have been dumped into my mind.

And I’m OK with it. I’m not going to try and fight the trend. I figure that once I get acclimated my brain-tank will begin to empty and into it I’ll once again trickle oddities and oblique oscillations of thought.

Do you cycle between mental saturation of workplace or family and story time? Or can you keep them both topped-off and bubbling?

 


Writer’s Log: 1885 Pedalin’

Back when I used to ride a street bike through the hills of Marin County.

Pedalin’

I pedaled long,
barbed fence after fence raced my fleeting form.
I pedaled smooth,
muscled metronome, one revolution per second.
I pedaled steep,
shady redwoods grew at impossible angles on the mountain side.
I pedaled quick,
a blue Mercedes grazed my left hip.
I pedaled hard,
salty beads slid down from my armpits and temples.

I coasted.

Black and yellow bees, large enough to hurt,
buzzed at my head.
Thin strands of weeds, tanned in the summer sun
whipped at my ankles.
Flitting brown sparrows, trim ones with sleek profiles,
air danced at my side.
Heady scented wind, warm but touched with ocean mist,
streamed into my lungs.

I pedaled slow,
cool sweat chilled the nape of my neck.
I pedaled on,
under bolls of clouds hanging listless in an achingly blue sky.

I stopped.
I had reached the cheese factory and it was time for lunch.
I ate.
I pedaled home.


Writer’s Log: 1885 Floatin’

Back when I used to strum a 6 string…
Chords are:
E then A (repeat), Chorus is B7, A, and E, then B7 — E

Floatin’

Lazy we’re layin’, an afternoon snooze.
Cast the balloon, our inflatable cruise,
begins with a whisper, the touching of lips;
sparkling smiles that launch fantasy ships.

Floatin’, floatin’ with you,
Floatin’, stayin’ next to you.

Lift me up, and set me on high.
Sift down a kiss, from a piercing blue sky.
Nudge me to moving, coasting on clouds,
shout to the wind, our love bright and loud.

Floatin’, floatin’ with you,
Floatin’, keeping close to you.

Sailing with seagulls, drifting a breeze,
a feather traced, along taboo a tease.
Weightless we hang, in a passion filled fever,
Dreamin’ together, ’cause never I’ll leave her.

Floatin’, floatin’ with you,
floatin’, holdin’ onto you.

Floatin’, lovin’ with you,
floatin’, lovin’ always you.

 

 


Writer’s Log: 1884 PBBFH

This is a bit I wrote at the end of a vicious emotional extraction, e.g. breakup, way back in my mid-twenties.

PBBFH = Psychotic Blond Bitch From Hell

~~~

Twilight finds me dyin’
from the daggers thrown by you.
Insinuation, lies, deceit
flowin’ blood, I’ve paid my dues.

I see a tear fall from a dark eye
shattering, it strikes the stone.
Your hands reach out to touch me
but grab the knife and twist it home.

The pain has spread, but all pain fades
memories of you are just a shade
of a need I licked, a fix I’ve kicked;
my thoughts of life no longer stick
on your love of jealous jade.

I’ve pulled the knife, healed my wounds
I smile and tilt my chin.
I check the blade, the one you picked
a narrow minded tongue of tin.

A dagger dull to a heart like mine.
I trace the scar and sure enough I find,
that I was only nicked.


Writer’s Log: 1883 Fog

I found a bunch of poems and songs I’d written decades ago. I’ll post these here over a few days/weeks.

Fog

Where the sea meets the sand
 humidity finds
its invisible status
 has left it behind.

A chilling night air
 bumps head to head
with a moist ocean breeze
 and between them they shed
a mist.

A rolling white specter
 so think it’s been dubbed
with an untouchable texture
 an ethereal rub.

Fog is its title
 confusion its wake,
leaving all standing idle
 while the sun works to make
a fist…

To punch through this blanket
 to tear it to shreds,
but remorse moves to thank it
 for fog’s presence led…

Us to ponder our lives
 and their continual rush
to question our pace
 to instill a hush…

As fog’s dearest treasure
 is silence and calm,
a noiseless deep pleasure
 which soothes as a balm
our souls.

 


Reading in one’s own accent

Here’s a strange thought: do we read in our own accents?

If you’re from Boston, or Atlanta, or Winnipeg, or Edinburgh do you mentally verbalize — as you read — in your own accent? That is, does your own mind’s voice speak to itself in the particular accent of your locality?

Got you thinking, right?

Of course, we can (probably) never know the answer. And the question is a bit of a tautology or more so, an impossible question. What happens in our Vegas mind, stays in our Vegas mind.

But to examine the question anyway: when we hear our own voice in a recording we do not notice our own accent. Actors no doubt can detect intentional accents of their own making. But average humans? Everyone else has an accent — not us.

So, I suspect we don’t read to ourselves in our native accent, or none that we can identify. But, perhaps, if we could tap into the biological wires that connect our reading mind¬† / speaking mind to our listening mind I bet we would recognize individual accents. It’s rather intriguing to think that someone from Mumbai is reading to themselves in a Mumbai accent.

It’s concepts like this that, from time to time, drop into my brain and make me wonder.

 


Back to reading…

In lieu of writing (which I’ll have to relegate to the weekends) I’m back to finding quality reading. Two of, what appear to be excellently written novels, I’ve run into (last three days) are The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman — Robin Gregory and Small as an Elephant — Jennifer Jacobson. They’re YA, and short, but so far they are exquisitely written. One can feel the craft applied; few if any words out of place; pace and thrum just right for the story.

Both of these stories border on the literary. Which is where I’d love to ride the rail (some day, fingers crossed). Both I pulled up in Amazon’s Look Inside and read the first few thousand words. “Yup, that rings like a bronze bell.”

So, if you can borrow through your library, or spend the few pence for either of these, I recommend them. They’re not racy or scandalous, nor high intrigue or political conspiracy, but they feel utterly true if fabricated.

The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman: https://robingregory.net/

Small as an Elephant: https://www.jenniferjacobson.com/small-as-an-elephant/