Humour

Coffee Shop Pop Psychoanalysis

Seymour, 3 Comments

I’ve blogged previously about my ongoing battle with fountain pens. As a Scotsman I knew once said, “It’s a sair ficht.” While he was referring to the daily struggle between the ways of the flesh and the ways of the spirit, I feel, in microcosm, so is the Way of the Fountain Pen for me. I love the romantic icon of the fountain pen, but for as long as I can remember it has only loved to scratch holes in my paper and (somehow) put ink in and around my mouth.

Rorschach and CoffeeOur most recent skirmish was held this morning in a local coffee shop as I tried to do some journaling. Thankfully, I was prepared with several squares of scrap paper on which to get the pen working before damaging my journal. Nevertheless, Stanley (yes, my pens do have names) was channelling Hermann Rorschach — so not much journaling was done. I obligingly embraced the opportunity to do a spot of coffee-shop psychoanalysis, folded the papers in half over Stanley’s leaked blobs to see what could be found. What do you see in these, I wonder?

(Add your answers in the comments – but don’t look there until you’ve decided what you see; and don’t overthink it!)

Rorschach 1
Rorschach 1
Rorschach 2
Rorschach 2
Rorschach 3
Rorschach 3
Rorschach 4
Rorschach 4
Rorschach 5
Rorschach 5
Rorschach 6
Rorschach 6

A couple of these are absolutely startling. to my mind (it’s that first one that blows me away). Of course the reason our minds are so quick to see things in these ink blots has something to do with the fact that they are fractal (so they inevitably resemble the forms that occur in nature) and the fact that we are fundamentally wired to try to interpret sensory input. That what we see varies from person to person, supposedly indicates differences in our state of mind, our habits of thought or perception.

I just think they are fun to play with.

Neologism Diarrhoea

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370px-SnarkRear.svgAlthough this is supposed to be a ‘writers blog’ it tends to be a repository for the things I don’t write: the stuff I do when I should be writing. When I do find the time to actually do some writing (for myself), I often find all my brain wants to do is mess about and compose nonsense. I find this incredibly easy and profoundly satisfying.

Really, ‘nonsense’, of the sort that Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear gave us, leaves a much wider space for readers or listeners’ imaginations to play in. It harps upon this beautiful feature of human languages: with syntax, sound and context we are more than half way to understanding meaning. Who the hell needs vocabulary?

I give you, therefore, ‘The Toast of Far Gelar‘.

If you like this sort of thing, you might enjoy listening to my story, The Jellyfarglemarsh, at Stories from the Borders of Sleep.

Notebook Wars

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A good writing implement can bring out the best in us.

I’m mainly a pencil person for taking notes, doodling and writing. For journaling, inking in or neater work, I adore the triplus® fineliner by STAEDTLER. But lately, a couple of fountain pens have been added to the arsenal. A good one, well primed, is a wonderful writer. A bad one can fill a page very quickly with bizarre textures and symbols.

The pages of my scratch book have recorded a strange battle over the last week or so:

 

Page one was an ordinary page in the scratch book. A few lines of pencil were engaged in a key debate.
Page two played host to pencil lines – decadent and fanciful in bourgeois ingnorance of their own demise
On page three, the fountain pen ink army came with raw scratches, marching upon the page in angry angles and scrawls.
In forms foreign and fantastical it fell upon page four, forsooth!
By page five, total and permanent domination was secured.

I like to believe that even the way we scribble when trying to get a blasted pen to work can be pressed into the service of narrative.

 

 

 

Words I wish I could have played in scrabble

Seymour, , 3 Comments
An infinite number of monkeys...
An infinite number of monkeys… (Photo credit: Olivander)

I have an app that seems to be permanently open in my brain; maybe it is a monkey on a typewriter. Strings of letters constantly rearrange themselves and every so often a combination sticks and I have a new word in my head. I’ve tried to figure out what to do with these words.

Some of them have ended up in a story I wrote, about a “jellyfarglemarsh”, which you can listen to over at Stories from the Borders of Sleep. Others are being collected in a document on Draft  (superb tool for distraction-free writing and collaboration invented by Nathan Kontny) until I find a use for them. As a writer, you always need new words for things.

The typewriting-monkey app goes crazy, though, when I play Scrabble. In the last month, I would have scored a lot better in Scrabble if I could have played some of the following non-words:

opet
ovisa
tabe
joen
earez
loat
beetis
thone
pety
rhoney
mooty
jora
saum
nute
duntie
chun
zenu
opida
antid
laicana
zouf
zelam
criben
agantile
vermid
canu
prestagelent
adabs
ariab

So there we are.

I guess, if any other chump googles them, they will end up reading this post.

Would any of my readers care to come up with meanings for some of this new vocabulary?

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What’s all the fuss about the brothers Grimm?

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Grimm Brothers
Grimm Brothers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have been labouring my way through the complete tales of the brothers Grimm, on and off, for the last three years. At first, there were curious and enchanting moments but, I have to admit, it has felt more ‘uphill’ recently. I’m not sure how to understand the resurgence of interest in Will and Jake’s collection. There has been a popular TV series and a couple of movies have tried to reclaim the tales for the dark side, after years of disneyfication; Philip Pullman has turned his pen to them, and several others have delighted in re-working them for the ‘Potter, Buffy and Twilight’ generation.

Having almost finished reading the complete works, I have my own take on the oeuvre.

When the brothers rolled into a village on their collecting expeditions, I reckon that the locals thought it would be a jolly jape to ply them with schnapps and treat them to lengthy, extemporized tales that endlessly recombined a basket of popular motifs in spirals of fantasy. These plot lines were not authentically handed down through the generations until they were captured and immortalised with pen and ink; they were made upon the spot, like the rambling narratives that children play out in the tree house and at the bottom of the garden or the anecdotes of a boozy uncle who can’t remember the end from the beginning.

For example, here is the tale of the Three Black Princesses. It is wryly amusing for the fact that it barely goes anywhere, it is clearly unfinished and there are some serious issues with overall coherence. I hope my rendition is faithful to the original.

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