Today's Word: Hidden

The little pieces she put in the small velvet box, the fragments of her father who came to her in a cloud of loathing and whiskey. She took the pictures and notes, everything he gave her from prison, and tore them up, placed them in the box, and buried it all.

Burning Blurs

My iPod is not long for this world. Contracted some kind of gadget venereal disease, causing an acrid brown-yellow discharge from its USB port. The Dismantling Nerd Ninjas at Apple have called me, and they want my Shuffle to experiment on, presumably in darkened chambers where much Bwahahahaha-ing happens. I shall bid my little gumpack-sized distracter a final farewell in a couple days, when I get the SoftPak from Apple for the return shipment. Alas, it was a winter romance that faded too fast as spring crept up on us, causing my sweet to cry toxic tears.

So, I'm going au naturalle into the gym/office/world, having to listen to everyone else's lives via cell phone-fragments and those who use their outside voices inside.

In other news, the Sci-Fi Dystopia-rama conference Saturday was alternatively interesting and depressing. The first panel, a quartet of sci-fi writers who think that civilization as we know it is well and truly boned. None of them clever to envision a solution to the problem, just making cash out of visions of the machine grinding to a halt. But just when was the world ever really safe, free of danger of some kind? And maybe, just maybe, it's a sign that The Way Things Are shouldn't be the way things will go in the future, and that's just fine. Maybe we do need a little push to head in the right path. Maybe pricey oil will cause a new science to develop cheap, clean power. In general, the audience (outnumbering the panel by a good 5-to-1) believes that life will go on, and well as there are good times and dark times, and that stories will make us aware of these problems. The ideas that dystopias bring to mind do seep into public consciousness (see Rachel Carson's "Silent Spring."). What's needed are writers to take the next step in showing what can be done, or that hope is all you need (See Butler, Octavia).

The second panel was far better. An actual flesh-and-blood scientist stepping up to talk about the wonders of science, and how not all hope is lost when it comes to the natural world. A strong advocate of real science, horrified by the flim-flam men peddling Intelligent Design. Imagine a blend of Gandalf, Arundhati Roy, that cool uncle who knew how to fix things, and the best science teacher you ever wanted but never got. He was joined by a sci-fi author who made a far more enjoyable, accessible panel than the Sulking Four who preceded.

Nearly ran out of pages to take notes. So much inspiration for the novel and no idea where to put it. My brain is in overload. I know what Patrick feels like once in a while, concepts roiling in my mind, jumping out of my grasp as I reach for them in their perfect, solid-steel state. The University Street Fair Sunday gave me an idea for Rayelle's daily life. I'm trying to imagine summer fair crowds like that, but drugged and vicious and times one hundred.

I'm not happy about what I'm turning in for class on Tuesday. I got the minimal stuff done, but I'm not proud of it. Summarized the first half of the novel, which is my high ground for the week. In eight days, class will be over. I have done so much writing, and covered so much literary real estate. I'm glad to have been in the program for nine months, but it feels as if I haven't given birth yet.

By the way, the "Revenge of the Sith" video game is a must-avoid.