Archive for the ‘writing’ Tag

My Brain, and Other Curiosities

Saturday, May 11th, 2013

Hello to all cats, valiantly attempting to find the newly sprouted bean plants and eat them, slippers on floors, and harmonicas in the key of C.

Part of the reason I haven’t been blogging much lately is because I got this video game called Skyrim, became desperately obsessed with it, sucked up all the internet time, and then lay shivering in a corner from Skyrim-withdrawal. It was a dark time. Also, it’s spring, and I’ve been enjoying the springiness. I’m going to start softball on Wednesday, and boy am I nervous– last night I had one of my super-realistic anxiety-ridden dreams about it. I went to some sort of tryout in a large abandoned parking lot in Montreal, where I had to wait in line all day for various skill assessments and never got a turn, and then there was a giant squid that ate everyone except me and the coach, who blamed it on me and killed me with a softball made of fire.
I figure Wednesday won’t be QUITE that bad.
Anyway, spring is nice– it feels more like summer than anything, though. Spring no longer exists in this part of Ontario– it’s been burned away by global warming, is what I figure. It’s nice to be out and about, though, and tomorrow my friends and I are going to Comiccon to be nerdy and stuff. Wil Wheaton from Big Bang Theory (and Star Trek TNG) is going to be there and I’m going to try and get his autograph, possibly on my hat. I’ve got another hat that was signed by Brett Spiner last year. I am so cool, man. I’m going to take pictures, too. I won’t even be embarrassed by the fact that my entourage is three nerdy teenage boys, two with braces, all in shorts and sandals. One possibly in shorts and sandals with socks. I love my friends.

I’ve been feeling good lately. The world seems promising to me. Everything seems funnier, too– I could fill up a whole volume with funny things I’ve noticed, which I guess is sort of what this blog is, but I swear– there’s funny coming out of my nose lately. I can’t keep it in. There’s way too much funny. And most of it isn’t even funny, it just is in my brain, but the minute I say it out loud I realize how non-funny it really is, and then everyone looks at me and politely doesn’t say anything. Up there in my brain, it’s like a never-ending, not entirely well-directed B movie.
In fact, if you took a diagram of my brain, it would probably look a bit like this:
my brain

I forgot stuff like for instance “family” and “friends” and “good-heartedness” but let’s say they take up the other side. This side that you see is the left hemisphere or something.
So I’ll see ya later, Blog-Reader. I’ll probably put some pictures up from Nerdfest tomorrow, and who knows, maybe you’ll even get a post about how Wednesday will go. If there’s giant squids…
… I promise I’ll tell you about it.
Yours truly, the most truest of them all, ~Onceabasementdog

Some Old Poetry

Wednesday, January 30th, 2013

The old computer from nineteen thirty something that I still have in my room is filled with a labyrinth of poetry, not to mention endless books and little nothing-stories that I’ve almost completely forgotten about. While wandering through the maze, I came across a poem I wrote about a year ago. Most of that old stuff is pretty terrible, but this one stuck out to me. I present to you…

The Forests

When I was young the village put me in the forest,
Turned their backs and said, “We wish you all the best”
They left me to live with the birds and the bees,
In the company of tall, wise trees
And I learned secrets that
They will never know.
The height of summer came with the whispering of rain,
The trees leaned in and murmured, “The wild beast is slain.”
Up where the river crashed down to the lake,
I went to look under the statues of the snakes
Where the beast was lying, her head on the ground
She was as still as a broken toy and making not a sound
The rushing water told me what they’d seen,
How the villagers came up, like monsters in a dream
And struck her down and left again,
With their torches and their guns.
So the next day at dawn I went down through the forest,
And into the village, I entered like a ghost
And was met with metal guns and killing iron fire
I said I knew what they had done,
And they said “You’re a liar!”
So I went back up and I talked to the trees,
And with groans and creaking moans they came to walk with me
And we went back to the village, as dusk fell swift and black
Under the opening eyes of stars, we went for the attack.
With shots like fireworks dancing in the dark
We brought down the villagers, and their village with them
And in the morning light which seeped red all around
Were the broken bodies lying on the ground
And back into the trees, they went with me
As the glow of our victory was swallowed like a dream.

Adventures of the Walking Girl

Thursday, August 2nd, 2012

Hello to all quarters on tables, headphones that don’t work anymore possibly because I wore them out in the rain, cats meowing at doors, and flowers in jars.

So, what do you do when you can’t bike? You walk! The same distances that you biked. Which is not necessarily a good idea, because biking is much faster than walking, and much easier, too… and that’s why I was an hour away from home sitting on a bench eating trail mix thinking, I’m going to die before I get back. 

While on my walk, the one I managed not to die on, I took lots and lots of pictures. Later I realized they could be put into a blog entry as a sort of humorous progression following my adventures. My adventures which aren’t nearly as adventurous as you’re hoping. Anyway, it was a mindlessly hot Tuesday, and I went limping out the door…

ImageAnd I took a picture of this thing.

And then I went in the general direction of the river, where I came upon my favorite house in the south end, this lovely building here:

ImageIf I was evil, I’d ring their doorbell and say, “I’m very sorry to tell you this sir but there’s an eons-old monster living in your basement…”

(And then the house would be mine.)

ImageI really like these chairs. I want these chairs.

ImageThis is a really cool car.

Image

This is a really cool car, too.

ImageThe original purpose of my walk was to go down to the river– ahem, right there, actually– and eat the trail mix, Pepsi, and crab apple I’d prepared for lunch. But when I got to the place under the bridge I was going to sit at, there were these PEOPLE there. Fishing. It’s not a very good picture of them (I had to take it quickly while examining the river as if I wasn’t taking a picture of them) but anyway, there they are. Fishing in my lunch spot.

ImageWhile on the search for a new place to eat, I saw this boat. See what it says? How mysterious.

Image

So instead of my under-the-bridge lunch area I found a place under a tree, instead. There were many dog walkers and joggers going by and twice a dog came down to sniff at me and my lunch, thereby scaring the crap out of me twice. Do you know what it’s like, sitting listening to your iPod examining the view and then there’s this FURRY THING next to you? Well, it’s kind of scary. I let them lick my hand anyway. And that’s my lunch, by the way: trail mix, Pepsi, crab apple. I had twenty dollars to buy anything I wanted… and this is what I was eating, for SOME reason…

ImageThis is the book I was reading as I sat there. Never trust a thirteen-year-old-vampire-boy-deals-with-the-troubles-of-adolescence book. Just, really. Don’t. You’ll regret it.

Image

And then I had to leave because the ants were moving in. See the little devil? Grr.

Image

On my way to my picnic table destination, (which was occupied by two ladies, and I wanted to take a picture of them, too, but I didn’t know how it was possible to do so discreetly unless I hid in the bushes or something) a stick threw itself at my shin. I was just walking, and then there’s this stick jabbing into my leg. Note the bandage above it. Why don’t I just throw myself into an airplane propeller and call it a day?

I was going to put in the last picture but it seems impossible. It’s been ‘uploading’ for far too Imagewhat impeccable timing, there it is. I swear I didn’t plan that. Anyway, this is a picture  my iPod took of itself as I was walking. That nicely rounds out my adventures on Tuesday, so I think I’ll sign off now.

Yours truly, (hey! There’s a weird mermaid up there), ~Onceabasementdog.

‘O, Dear Computer’ and Other Poetry

Monday, July 16th, 2012

Hello to all fish swimming around in the weedy depths of the river, loons on dollars, mice in mousetraps and gross, sweaty old people riding their bikes with no shirt on.

Today I went for a bike ride. Bad idea, considering it’s practically the temperature of the inside of a well-cooked ham out there? Maybe. But anyway, bike I did besides that. As I was pedaling up by the side of the canal, a lyric for a song popped into my head: Up the hill by the stream is the nicest house I’ve ever seen. I wonder who lives there, and if they even care. I’m going to put that into my next song. I’ve been feeling in a poetic mood lately. Maybe that has something to do with the enormous hunk of English literature sitting next to the computer, which I pick up to flip through as I wait for the internet to load. It’s one of those university edition thingies that have every boring poem in the universe stuffed inside. Anyway it’s a very, very slow computer. Maybe I should install Adobe Flash Player and maybe I should listen to those Please Update windows that keep popping up, but I’m not convinced. I think my dear old computer is getting fed up with me– before the Adobe Flash Player upgrade was just a little box in the corner of the screen with an exclamation mark, and when I turned the computer on today it was a HUGE box that took up the entire screen, telling me this was Urgent! Update your Flash Player! (You piece of crap!)

I haven’t yet. Besides, I refuse to listen to my computer.  My computer can’t tell me what to do.

To expand on my poetic mood: I’ve realized, flipping through that hunk of boring English, that not only are all great writers insane (in most of the bios about different writers it explains how so-and-so spent three years in a lunatic asylum, so-and-so cut his ear off,  so-and-so wrote an entire ballad about his cat and God), and now I’m starting to worry that I’ll end up being insane, too. I mean, I’m not going to say I’m a great writer. (Yes, I am. Who said that?) I just don’t know if I really want to be that person sitting in a small room with a bed without sheets or a pillow so I can’t strangle or suffocate myself, writing poems about cats and God and stuff.

In any case. I’ve just typed up a storm during the weekend, a twenty five page Hunger Games rip-off that I plan to upload to a fan fiction site. I’ve been thinking up song lyrics like nobody’s business. The other day somebody told me I looked like an artist. ‘Do you play music?’ ‘Why, yes,’ I said. ‘Do you play guitar?’ ‘Uh, yes, I do.’ Apparently all the artistic stuff is starting to boil over in me. Soon I’ll be writing poems about dust bunnies and making friends with inanimate objects. Not like that’s a bad thing, I mean, the computer speaker’s got a great sense of humor.

Nah, don’t worry. I’m still sane.

And here’s my poem about the computer:

O, Dear Computer

Mine old friend, of plastic and wire;

Tis a short time, I fear, before he bursts into fire

For ten long years he has stood as a guide,

To my senseless poor poetry,

In him, I confide.

But soon the days will catch up with him,

And the promising glow of life will seem dim

And therefore, I shall be obliged to divide

The files within him to one, and one side

Before all is lost, and I pay the cost

O, dear computer, I fain imagine my loss.

~~~

Farewell sincerely, my dear Blog-Reader, ~Onceabasementdog

Everything I Write Is Depressing

Tuesday, June 19th, 2012

Hello to all orangutans swinging from trees, cats hiding in laundry baskets, and computer game manuals.

It just kind of occurred to me, as I looked through my word files on the computer, that recently all I’ve been writing is tremendously, tremendously depressing. Since Christmas: a story about Gordon Lightfoot and a sort-of-evil-but-not-really boy who smokes cigars and deals with the living dead, a story about a kid whose parents were murdered by demons, a short story about a psychopathic villain who ends up being murdered and then coming back to life– and not to mention all the SONGS I’ve been writing. George Harrison, my partner in song-playing, knows very well what dark and sad lyrics my songs contain and also that I’m incapable of writing anything happy.

Do I have like a… depressing and disturbing writing problem? Don’t other fourteen year old girl writers write about the adventures of their cats and ridiculous, fluffy narratives concerning dreamy heroes of fantasy? (Well… okay, the latter is true, actually. I’ve spent a few kilobytes writing about the death god from The Kane Chronicles. Maybe.) But anyway– what’s wrong with me that I have to make everything I write dark in some way? Like, today I was in the midst of writing the psychopathic-villain-is-shot-but-comes-back-to-life scene, and I thought JEEZ, HOLY CRAPOLA, is this really what I’m writing about?

Sometimes I wish I just liked Justin Bieber and thought Twilight was awesome. Why? Because then I’d be NORMAL.

I have to go way back to before Christmas to find anything that’s light-hearted. The rest of it is a kid wanting revenge for the terrible demon that murdered his parents before his eyes. I think I’m slowly turning more and more emo. As I was starting this post, I was listening to a sad City and Colour song called The Grand Optimist, (which you’d think might be, I dunno, optimistic) and then I thought that, This is really proving my case that I’m really, really, really depressing.

That’s why I’m listening to ‘Irish tavern music’ on Youtube now. Fiddles! Jigs! Fiddles!

Oh, yes, I can get through eleven minutes of the same riff playing over and over.

Yours not depressing anymore, because I’m listening to Irish tavern music! ~Onceabasementdog.

(P.S: I’m currently making plans for a serial of short stories about a land of Starburst candies, taken from an idea of the blogger Michael. That’s fun. Right? Right? That’s not depressing.)

A Monster Calls… Depressingly.

Friday, June 15th, 2012

Hello to all trees crushing churches, pigs from outer-space, people with funny suits and computer speakers from 1987.

Yesterday I read a book. I read lots of books; however, I rarely read books about living yew trees that talk to people and tell stories and are INCREDIBLY DEPRESSING. A Monster Calls is a book by Patrick Ness, author of the tremendously cool series Chaos Walking. This book is a 200-some sad picture book, so sad, so incredibly sad that you will very possibly feel like crying… or rewriting the ending, like I did. And Conor could finally face it, his mother’s death. Wouldn’t it be better if it ended like, And Conor lived happily ever after in a flying castle with his friends and there was never another depressing day to be had. Ever. Then they all went and got ice cream and there were puppies and butterflies falling from the sky.

A Monster Calls is fantastic. Patrick Ness is a great writer and, though melancholy, the book is quite entertaining and brutally honest. The best part is the illustrations, which are dark and strange and sometimes alarming. It’s a lot to take in three hours of furious page-turning, and it leaves a bittersweet (mostly bitter, not very sweet) taste behind. But the monster, which is a yew tree but not a yew tree but not real but real at the same time, is possibly the funniest part of the whole thing, which is ironic since it’s also the scariest and darkest part of the whole thing. The stories it tells to Conor are interesting, and the whole thing is like a half-daze of frightening images and wordplay: all very lyrical, like a long, dark poem about a dying woman and a struggling boy and a darn freaky living tree that crushes things.

I reccommend it, if mostly for the artwork. The story is good on its own, but the images that Jim Kay conjures up really makes it what it is. Four stars out of five, I say.

So ends my review of one of the most interesting yet horribly, horribly sad books I’ve ever read. Let’s read the Clifford the Big Red Dog Valentine’s Day book next. Please.

Yours tr– THE YEW TREE HAS COME ALLLLLLIIIVVVEEEEEEE! (Onceabasementdog.)