Another from the park…
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My new camera arrived late on Thursday!! It…is…gorgeous. For reals. It’s a Canon EOS Rebel T2i…
Really, I’m in love with it, I pretty much slept with it beside the bed on Thursday night… *awkward turtle* Haha. I’ve been a little trigger (shutter) happy lately as a result, and combined with a couple days off the computer… you have this! An inundation of pictures… Next post coming soon… I have to take a walk every day and so I have some resulting pictures of our park.
Gah. Like for reals. I love this camera.
Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained. – C.S. Lewis
- I went to college eight hours away from home.
- Shortly before that, I graduated from high school (and had to take my own senior pictures…)
- College was simultaneously the most fun and the most hellish thing I’ve ever been through.
- I spent a lot of time in thought-roller-coasters.
- I played with light.
- I went to Colorado, my favorite place on earth.
- I read a LOT of books…
- I started my second flickr.
- I came home.
- I stayed up late a lot.
- I cut my hair, muchly and often.
- I became part of a community.
- I learned to do levitation pictures while petsitting.
- I took all of my pictures on a point-and-shoot. Yup.
- I became honest with myself…in many ways.
- My brain exploded.
- I enjoyed the last of my high school days with my good friends.
- I started taking pictures for the first time, privately. For me, for nobody else.
- I came to terms with my blood conditions.
- I battled depression.
- I took 100 pictures in 100 days. This was the last.
- I competed for a full-ride scholarship at my school.
- I took some straight-off-the-camera shots that were really just lucky breaks but kept the magic alive.
- I got broken, fixed, re-broken, re-fixed, re-re-broken… you get the idea.
- I found a passion. Oh man oh man oh man.
- I spent WAY too many hours on GIMP.
- I came home and started taking pictures again after a long hiatus.
- I was very tired and usually sick.
- I had a lot of rough nights.
- But I remained just as much a sarcasm-speaking, movie-quoting, face-making, fun-loving dork as ever.
“CACIQUE M03 skeleton warriors face masks and protection comes from the conception of death-head bone…It can effectivly prevent from attacking by BB bomb…It is main used in field operations, military training and opera action…CACIQUE makes war esthetics within touching range.”
These are instructions that came with a mask the could be used underneath safety glasses while playing airsoft, etc… It looks like the lower half of a skull. In case you were wondering whenever you run into your “enimies” here are the…
Rules for choosing shooting position:
- Not leave shadow on some thin-color building.
- Choose closed or unclosed window for shooting according different situations; try to avoid think in one way.
- Try to make the exposed time shortest.
- Those shielding objects which can be useful at the lower position may be no use at a higher place.
- Shooting from behind the wall, soldiers should take wall as shield objects. The wall is on the left or right side. Not streek on the top of wall.
- The right way for shooting from window is like this. Keep an certain distance to the window, squat or half-squat, try to reduce exposed parts, shooting at one side of window. Don’t shoot antomatically.
And always remember! “Masks which made in common materials is easy to be broken, hurt and cause in sharpen pieces under standard weight and hurt then hurt people.” That’s a lot of hurt.
Not bring you any message of extreme importance, really… Just your normal post!
Anyways… I’m still working on writing, though I’m into a lot of research at the moment. I’m rehashing Project Orion as a potential basis for some technology, working out the politics of the kind of people who would USE that kind of power… applying my Engineering-problem-solving brain haha. I’m thinking a lot about diamagnetic levitation and superconducting magnets as well… And I’m going back into that dream-idea I’d had and remembering what all went on in it…
Something I find really refreshing in a story–and really fun to create–is a set of slang and jargon words, abbreviations and styles of speech that the characters use. You’ll notice, among the technicians, technologists, and engineers working on 4A, there’s a lot of slang. “Freshies” for the new recruits, “scratch” for actual problem work, etc. In Academia Oneira, there are various terms for the medium, also called “the jack,” or the one “under the plug.” I think details like that and little histories inserted into the story give it a lot more life.
I’m also thinking about fiction versus nonfiction… Something I’ve experienced personally at least, is that much more communication goes on between reader and writer in a fiction context than in a nonfiction book. Maybe this is because the best way to communicate is, in fact, to show rather than tell. There are issues with interpretation, yes, but then again people argue about the interpretation of syllogised non-fic books as well!
Maybe it just appeals to the reader’s conceit, though… reading fiction, you can kinda get a sense of pride from getting meaning out of the text… Or the keys that the writer puts into your head lead you to “figure it out” or “think about it” on your own. Which is always pleasant.
I wonder how much of that is really intentional? In my experience, not much at all! I don’t sit down and say, I’ll put THESE big underlying themes into my books! This is why fiction writing is such a powerful medium–and a dangerous one in the wrong hands. Whatever the writer believes WILL work its way into the writing, at the very root and fabric of the words. You can’t escape it, and you can’t “read just for entertainment” and think that it doesn’t get into your head as well. Good writing may even be less proper sentence structure and good plot twists… and more just having a well-developed and deep-delving mind behind the story itself…
“Once upon a time, there was a man who told very short stories with incomplete.”
— Mike Adams [http://townhall.com/columnists/mikeadams/] aka a Seriously Awesome Guy I Know
(wow, this is getting repetitive…fourth installment, DUH) Believe it or not, (c) 2011 Lydia DeWolf sharing is for preschoolers! 😉
Spike and I were friends, we said. On one level, it was true—we did enjoy one another’s company from time to time. But this state of affairs wasn’t brought on by any common interests or particular understanding… more like she scared the heck out of me but I was still in charge of her.
We were being friends at the moment, replaying a conversation we had often, and never got anywhere with it.
“Regulations, regulations,” one of us would start. This time it was me, fussing with the piles of paperwork. “I swear, does HQ have to sign off on every breath I take?”
“What kind of breath?” She shuffled a stack into order. “If you’re breathing in, I’ll need you to file this permission-to-intake-regulated-quantities-of-necessary-gaseous-molecules. If you’re breathing out, the permission-to-expel-necessary-gaseous-molecules-which-have-been-processed-and-partially-depleted. If you yawn, there’s a whole different set of permits.”
I stuck out my tongue and made a face.
“Whoops!” she said, holding up her hands. “Where’s your authorization-form-for-extending-an-appendage-rudely?”
“There’s another appendage I’m about ready to extend rudely!” I shook my fist. “Let’s hope Raleigh made enough of a scene to avoid any more mishaps for a while. It kills a lot of trees somewhere!”
She rolled her eyes and stapled a stack, popping some very contraband chewing gum. I touched my hair absently, comparing it to her cropped blond head. She kept hers short for convenience, and probably to scare recruits with the wild spikes. Mine was growing, but slowly, and curled…my body, strangely, still relearning this function. I shook my head, tucking strands behind my ears, and bent over the tabletop.
“I don’t really see why they do this to us,” she said suddenly, her voice muted and flat.
I looked up, almost uncertain if I’d heard her. “Sorry?”
“Look at what they make us do.” She gestured toward the reams of memos. “Why the rules? Why the forms and permits and official notices? Why the curfews and uniforms?”
“We’re a military operation, Spike,” I said.
“We’re technicians, for gosh sakes!” Her eyes were bright, a strained smile of disbelief stretching the corners of her mouth. “What war are we fighting with our missing negative signs and our derivatives and our rotating line segments? Is there a reason we can’t do this crap at home? In chairs? With—with gravity?”
“I’ve never seen you like this,” I began, calmly.
“Maybe because I like it! Maybe I like wearing the uniform, being a part of something, maybe I like playing the role!”
“So you like playing the role, that’s no big deal.” I smiled. “You do it well, Raleigh was ready to fall over in fear.”
The light went out of her face, and I didn’t know if it was a good thing—the ice crept back into her eyes.
“We’re an expeditionary force,” I continued. “I don’t even give the orders on this metal box. We just do what they tell us to. We’re not much more to them than our vectors. They make us do…all of this,” I waved my hand toward the table, toward our uniforms, “because they want us to be safe. We don’t know what’s out there…and we don’t know if it’ll like us if we find it.”
“Extraterrestrials are a myth, Zee.” She shook her head at me.
I half-grinned. “I’m not an alarmist, and I’m not talking about E.T. You know what I mean…by the time we find them, if we do…they may no longer be part of us, you know?”
A red light blinked on behind me, telling us Deck 4A was closing for the set of hours arbitrarily deemed the “night shift.” It reflected in her eyes, two gleaming spots that turned her irises purple.
“They’ll be part of us,” she said, her words barely above a whisper. “They’ll still want us.”
I heard it hovering, unsaid, in her throat. In the husky tones, “He’ll still want me.”
(The third installment… this is where the merged idea starts to come in) Needless to say, (c) 2011 Lydia DeWolf keep your hands to yourself, children! 😉
Most kids were selected for Academia Oneira after a rigorous testing process. They competed with each other, with their teachers. With nonsense, most often.
Dreamschool was a misleading name. It wasn’t housed in lofty, pleasant buildings, among misted mountaintops or along a majestic coastline. It was located on land flatter than the prairie, fit only for growing miles and miles of cotton. The most dreamlike quality it had was the way the tufts of fiber would break free during harvesting and collect like warm-weather snow along the roadways. To go there was to go back in time, to somewhere tractors still rusted and petrol-station owners used a sideways Z letter when they needed an N in their signs.
It looked old, too, built all of brick and wonderfully bland. It looked as if Baptists had built it, and they probably had. Tame and sensible, valuing what went on inside rather than outside, with very little ornamentation.
There were six or seven main halls filled with classrooms and simulators, most with impressive snow-white columns and still unfitted with gutters to catch the rain. Inside, they’d been changed when Dreamschool’s founders moved in. Gone were the drop-tile ceilings and thin gray carpeting the original builders would have installed. Tall doors of dark-stained wood matching floors took their place.
Like the students’ minds, the bones of the structures were solid and ordinary, but consistency was by no means a virtue.
Since Dreamschool served as a military base as well, the dorms and barracks were one and the same, at one end of the sprawling green campus, built of cinderblock against the seasonal storms. Tornadoes had touched down enough times over the 800 years the place had existed that these were state-of-the-art. Invincible. Inside, they were polished white and pristine. They were inspected twice a day, and brutally.
The only truly modern-looking part of the school was the testing and sciences building—or compound. It resembled a large, complex molecule, made of shining acrylic bubbles and chrome jointing, connected by encased walkways, sealed against the outside by airlocks. They kept it normalized, they kept it monitored. As you walked the halls, the soft voice of “Janis” reported the temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, and gaseous components of the air.
Everyone loved Janis, whoever she was. We would answer her when her automated messages came across the speakers, as if she were our old friend and colleague.
“The time is 20:30pm,” she would inform us, gently.
“You don’t say!” we’d reply in the gap. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know the temperature?”
“The temperature is exactly 22 degrees Cels—” For as long as anyone could remember, there had been a skip in the temperature report, a scratch from the original recordings.
“Thanks, old girl, you’re a brick!” someone would say.
Dreamschool’s motto was Logica est ferramenta: Logic is a strong instrument. We used to translate it, “Logic is a tool,” which was probably more in line with the level of respect given to consistency and syllogism. At Dreamschool, if you could make anything make sense, you were right.
I was never tested to enroll. They never fed me the pictures and words and asked me for whatever story I could cobble together from them. I was born into it, bred for it. My father ran the place. I was the medium.