July 14th, 2009

atc

i went home with a waitress the way i always do

My poor meat is so dischuffed with me. I just managed to pry myself out of bed and I'm still exhausted and in the throes of the allergy attack that woke me up at three AM and would not let me go back to sleep until I fed myself benadryl and washed out my eyes. Really, my major life goal currently would be to lie down for a nap, but there is this deadline, see, and the deadline must be obeyed. Prodigious work lies before me today--revising at least fifty pages and/or three chapters of Chill, since today is a day without other scheduled duties. And I so badly want to crash. Alas, the meat must wait a few days still to collapse.

We went climbing at Pinnacle last night, and I managed both routes we set. One was easy--First Crack, which was the first route I ever sent outdoors, last year, and which I managed this time as a clean ascent--and the other was a more challenging, very edgy route on the slab, which may not even have a name. Basically it consisted of a fifteen-foot 5.7 slab ascent, a fifteen-foot 5.5 or so crack system, and another fifteen-foot slab at the top that was very sparse and crimpy and required a couple of fairly technical smears and matches. I got through it without any falls, and with only one bad moment--my shoe popped off the slab on a smear, but I held on and got myself back on without losing my hands.

I also got through both climbs without panic attacks, which was nice and may be a sign of progress. I do better at this whole outdoor climbing thing when I'm not throwing myself fruitlessly at routes that are way too hard for me. I wonder if my climbing buddies can be convinced of that? Because they tend towards the stupidly macho end of the scale when it comes to repeated failures being good for you....

I was going to take the dog for a run this morning, but it's just not going to happen. The flesh is weak. Poor young dog, saddled with a frail and aging monkey.
daffodils

i say you're either a lover or you are a liar

When done right, comics are a cognitive whetstone, providing two or three or more different but entangled streams of information in a single panel. Processing what you’re being shown, along with what’s being said, along with what you’re being told, in conjunction with the shifting multiple velocities of imaginary time, and the action of the space between panels that Scott McCloud defines as closure...

--Warren Ellis

Word.

I have actually tried to do this in prose: Blood & Iron is the result, and as many can testify, using only one input stream for all those entangled information threads results in almost headsplitting density and limited success. (In your average comic panel, the streams may be visual/art/action/scene setting, narration, internalization, dialogue/thought, and white space. Yeah, think about that for a moment, and consider that maybe I missed one. Or two. And that they can contradict or ironicize each other.)

Comics are cool. They are an interstitial art form all in their lonesome.
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