I Have a Dog Named Gus

Uh-Oh, NaNoWriMo Numbers Near Pinnacle, Says Google

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Sat, 01 Nov 2014 17:00:00 +0000

Mountain View, CA (AP) -- Google reported a surge of usage on its "Google Documents" platform today. The Mountain View company said that there was a record number of people creating Google Document files named "NaNoWriMo 2014", a reference to the National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, movement, which encourages people to write an entire novel within a month.

NaNoWriMo started in 1999 and had over 310,000 participants in 2013. It has seen a steady increase in participation every year. The Google Documents data is an encouraging sign that this trend is continuing.

"My novel is a sci-fi paranormal teenage romance. It's like a mash-up of The Fault in Our Stars and, like, Welcome to Nightvale," said NaNoWriMo participant Olivia "Octothorp" Thorntonson. "I'm really excited. It's gonna be really good."

"We're happy at Google to give people the tools to write their novels. We're especially eager to read the novels people write," Google said in a statement. "Especially the smutty ones."

NaNoWriMo is not without its critics. One YouTube commenter going under the username "RednexPryde" went on record saying that "Reading is dumb." Others disagreed. "Shut the fuck up, RednexPryde. You're out of your element," responded "LittleLebowski".

Though starting a novel might be easy, finishing one is hard. Google indicated that in past years, while on November 1st there were usually a glut of files created in preparation for NaNoWriMo, the number of people accessing those files dropped precipitously after that.

"For every 10 NaNoWriMo files created in 2013, each week saw the dropping off of half of the remaining participants. A week is, in effect, a half-life of a NaNoWriMo file." While the half-life might be discouraging, the actual word counts are even more so. Even though some people work throughout the month, most fall far short of the goal. "The goal is 50,000 words. The average file contains about 2000 bytes of data, or about 500 words." In other words, once people fall behind of the approximately 1700 words a day goal, it is difficult to catch up.

Thorntonson is not dissuaded. "I'm going to finish this year. I've started a few. I'll admit, but I think I got it in me to finish this time. This is my year."

The Post-Scarcity Entertainment Complex

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Sat, 20 Sep 2014 01:53:00 +0000

A few random notes:

I went to Burning Man. I took a few pictures. They are on my flickr page.
I redesigned my web site.
I'm still writing something long. Not sure where it's going right now.
I wrote something political and submitted it somewhere. They haven't responded. I'm taking this as a note to move on. But it's kind of disheartening to not even get a response. Welcome to the post-scarcity entertainment complex.
Occasionally I post something to www.reddit.com/r/writingprompts.

%%%

As of the time of this writing, I have approximately 30,000 views on this site. And, like the old webmaster/webmistress joke, the vast majority of them are me reloading the page. And robots. And spammers from Russia.

Regardless. This seems like a lot; but then again, maybe I'm mistaking the scale of the thing. Maybe it'll matter when I add a few significant digits.

ObCelebritySuicide Post: Robin Williams

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 16:26:00 +0000

I'm trying to think of why this line of reasoning bugs me when I say I have been kind of upset about the Robin Williams suicide:

"Why do you care?"

The short answer is, "Because I do." But the long answer is much longer and ultimately less quippish and not as funny. Which seems antithetical to the subject at hand.

Anyway, I keep thinking about it. Because there are several "celebrity" deaths that have affected me in a weird personal way, and Robin Williams was just the most recent. It's no coincidence that a few of them have been suicides.

I don't think it should be a really big leap to say that I'm depressed. Occasionally very much so. I've tried and done terribly at stand-up comedy (I would barely call myself an open-micer, mostly because Rockford doesn't have anything like that I know of). Yet I don't know if my issue with the "Why do you care" statement is related to those vaguest of similarities.

The issue is with empathy. And the lack thereof.

Unfortunately in my mind Williams' death is related to the events in Ferguson, Missouri. It's related to the many thousands of deaths in Gaza. It's related to all these things, but because I felt like I knew the man through his work, it puts a face on the plethora tragedies that have become everyday blips on a twitter feed.

Getting a little rambly here.

I care because he was human. Because he felt and existed. This doesn't discount the many names of people that died all over the world. But those people were not in my childhood, or in my children's childhood. But they all are terrible losses.

That he had it all and still that wasn't enough will give those with an agenda--or even some minutia of sympathy for depression--a chance to get their karma points. Sure. And there will be some genuinely moved by his death. It hurts that I have to figure out that some people are exploitive, but at least that's seemingly logical. It seems cold and callous and possibly actively evil, but logical in the way that killing a deformed person is. At least it's consistent. At least it's action.

But why? Why do we care? Because there is less love in the world. Because those that do not care seem...different.

If you don't care, if you truly don't care, then maybe you're the one that should be asking, "Why don't I care?" Because feeling and empathy are goods, and not in the consumerist kind of sense. Because if you're not caring about people that we exist, then what the fuck else are you caring about? What happens if someone comes to you, hurting and alone and sad and, perhaps, wearing the belt they plan to kill themselves with. What happens then? I don't know them, not really? They are not me? They are not like me?

May as well kill deformed people, then. I mean, why do you care? Really? Because that's stupid.

I have no idea what I'm saying now. That not caring is like killing the deformed? No, I mean, I guess that is what I'm saying. But that hyperbole is the point. What I'm really saying is that we should care; because caring is? I have no idea.

Because I hope, sometime, if I need, someone will care about me. But it probably doesn't matter. If enough people had cared for him, would Williams still be here? Possibly not; after all he did have plenty who did. And yet. And yet...

So does it matter if people care? I guess not. I really guess not. But I still do. And it still sucks.

Flash Fiction: The Marks on My Paws

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 12 Jun 2014 17:39:00 +0000

"Nancy?"

She ignored me. She always ignored me. Probably for the best.

"Nancy?"

I looked from my place under her bed into her room; I saw the metal tree that the bags of medicine hung from. I could hear a beep of some machine. I could hear breathing and the rattling of the liquid in her lungs.

"Nancy? I know we don't get along, really, but I know you're there."

Between breaths, each word coming like a ghost and barely existing, she said, "What. Do. You. Want?"

I don't know why we did it. By “we” I mean us monsters. I know about that movie that the kids like Nancy sometimes watch, where they need electricity and scare kids to get it. But that’s a lie. We don't have any reason behind our cruelty; it is simply part of us. I look at my paws. They are white and orange. On the top, in the short fur that covers the back of my paws, there is a spot of black. On the right, the black spot is the shape of a heart; this is the symbol of my mother. On my other paw, the shape is a hammer; this is my father. There are hammers and axes and hearts and smiling faces and so forth. Occasionally, a mutant monster is all black; black everywhere except on its paws are white sickles. Those are the monsters that take the children when they die. Nancy will meet one soon.

My mother had a double hearts and so she was a kind monster. She raised us, tended to the sick and injured, taught us. My father had double hammers; his tormenting was a professional method; no so much art but a fine craftsman, where things were precisely done and scripts created and plans followed. Mixed between them, I am not only beating and terrorizing, but I feel it when they hurt. I've become quite good at my job. I am considered an artist at this craft of torment.

Sometimes it gets to me.

"I'm sorry," I said to her. "I'm sorry about all the times I scared you. When I whispered to you that you were going to die. I didn't mean it. I didn't really know."

I was there when she jumped into her bed and cried after the doctors told her. I was there as her mom with her white Keds shoes sat on the bed and put her impotent hand on her daughter and tried to make it all make sense. I heard her the word cancer and my heart hurt. I had threatened her with it; I had told the girl that she would rot from the insides and that she would be left in this bed, unable to get away from me. That she would spend her last days with me and her mother wouldn't be able to help her. That she would die just like her father did.

It was true. It was all coming true.

"I'm sorry. It's just what we do. Like when a lion eats an antelope. It’s instinct"

I don't know what I wanted, maybe a pained "It's OK." But she just kept breathing. There was no forgiveness from her.

"I can't help it. I am sorry. So sorry." I scratched the bottom of the mattress with one of my claws. The bed was a new one that adjusted; I appreciated the extra room as it lifted up. They had replaced her old, flat, plain one a month ago.

She didn’t say anything.

I thought about my own boy; he was at school now, learning fundamentals. My boy was born with two hammers: one from me and one from his mother; he wouldn't have to deal with this kind of feeling for the children he would scare.

"I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do."

Then she said something softly. So soft I couldn't hear.

"Excuse me?"

"Just. Go. Away."

I put my head in my paws and I let Nancy be.

When I came back the next day the bed was laid flat. There was no medicine tree. There were no beeps. Only a single pair of white Keds shoes and a woman sitting on the edge of the bed, weeping.

Dismissing 11 Thousand Words

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 15 May 2014 17:37:00 +0000

I looked through one of the pieces of software I used to draft things. I found a "story" draft that was about 11,000 words that I wrote late last year. I use the word "story" because it's not done. It's obviously a novel-ish kind of thing, but I just wrote myself into a corner. I had no ending in mind, and so it was one of those wandering path things.

It just died, like, I wrote it and wrote it and wrote it as I am wont to do and at a given point I just...stopped. And I haven't thought about it since. It's not "done" in the way that the novel is done or a story on my site is done. But I'm done with it. It's a story stub that I will likely not continue with it.

Do I consider it lost time? That's a weird thing, because there is no denying that it's a wasted effort. But I also learned something about my writing. And awareness of the sunk cost fallacy doesn't allow me to keep working on something that will not work.

I just have to be aware of the need for me to have a clear destination.

Something Done, BTC and DOGE Tips, and Something New

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Wed, 14 May 2014 14:05:00 +0000

A month or so ago I finished final revisions on my "first" novel, "And Alleged Automatons Abound." I am very happy about this. "First" is in quotes because I've written novel-length things before; I burned them for the good of humanity. I am actually rather understating how happy I am about finishing it. I think I told a few people but that's all. Maybe a post on twitter.

It's a novel about...well, that's rough. It's a mystery novel of sorts. As a consequence of the genre, the novel was planned and fits a narrative outline. While I think it's surprising, I knew the path I needed to take to reach the conclusion.

I want to send query letters on this to some editors. We'll see.

%%%

On another point, I am also really excited to say that I got a tip via @changetip on Twitter. Someone tipped me two dollars for A Cold Front. I've accepted donations for a while on my site, but to actually have someone take me up on it really made me feel good. I can see traffic patterns through analytics, but it's cool to get feedback and know that someone is liking it. The cynical part of me makes me think they have some duplicitous reason; that is really unlikely and so it's on me and my own demons and feelings of self-loathing. I think the tipper really meant it and for that I am grateful.

For the record, I accept Bitcoin and Dogecoin.

BTC: 17szqA4sri6hgNMUNBRCMjvtiSYJ4Vmn69

Doge: D6mrA9DmiDubiTWg5TzgpJ7ykHiRwiXsBT

Also for the record, I feel dirty for posting those.

%%%

I'm about 2000 words into the new thing I started. I have the first chapter drafted and the tentative last line of the thing in mind. So I have to get from a guy lifting weights to...the last line. It is highly influenced by some pessimistic philosophy I'm reading as well as an old love, Discordianism. A major character is named Jesus. I haven't quite figured out if he's just named that or if he's a resurrected Christ figure. Both ideas are entertaining and interesting. Unlike the other novel, it's not planned as thoroughly and so I'll be wandering the path a little bit on this one. I also hope that it's funny. Like, seriously funny. So many so-called "funny" books are more like "bemused smirk" than actual funny.

So I Pushed a Little

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Tue, 25 Feb 2014 19:07:00 +0000

So I posted something yesterday (Doge is Doge). This is something I kind of believe in and (even in the light of the Mt Gox thing that happened today), I still do.

I have 49 page views on the thing. And 10 when I reposted it on Medium. These are likely mostly me refreshing the page.

I put this on Twitter and Reddit and Medium and FB and even messaged the Dogecoin FB group moderator for permission to post it on their page.

I don't know. Howling into the void. I've been writing for a while and it seems more pointless the more I'm driven to do it. Trying to make a difference. Maybe it'll come. Maybe I'm just pushing the wrong buttons.

Meanwhile we have morons like Napolitano talking about taxes being like slavery.

The Daily Show
Get More: Daily Show Full Episodes,The Daily Show on Facebook

It's tiring. Fuck it, though. Keep on keeping on.

I say that, and try to put on a brave face.

Doge is Doge: Very Currency

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Mon, 24 Feb 2014 15:54:00 +0000

Dogecoin is not Bitcoin, that is part of the draw. Bitcoin has a rather long and storied and somewhat controversial history that anyone can read about on the Bitcoin Wikipedia page. The Wikipedia entry on Dogecoin is explicit on that point. Not that Doge doesn't have it's odd controversy or even outright theft (and don't read Gizmodo's comments in any case). But, by and large, Doges are this silly thing people throw around on the sub-Reddit /r/dogecoin and IRC's #dogecoin and #WinDoge and #dogebeg as tips. And that throwing around for content is what is important about Dogecoin.

From dogecoin.com.

Such Value: Priceless

Dogecoin has comparatively little value. At the time of this writing, Bitcoin is at about $559 US dollars each and, Dogecoin is worth about 0.12 cents.

My thought is that its near "value"-lessness is what is most valuable about Dogecoin. It's like Reddit's (or Slashdot or whatever forum you attend of choice) much beloved (or berated) karma point's scheme. The Dogecoin's root is in fun, community, and generosity, not speculation. The generosity of the community is paramount and is reflected in such efforts as sending the Jamaican Bobsled team to the 2014 Olympics in Sochi. This is amazing. That's several tens of thousands of dollars (or over 26 million Ð, in the value it had at the time) to send a long-shot to the Olympics. Good on them.

I have several thousand of the coins. In fact, if you know what you're doing, you can check the Dogechain.info page and see how many coins I have as of any given point in time for any wallet published. For me, this is, in part, due to a small purchase or two I made. I wanted to be able to encourage other people to produce quality posts on the subreddit and IRC channels I frequent. I also was given many of them, mostly at random, in amounts from about 10 doges on up. It is also fun to be part of a new and thriving community where people are so optimistic. "To the moon!"

Dogecoins are created by "mining," which uses computer power to solved difficult math problems; when the problems are solved the solvers are awarded "coins". This is how all current crypto currencies (Bitcoin and Dogecoin and all the rest) work.

I would suppose that most people don't mine because:

It's difficult to set up.
It can be risky for hardware outlays.
It's less profitable at small scales.

Fortunately for the community-driven aspect that I'm most interested in here; mining doesn't matter as much. Sure, it creates the coins. I've mined, maybe, in a whole month, only about 1500 of the coins. This is because I don't have a powerful enough computing platform. In fact, I burned out a power-supply trying to install something to help me mine a little better. The vast majority of mine were bought or given/distributed as "tips" on Reddit and IRC.

Much Wow: The Psychology of Tips

I am obscenely and for no good reason proud of the good karma I have accumulated on web forums I frequent. I don't have a huge amount of karma on Reddit, but I do have a little. When I regularly visited Slashdot, I was always happy when my posts were moderated positively. These are completely fake points. They don't matter. They don't even transfer. I can't use them for anything, and yet I am happy I have them.

I would, really, like to have that kind of system across the web. I would like to be able to send a few Doge to a person who makes a particularly good blog post that I enjoy. This is a micropayment I can deal with, because the payment goes right to the author. There is no Amazon or Paypal to take a cut. Such direct financial incentive can encourage content creators to create better content and I can support an author directly. That's what keeps me from donating to podcasts or blogs: there are a thousand different ways to get them money and they are all very complicated for no damned reason. I have enough passwords to memorize.

This is where I start to get a little passionate.

It's hard to make a living as a writer. I, in fact, do not make such a living unless you include my technical writing. My writing costs me money (in web hosting and time). But some people like it. As the whole adage goes, everyone can do something. And because Dogecoin has a lower value, it can take on this role as a direct transfer of money for those things we like; it is the cash for the web. Bitcoin might have been OK for such a purpose, but its value has exploded (and crashed, to be honest) and so has become a home for more speculative investors. (And, yes, I know the coins can be divided to more than a few decimal places.)

Not only does it feel good to receive, it feels better to give. I feel good when I can send 10, 15Ð to someone because they made a great/insightful/funny/informative comment. Sure, that might only be worth a couple pennies; but that can add up if many people feel the same. I feel like I'm supporting them to continue providing such content.

It's a small thing, but if I start to see blogs I really like to read (like en|gender, XCKD, Borderland Beat) or podcasts I listen to (Dan Carlin, I'm talking to you) start to take Doge specifically or other crypto in general, I would readily contribute. (Also for podcasts, I would also love to not hear ads. I listen to enough podcasts that even if I wanted to sign up for Audible or Stamps.com I would have no idea which code to use when I do so. But I digress.)

It might not be much, but if you have 1000 people giving you 100Ð for a bit of good content, that's 10,0000Ð, or 11 dollars. I pay a little less than that for monthly hosting. People do things for much less.

I do believe this is a good use for the cryptocurrency. There are plenty of other uses, such as transmitting value across borders or investments or any other thing; for these purposes, Bitcoin functions reasonably well. But given the extreme number of Dogecoins that will be in circulation (100 billion by the end of 2014, 5 each year thereafter), and the fun-ness of the whole doge idea, the niche for Doge is quite clear. Doge represents an awesome opportunity for everyone producing or consuming content on the web.

Very Call to Action

So, I guess what I'm saying here to all the content creators:

Get a Dogecoin wallet (like maybe this one).
Put up a donate address.
Let your readers know what you're doing; point them to dogecoin.com.
Circulate Doge freely. This is most important.
Cash out if you must.

It will cost you nothing but a little time. And you never know, you might become a Dogeillionaire. Or something. Whatever the shibes say.

Disclaimer

I feel like must disclose up front I accept Dogecoin, Bitcoin, MemoryCoin 2.0, and fiat currency donations on my donate page.

New Essay: Grief of an Atheist: Death and Statistics

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Wed, 22 Jan 2014 14:00:00 +0000

So after much dilly-dallying and delaying and other such things, I've completed and decided to post and revised and decided not to post and then decided to post again this essay about my friend Dusty that died.

Grief of an Atheist: Death and Statistics is on my personal site for now.

Raspberry Pi Power Problems

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Mon, 02 Dec 2013 19:00:00 +0000

Let it be known from this point that I have no idea what I'm doing. However, I'm letting some inspiration set in. Also, this is not lined up as a how-to, but rather as a more of a diary of these kind of issues, so that I might, in the future, be able to capitalize on them. Or, more likely, not.

Initial Stuff

A Pi is approximately the size of this
Prodigy "Fat of the Land" tape.

The Main Idea

I've been pondering some ideas for a while. Actually, that I've had one Main Idea for a long long time. And, until recently, I had no real idea how to pursue the Main Idea in a manner that wouldn't require me learning in depth some major technologies (like writing an OS). Recent (and not so recent) tech advances have changed and now I think I can do what I want to do (a nifty project involving accelerometers and/or vibration sensors) easily enough that I might actually be able to succeed.

I bought a Raspberry Pi a couple weeks ago. I was frankly amazed at the size of the thing and it took me back in memory to my first computer, which, honestly, was a Commie 64. I grew up in that inbetweener age between the Millennials and the Gen-Xers. I graduated college just after the first Internet Bubble burst, but some of my friends were luckier than I. Some weren't. Doesn't matter. But I've always been into computers, I guess, but a long time ago I kind of decided I didn't want them to be life in and of themselves, but rather a tool for that life. And but so I usually don't indulge in the new technology (usually) simply because, but unless it can do something, I don't use it. This is not a hard and fast rule. But the Main Idea here was the impulse behind the purchase.

The Power

I and took the opportunity of the long weekend to mess around with it a little. I was able to hook up a USB mouse and keyboard and plug the thing into my TV with an HDMI cable. The entire system runs off an SD card, which is neat. I was able to use the NOOBS program to install Raspbian, a Debian-based system for the Pi on said SD card. Everything worked smoothly.

The Pi has 2 and only 2 USB ports. So I turned it off and plugged in my WiPi WiFi adapter for setup. I plugged in my keyboard and mouse into a simple 4 port USB hub and attached that. Upon boot, none of the peripherals worked. I must have re-installed via NOOBS a dozen times because I couldn't figure it out and it kept crashing on boot for various reasons. I tried just using the WiPi and a keyboard using GUI keyboard shortcuts, but that wouldn't work, either. Then I tried to just plug into a wired network port with no wifi. But then the network wouldn't work, even though the keyboard and mouse worked. Actually that's not entirely true, the wired connection worked for a few minutes and then dropped off. I could load the google home page, but running apt-get update failed.

I even have a Bluetooth Logitech Dinovo mini keyboard. Couldn't get that to work, either.

This was the source of a bit of frustration. At this point I finally realized I didn't have enough power.

A Solution

I was running it off a repurposed 5v power adapter that came with a cell phone. Which, theoretically, should have been fine. But obviously not. It had to drive the WiFi adapter, the HDMI signal, and whatever USB stuff I had. So I decided to abandon actually using the screen at all. Which freed myself to just plug in the power and network cable and SSH into the little box. Which worked. For my Main Idea this was fine, but for something that I might have repurposed to an XBMC I would maybe ensure I had a more robust power supply. Even though the supply was rated for 5v I know that, as a charger, it might not have actually been putting that out reliably.

Unfortunately, the computer I SSH'd to had to crash (unrelated user error) while I was running the sudo apt-get update/sudo apt-get upgrade. I think I hosed the Raspian install and so will have to re-install via NOOBs. Again. Which is painless but still vaguely annoying. But at least I know what to do tonight.

Rejection & Age

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Tue, 06 Aug 2013 13:00:00 +0000

The damned CPAP machine that I've been prescribed woke me up with annoyance just after midnight. I take a look at my phone to note the time and see I have several notifications. I see that there are several I can ignore and one from the poetry magazine I had submitted to a month or so ago.

I could ignore this; it's not necessary to mess with this at midnight. But you know what I did. I read the damned thing. They rejected my poem, which I knew is what would happen.

I eventually fall back asleep. I dreamed; I only remember in that dream that I was crying because I was just being used by my family to fetch people from the airport during a get together. I cried on the bed because I knew there was no-one else that would do it.

When I woke up in the morning, my wife woke up, too. She asked me a couple questions. I was short with her. I am sorry.

%%%

Of course, given that I have this odd compulsion to write, I do not think I am in danger of stopping. Though stopping might be a good thing. Does the world really need another voice? I don't know. I can't seem to help myself. I took a vacation and still ended up with a 1000 words on the vacation plus another couple stubs that will grow into other stories.

I've had a spate of rejections lately specifically centered about my writing. I would be lying if I didn't think this took a toll on me. I'm thirty something. I know this is young as far as writing goes, but I'm still working on my first novel that I don't loathe utterly.

I also am still conflicted between the self-publishing route and the traditional methods of publishing. I'm not sure if the rejections mean that it's shit and the stories or poems need more work or if they just didn't like it or maybe I should go at it alone. My peer-reader base is small and growing smaller because I hate asking for people's time. I am glad for those that respond, but I don't know. It's not an art project that people look at and usually engage in instantly (not that visual or performing arts are easier, obviously), but reading a story takes time.

Fuck it. I have no idea.

Of Mice and Mustard

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Mon, 05 Aug 2013 18:30:00 +0000

There are places in this world where entropy works faster; Florida is one such place. The desolate green and oppressive swampland is a testament to fecundity and rot. (Thanks Rob for the phrase.) Maybe it has something to do with primal (or simply white, first-world) fears of the jungle, where the danger might come from a maw of a terrible lizard or a small parasite swimming up a urethra. Florida, though, is not a foreign country; it is not an island of other like Hawaii or even that other political island, Alaska. It is attached; things happen there that are important; teenage children are shot by men; votes are miscounted; spaceships are launched; grandparents retire; and so on.

There is something heavy about the miles upon miles of untouched green nothingness encountered mostly by driving. Especially when compared to the mid-west, where we have forest preserves to keep trees from being eaten alive by manicured farmland. That land seems useful. Florida, by and large, just seems hot, humid, overgrown, and those outposts of humanity are all the more desperate and more visible when they fail.

Around Orlando there are miles upon miles of shops, theme parks, hotels, resorts, golf courses of both miniature and normal varieties. It seems painfully obvious that the majority of such businesses would not exist if not for the presence of Disney World. Indeed, there are signs along the major thoroughfare that indicate distance from that place. It's tempting to dismiss Disney World for its commercialism and wide influence, but it would not be wise. I think, instead, I shouldn't really discuss that place until I encounter it. The contact at this point in my experience has been at the (even more) commercial branch of the Disney park, Downtown Disney; where shops dedicated to the brand proliferate.

However, I do think there is something to be learned here; there is a parallel between Disney and another (somewhat) nearby icon, NASA. And that parallel is rooted in the past. Both of them seem firmly set in their own histories; Mickey Mouse has been a driving force behind copyright extensions for a long time, and copyright control has its root in continued profit and exploitation of something created in the past; the only reason to create new things for a corporation is to enjoy new copyright protections and expand its intellectual property portfolio. Innovation is important as part of that profit-making venture, to allow new products. Which is fine. I guess. It seems odd that writers seem compelled to state their capitalist bona fides, but here we are. But Disney is at least partially about new things.

NASA being rooted in the past is slightly more troubling; they have no reason to be compelled to stay in the past; their mission is not the pursuit of profit, but unfortunately their mission is not clearly defined. And when organizations have no future to look to, they understandably look toward the past. Even if the shuttle fleet was a waste of money that might have been better spent colonizing or exploring, at least it provided a clear vision for immediate actions. Now, at least as far as the tours that I participated in are any indication, there is a focus on the allowing of commercialization of space. When I visited them in the late 80's there was excitement about the future; the space station was coming together and the Hubble had yet to be launched. There was a vision of the future.

NASA's leadership is no longer a forward-looking one, it's a leadership of consumerism. The current leadership that of NASA is leading with decisions like choosing what kind of yellow mustard to put on your sandwich. Sure. It matters a little. Maybe? At least at a certain level of mustard-craft would be required; this is not Dijon fanciness, but plain yellowness. You choose the barrel shaped bottle or the other one. I pick the barrel one because my mother always did, my wife chooses the other. Either of these is fine; they both get the job done, but is that choice really meaningful? Not particularly. It doesn't mean anything. This is how I see NASA's current state, which is painful and sad.

&&&

Disney is overwhelming; I imagine that is part of the idea. There is no possible way to encounter everything in the span of one day. Despite the obvious existence of Disney to make money for it's stockholders, the plethora of imagination is still amazing and, oddly enough, inspiring. The same could be the same for the Islands of Adventure at Universal Studios. Despite my strong bias against such commercial ventures, there was so many creative touches that there really is no other word other than the old-fashioned "awe". There are fucking castles in these places. Castles! I'm from Rockford, IL. Do you get it?

I know the tricks, the scale and forced perspective and so on. There are fake shops and storefronts that are all occupied by displays. This is nothing unusual, surely. This is nothing to be surprised about. But imagine, for a moment, the sense of scale that entails. There are dozens of creatives behind every display, from the seamstress that creates the dresses on the models to the sculptors that create the ornamental grave sites and the painters that coat it all in bright (or not so bright) colors. And none of that counts the plumbers and mechanics and HR assistants and IT people that work behind the scenes. Which is kind of incredible. And to think, the Harry Potter section of the Islands of Adventure was, at root, due to a single woman. Surely, another person would have taken her place, but the richness was inspiring. At least I thought so. And around the corner, Jurassic Park.

Of course, outside those parks, there is nothing but rotting. Given the contrast, it's obvious that a lot of the work that is put into the parks is keeping the rust from coming through, the water from rotting these parks from the inside-out and keeping the flora and fauna of this swamp from overwhelming their places built on imagination.

Despite myself, I found myself happy to be there, to be inspired by their presence against really what nature seemed to desire. Hubris, maybe, but also a testament to the human ability to bring something from the imagination, our wishes, to reality. And for that, when I am reminded of the terrible things humans do daily, I am grateful to have an oasis of imagination in the swamp.

Now I just wish we had more to look forward to than more ways to be entertained.

Vacation plans

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 12:31:00 +0000

In the next month or so I will be leaving on vacation. I want to write a little on it but am unsure the best medium for that. I want to avoid Facebook for many reasons. Twitter is too ephemeral. So it sends like here and Flickr are the likely places anything would appear, with notices appearing at the aforementioned media networks. And google plus, for all that does.

That seems so obvious when I write it out like that.

Occupy Essay, Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 19:03:00 +0000

So I decided to revise an essay for my home page. I wrote it a couple years ago and it's about an Occupy Protest. So, here we are: Occupy Whatever: Rockford Federal Courthouse Edition.

I have a couple more essays that I'm considering posting, so we'll work on the navigation. I'm realizing it's not quite working as I add more content. I'll figure something out.

Poem: The Raft

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Sat, 06 Apr 2013 00:38:00 +0000

So I wrote a short poem. It's on my site: The Raft.

Poem: Laundry

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 01:00:00 +0000

The clothes

you washed for me

smell like beauty

wrapped

in red cotton,

folded by an angel.

Come to me,

hold me tight,

and let me breathe

you in

while the wind

and sun

dry our clothes.

NaNoWriMo 2012 Recap

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Tue, 11 Dec 2012 03:11:00 +0000

It should be no surprise to you, dear reader, that I engaged in some writing over the month of November for NaNoWriMo.

I started the month with 19,000 words or so on a novel, of which I posted a chapter here, and ended the month with a little over 52,000 words. Technically this means I did not "win" the NaNoWriMo. But, like last year, I completed the story.

So that's worth being happy about, I think.

Don't worry; I will not be submitting this thing anywhere soon. I haven't even really been able to look at the damned thing since I wrote the last words. It needs a heavy hand of revision, which I like doing. But it is still a giant pain in the ass. I'm not going to spoil anything, either, but I must admit that I had a little problem at the end. Just kind of got tired.

Short Story: A Cold Front

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Mon, 22 Oct 2012 23:16:00 +0000

So I posted a story on called A Cold Front on www.danielrobertmaurer.com. It's a pretty straight-ahead story about a small child.

Updated danielrobertmaurer.com

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 18:00:00 +0000

So I've updated www.danielrobertmaurer.com to hopefully use some "responsive" CSS. This breaks in IE8, but I really have a hard time caring. If you're using anything more recent, the site should be OK.

There are a few new things on there which I'll introduce separately in a few posts over the next day or two. So, if you want to read a couple new to you stories, which I might still edit before sending out the "official" posts, then you're in luck. Consider these fine tales the payment for letting me know if there are troubles in your respective browsers.

Good luck. We're all counting on you.

On Irony

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 23:44:00 +0000

"It's not that we all collectively agree that asking someone what they really mean is banal; it's that we now assume that the real meaning of every statement is hidden by default. We assume that all statements must be mild inversions of the truth, because it's too weird to imagine people who aren't casually lying, pretty much all the time."--Chuck Klosterman, "T is for True"

I have a hard time believing people, especially those people who want me to feel good. Even that sentence is kind of difficult for me to write. I want to say that they "presume to want", or "act like they want", or "pretend to want". It is unbelievably difficult for me to take positivity seriously. It is so much so that I actively do not believe people who say such things. I question their motives. I doubt their sincerity. I wonder if they are signaling the proper behavior. I wonder if they want something from me. I feel like they are lying. This is in effect when I am in person with someone, or having a private communication with them. I have those feelings with almost everyone almost all the time. And sometimes, you can exclude both "almost"s from the previous sentence. This is even worse if I do not know the person.

I don't blame Lady Gaga for this, but I do want to use her as an example. I don't know her. She seems like a nice enough person; she is talented in her chosen art and so on and so on. But I can't help but feel like she's selling something. Her song "Born This Way" seems custom made for the audience that ate it up. We know that she could be utterly sincere and capable of making a hit single based on that sincerity. There is, in fact, no reason to doubt her. Sure, she cashed in. That doesn't mean she lied. Both selling and sincerity are possible.

Let us, for a moment, assume that she is being sincere. Utterly and truly and wholly and full-throated and whatever else you might want to describe. I can be sure that Katy Perry, who kissed a girl and liked it, is probably not. I even like her sickly-sweet pop music, but there is a certain amount of dis-inginuity there, which I cannot source to a rational reason because she wrote at least some of the lyrics to the song (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Kissed_a_Girl). It's simply a feeling. Which is stupid. Her song could be about exactly what it seems like it's about. These are both dance songs. How much should you read into either of these two people? And why do we even draw such lines as "dance songs" that shouldn't be read into? Gaga seems deeper while Perry is just kind of mindless fun; like a Ke$ha without as much glitter or herpes. (Why did I even write that? That was kind of mean. I don't really mean it, even. I cannot escape.) Perry reminds us of the drunk girls we might see in a bar making out for attention. It's about a "look at what I did," there. Gaga is about the listener and self-acceptance. Though, to be fair, the United States places very high internationally in self-esteem, but very little else.

In the essay I quoted way up there in the epigraph, Klosterman also quotes David Foster Wallace's essay on irony, which I haven't read in about a decade, "And make no mistake: irony tyrannizes us," he quotes from DFW. There is a little more, but that's pretty much the gist of what I want to talk about.

%%%

I acknowledge a certain level of fuzziness in communication. It is inevitable. I will not ever be able to describe precisely how I feel about a given subject to anyone ever, even myself. The words are an abstraction layer. They are like CDs (or Vinyl, I really don't care) compared to the actual sound of an instrument. There are countless variables. The words we choose or the emotions we feel as we retell the story or the hearing of the listener or their vocabulary and their own denotations and connotations of any given word create enough distortion that it's amazing that we can talk to each other at all.

And then we throw another layer onto the mix with irony.

Many people share the same experience: someone compliments us and we do not believe them. We see those that compliment us as either lying or delusional, but never telling the truth as-they-see-it. There is an example here that one can draw with anorexics. They are ill; their self image is not accurate. From what I know, it seems like they cannot believe other people whey they show concern. I am far from an anorexic, but I kind of understand that specific feeling. If you feel that my drawing parallels here between a tyranny of irony an anorexia is in poor taste or morally offensive or wrong, I suggest you change the analogy to fit however you want. You can substitute depression, schizophrenia, body dysmorphia, or any of a dozen different disorders. If you're still bothered by this, you can sit quietly at the back of the class and enjoy your righteous indignation. It's called a metaphor. At a certain level, like language, it will break.

%%%

A good friend lent me a couple books by the poet Buddy Wakefield. Mr Wakefield is best read aloud. It helps with connecting it with feeling sincere. It's like a fight against irony, there. Sure, there are jokes and a few things, but it's just not looking to be too clever by half and it's certainly not looking to sell you anything further. Reading him was utterly refreshing.

%%%

I do not know the purpose of what I've scribbled here. I kind of think I've gone on too long, really. There is no conclusion coming. I suppose that this might just be me thinking about how to go about being sincere again in my own writing and falling in love again with the written word.
It's easy to show off and pretend you really don't mean what you say. There is little there that is satisfactory other than a kind of virtuoso ability with language. It may be that I am not skilled enough for such finesse, or I've grown out of such desires. What it is most likely is that analyzing the fuck out of what everyone says for a dozen different meanings is exhausting. I want to say what I mean and I want to hear what people have to say.

But mostly I want to believe them when they tell me I am good.

Testing an App

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Sat, 18 Aug 2012 17:42:00 +0000

Just testing. Here are some cookies I baked.

Raising Suspicion for Nothing

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 09 Aug 2012 12:59:00 +0000

The Ungoogleable Man First appeared in The New Yorker

So Forbes has this article called Beware, Tech Abandoners. People Without Facebook Accounts Are 'Suspicious.' That isn't the only article about it; Slashdot ran a post along those lines (also linked in the Forbes piece). Which is interesting because, well, I quit Facebook about Thanksgiving time last year. Well, quit is strong. I de-activated. Then I re-activated for about 2 weeks, then deactivated again. That's also about the time I largely stopped posting to my own tumblr and backed off on Twitter.

I abandoned such digital homes partially due to a major depressive episode, but I can't say that I'm willing to go back even as I feel like that episode's kind of lifting. My concerns about having a Facebook profile include privacy and so on, but there were also a few other reasons, such as:

Obnoxious people.
Overwhelming noise.
Obliterating time on uselessness.
Over-sharing of shitty things.
Obsessive status-seeking behavior.

I probably could have just stopped at "Obnoxious People," because they are the source of other issues. Perhaps a good culling of the friends list might have been in order. But I've found that those who stay in contact with me, despite my absence on Facebook, are more meaningful to me than the about 100 people I had as "friends" on there. This is slightly passive-aggressive, I acknowledge. But I don't need that many cat photos. Or Kony 2012. Or whatever else.

If you have 100 people, and they each post a status update every other day, that's still 50 pieces of information each day that needs to be gone through. They all have comment sections, and "like" buttons. Does this particular status need a comment? A like? Do I want to acknowledge this but not really say anything about this? Did they or someone else comment and say something wrong? Do I correct them or let it go? I know I'm not socially talented, but the possibility of all that is overwhelming. And, usually, it sucks.

They are my friends. And I do care for each of them; I even love some of them. But the vast majority of everything everyone says is crap. This includes myself. (And, if you think this is bad, then you should see the stuff I don't put on the web.) And the vast majority of people don't know when it might be best to to not hit "Enter" when they are done typing their inane comment. Is that harsh? It's what I do; the golden rule applies.

Back to the crux of the articles. I don't know if I am suspicious. I do not have the perspective to answer that correctly. I do realize I've "checked out" of being social in in a Facebook kind of way; but do I want to merely engage with 100 individuals (and their friends) on a surface level? Or do I want to engage on a deeper level with fewer people?

It's not like I've changed email addresses, phone numbers, or moved. People know where I am. And I know where they are. But if I reach out and they don't respond? Sorry. Not my problem.

And why isn't it suspicious that I'd waste my precious time on silly pictures of cats?

To be fair, the author of the above piece edited it to include a handful of (non-psychopathic) reasons why someone would want to avoid Facebook. Privacy being a giant one. Further, another Forbes writer posted Downgrading Facebook. Tech Abandoner? Or Rational Lifestyle Choice? So, I guess there is a discussion out there about what not having a Facebook says. And it's not always one-sided.

Something Like This #FridayFlash

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 12:00:00 +0000

We sat across from each other in his office. He worked in a rented office building in an industrial park. He usually worked after business hours. It smelled like old coffee and ass-sweat on desk chairs. Computers all over the building had been left on. I was sure I could hear some cooling fans, pulling waste heat from idle processors.

The painter was known for realism. That he was known was unusual; he wasn't that old (Wikipedia said thirty-five), and was alive. That joke about artists waiting to die to become famous was obvious. I suppose, as a reporter, I was prepared to write the obvious, if that's what was here. We all have our limitations.

He introduced himself first, though I knew who he was, I shook his hand; the shake was firm, dry, and confident. I pulled out a notebook, recorder (he looked at it and then ignored it). I placed the recorder on a table between us. I drank water from a bottle I bought from a machine downstairs. He drank something from a coffee cup. When I finally caught a glimpse of the liquid, it was too transparent to be coffee or tea. It was possibly water or a clear liquor. I don't know. Didn't ask.

I thanked him for his time before we even got started. He waved it off. "You say what you think you have to. I'll do the same."

"You haven't given many interviews."

"Haven't seen a purpose."

"Why this time?"

"Time's running out. I figure I might as set the record right."

"Time?"

"Death comes for us all, and for some sooner than others."

"Are you sick?"

He drank, "No. Not as such, no." He watched my reaction. "A little disappointed? Think you had something there? A dying artist is what you wanted?"

"Yeah, kind of."

"Well, I'll not disappoint you, I suppose. Though we're all dying" He stopped, drank, set the cup down. "What kind of stories do you usually like to write?"

"I write whatever I'm assigned," I tell him. Interviews are sometimes not so much queries as conversations. Sometimes. I am not a good interviewer, though.

"That's not what I asked," he said. He wasn't much different then me. We're both white. Mid thirties. Male. Wives. Children. The demographic information is similar. He went to...some state school. I went to another.

"I like to write political stories," I answered. Majored in English. The minor was Political Science (not that scientific).

"So this is a long way from your area, no? The painting."

"Not anymore."

"Explain."

"I've been doing journalism for about 15 years. I'm pretty versatile as far as topics. Could be crime, arts, or politics. I can do them all."

He shrugged. Then he looked at me for a few minutes. "I think I can do this with you, then."

"Thanks." Pause. Don't say, I think, I thought. Instead, I said, "Can you tell me about your style?"

"The 'realism'?" Though he didn't do air-quotes with his fingers or say "quote unquote", I felt I could hear the quotes in his tone.

"Yeah."

"Just a word. I have to say that, don't I? Anyhow. I work mechanically, in the tradition of Polaroid. I start in a corner and move across the canvas."

"And?"

He looked at his hands, "There is some numbness, a far-off tingling where emotion may have been. Carpel tunnel. Not important. I can see the actions and I can paint the pictures. It's all the same to me, really. A long embrace of someone just came home in their front yard, their dog barking in the background, excited far beyond what we'll ever know. Same as a landscape or a portrait or a battlefield. But it's just paint to me. A shade there, a dab there."

"What about emotion?"

"What about it?"

"That seems rather dry. The painting that is."

"Did you expect something inspirational?"

I really didn't know what to expect. This was an assignment, not a passion for me. There was something that was news that I remembered from my Wikipedia visit while at a drive-thru on the way here. A rather small controversy involving a mural. "You were commissioned to paint a mural in the lobby of the..."

"Yeah, I'm familiar with it."

"It was supposed to be in the fourth of July theme. Patriotic. There were no fireworks; actually the whole painting was rather drab and lifeless."

"Welcome to life," he said, then sighed. "What is it that makes us look up at planets and galaxies and stars, balls of plasma bigger than imagination and say 'You know what that needs? More fire!'? And we shoot tiny rockets into the void as if to say, 'Look at me mattering, too.' We raise a flicker, a report, a burned cinder, only way the firework can compete is due to proximity. The world is just a world, and the painting is just a representation of that world. Emotion doesn't matter to the paint."

There were stacks of silent paintings in the corner. Unsold, I imagine. I didn't know. Could have been a show.

"What was the repercussions of that painting?"

"Very little. I mean, the guy who wanted it was unhappy because there wasn't fire in the sky," he said and shrugged. "The painting itself is flawless, though. Had to be. Had to be. Or it would have pushed back a lot of what I do. The portraits and realistic work. It was business, to make that painting perfect, just business. I didn't care. Still don't."

"Was it always like that?"

"No," he said. "No. There was one painting, at the beginning. That was different. I burned it." Then he stood up, put his foot up on the table between us. I think it was his left foot.

"Do you want to see something?"

"Okay."

He lifted his pants-leg, exposed a series of wounds that seeped and oozed and looked vaguely infected. "I cut myself and it never heals. It reminds me that I am mortal. This pain is temporary." He then sat down. "Humanity is not a person. People forget. They are too reductionist. Humanity is a chain of hopefuls in search of whatever may come. We are each a link." Pause. "No no. We are not links, because broken links mean the chain is broken. Humanity is a mesh of chain. The mesh lives on even if there are holes everywhere."

He sat in silence for a second. He leaned over and rummaged through a duffel bag next to his seat. He pulled a gun out. He shot himself in the mouth.

Meta: 2 Stories & 1 Essay

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Tue, 05 Jun 2012 04:01:00 +0000

So I have 2 stories. Pretty sure they're done. They're not short shorts, so I don't think I'll put them here. I kind of think I should send them out. But I've got to figure out where to send a Lovecraft-ish monster story and a straight-up sci-fi story. I think I have an idea where to go with the sci-fi one, but not the other monster story.

Also I have an essay. It's a couple years old. I think it's about time to let it go. It's about dying. Yeah, so, it's not a fun thing. It's also 6,600 words and totally self-absorbed. So it's far too long for most "journals" as such. I guess I have to read some places where essays are published to find a home for that.

The novel is progressing. I killed 100 pages of it; back on chapter 3. Every day, just a little more.

Rant: Be Here Now

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 24 May 2012 18:30:00 +0000

I was going to write a little review of a Marilyn Manson concert I went to last Saturday (5/19/2012) at The Rave/Eagle's Ballroom in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I was. But then I kind of thought about it and realized that what I thought about the show was kind of unimportant. I got sick of writing it before I finished writing about the opener. I mean, I liked the show. I've seen Manson about a half-dozen times. I obviously like the guy and (most of) his music.

What I kept thinking about was cameras. And mediated lives.

By god they were everywhere. Between us and the stage were a half-dozen or so wanna-be director (I want to say Von Trier), trying desperately to film Mr Manson performing.

But what for? What the hell for?

We were all there. In one place, together, to enjoy a performance and, to some extent, each-other's company. When you're filming instead of being part of the audience, you are robbing yourself of actually being there and. Of being in the moment with the thousands of other people who all want the same thing you do: who want to see a show. And you get in the way. The dull blue glow of your iPhone and your arm in the air annoys me and others around me. We are here, trying to watch the show. Your bicep with the crappy tribal tattoo is not the show.

I'll not get into philosophizing the fact that we're all mediated in some way. But purposefully putting a device between you and the whole damned reason you are here is honestly ridiculous. Are you going to put the concert on your Facebook page? On your tumblr? Just tweet and say where you are and if you're having a good time and be here, with us. Your grainy video isn't going to give anyone the impression they were there, crowd-surfing or watching Manson tear up a bible; I don't care if it is in 720p.

When he takes a camera from one of the people like you and shoves it down his pants, learn the damned lesson. If not then, then when he throws it into another section of the crowd, maybe learn the damned lesson then.

No, you'll stomp out and drag your three other friends with you. I saw you. I know what happened. And it's pretty funny.

Just be there. If you're in the now, you'll remember it. You'll have lived, then, as closely as possible, to reality. And there is nothing else.