Return to Comfortable Rebellion

Somewhere along the line, I lost my focus. This blog started in 2013 as a creative outlet, though it ended up following my life path and personal development as much as it did my literary (let’s call it what it is) frustration. It was great fun to write about the ride until the ride veered off the tracks and threw me against the wall a couple of years ago. Now, in 2020, nothing is the same. My home, my job, my neighbourhood—even I, myself—have changed.

For the better, one hopes. One must always hope, else there’s no point.

Earlier this year, I decided to reboot the Rebellion. Since that decision, Covid 19 has swept around the world and is threatening my own community. Life is so far from normal I can’t envision what the end result will be. I don’t know what the rebooted Rebellion will look like down the road, but I didn’t know it the first time, either. In truth, with everything around me so strange and unfamiliar, I don’t know anything more than that I want to write again. I really, really, want to write again, and for the first time in ages, I feel like I can actually accomplish something. I have a room, a rig, and my wonderful Ter to support me as I go. Anyone who wants to come along is welcome, of course. I’m happy enough on my own, but it’s nice to have company besides the voices in my head. You needn’t introduce yourself. I don’t have to know you’re there ... but if you’re up for a story or a spontaneous Philosophy Quest, pull up a chair and I’ll put the kettle on for tea.

With love,

“Two Protons”

How did Shakespeare do it? He wrote an entire play (maybe more than one) in iambic pentameter – defined as a poem featuring five feet (or “iambs”) per line. An iamb is two or three syllables with emphasis on the second or third syllable, i.e., “two households, both alike in dignity.” A two-syllable word can be a single iamb, i.e. “alike”, because the emphasis is on syllable number two.

I know. If you’re not a poetry geek – and I’m not – who cares? I am, however, a Shakespeare fan and enough of a word geek to look at Will’s genius and see it as something within my ability to emulate. I mean, five beats per line. How hard can it be?

Harder than it looks, that’s for sure! I wasn’t aiming for a full-length play, either; just a poem. A simple verse that doesn’t even rhyme! My natural rhythm is four iambs per line. Creating space for that fifth beat just about did me in. In fact, this grandiose notion occurred almost a year ago. It slipped off my radar when it proved more difficult than I’d expected and less complex things distracted me from the challenge. It resurfaced last week, when I decided to resume drafting blog posts during my lunch break. I blew the dust off my office “blog log”, took it to my not-normal café, ordered a chocolate chai with extra foam, opened the journal’s cover, and a piece of paper – well-scribbled upon – fell onto the table. Oh, ye gods, I thought, my nod to Shakespeare!

Upon revisiting my effort, I decided it wasn’t that bad. It was, in fact, pretty good, and so my chocolate chai sat cooling by my elbow as I spent the next half-hour counting syllables and rearranging iambs into something loosely resembling a Shakespearean-style verse.

And so, with apologies to the Bard and no further ado, I humbly present my minuscule ode to soul sistah Ter, who is always my better half.

Enjoy!

* * *

Two protons, mirrored in identity,

being sprung from a singular atom, when split and parted

do remain connected as if by a force unseen,

unknown yet known by far better than each knows itself.

For home and home exist with these particles.

’Cross stars and space, identical response is prov’n.

Though dust and dark matter conspire to confound, the bond

Ne’er breaks nor weakens. Twin parts of one whole, space is

an illusion, and real for one is as much for the other.

Five Long Years

Comfortable Rebellion started on March 23, 2013, with a post entitled “Why Not?” There was no topical photo to accompany the text on that introductory blurb; there was just a big idea, a little preface, and (thanks to Nicole) a poem.

That was five years ago. A lot has happened in those five years, yet not a lot has happened. Time is so fluid, so subjective, that it’s hard to reconcile exactly how much has occurred since I took the plunge 755 posts ago. I’ve strayed a bit from my original intention, which was to write write write then post post post about the literary passion that has driven me from the time I wrote my first unfinished novel at the age of twelve.

There have been a lot of unfinished novels. I have also finished a few, and continue to wrestle with the latest, now almost six years in the birthing and still an obsession because it’s a darned good story and has been from the beginning. Have I ever said, “I want to write a romance”? Not aloud, surely. Romance is not my thing, at least not in the conventional sense. I like that my romances tend to go sideways, but the hero in this one deserves a true love story with a happily-ever-after ending and I’m simply not that skilled at making those happen. In the long run, the characters are responsible for achieving the desired outcome, but I’m still the one directing traffic. If only they weren’t so ... so human.

That’s another area where the Rebellion has slipped slightly off the rails. I’ve become more aware of what it is to be human in the past few years. Ironically, I did not see it coming, and I’ve written a lot more than I meant to about my experience. Personal non-fiction is not my literary preference, but it is writing, so I can’t say I’ve lost the CR plot entirely. It’s about stories, right? My story, which is your story and everyone else’s story throughout history; anyone who has been human, anyway, who has lived a life unique unto him/herself but who shares so much in common with me just by nature of his/her humanity. We are all connected, after all. If I didn’t feel it five years ago, I certainly feel it now. So I write about it, and post about it, and hope that the ether has been brightened somewhat by my contribution to it. I may never know.

Have I gone wrong? Maybe not. Maybe the blog has evolved as it was supposed to, even if it doesn’t look the way I imagined it would in the spring of 2013. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what it would look like or what I thought I was doing before I did it, but on that Friday five years ago, I asked myself why should I do it and the answer came pretty quickly:

Why not?

Here’s to another five years.

Seen Through a Coffee Shop Window

not my view, but a reasonable facsimile

I took myself down to the local coffee shop one workday last week, fully intending on drafting this weekend’s blog post. I had no idea what my subject would be. Life of late has been more about living and less about musing—you might say I’m gathering material for future posts—but I reckoned that, surely, inspiration would strike once I assumed the position.

Armed with a Mumbai chai, I took a seat in the window, opened my book, uncapped my coloured Sharpie ... and nothing came. Nada. Zip, zero, zilch. The blank page leered up at me, daring me to mar its pristine whiteness with my purple genius. I stared back, immobilized, though not with fear. My mind was merely as blank as the page in front of me.

My Zen homework has taught me not to panic at a writer’s block. Sometimes it’s just not meant to happen. On another day, my genius will blaze brighter than the halogen high beams on an Audi. Just not today.

Sigh.

Rather than forcing the matter, I decided simply to enjoy my tea and watch the street action through the window. I kept the book open, though the cap went back on my pen. My cup was almost empty when I noticed something so typically incongruous of a First World society that I had to write it down: a white Porsche Cayenne pausing at a crosswalk while a homeless man pushed a shopping cart laden with all his worldly goods in front of it. Wealth and poverty in a single, poignant image. I wished I’d had my camera with me.

Then I realized I’d had a ton of impressions in the past half hour; seen countless vignettes worthy of note (to me, anyway):

A lapdog wearing a raincoat.

Tourists carrying shopping bags.

An older couple strolling arm in arm.

A sleek and shiny Tesla—twice!

The bus ballet (they really do a dance, merging around and into traffic from the stop outside 

the window).

A quartet of orange umbrellas bobbing in a cluster along the far sidewalk. They stood out so bright and cheerful in the grey drizzle, I christened them “orange blossoms”.

The faces on passersby: grim, worried, anxious, vacant, lots of frowns and not many smiles. Sad.

A toddler pushing a stroller while his mother steered him from behind, and the tiny hand lolling from the stroller itself as the occupant enjoyed the ride.

A hipster girl wearing a backpack as big as she was, pausing to read the “we’re hiring” sign in the coffee shop window.

Soft jazz on the shop’s sound system, followed by a cool cover of Roxy’s “Love Is The Drug”, then something by Florence and the Machine (her voice is so distinctive).

The store manager came by to tidy the tables behind me. “On your own today?”

“Just hanging out,” I replied.

“Killing time?”

“Nah, I was doing that in the office.”

He laughed. I said I’d see him tomorrow, then I packed up my stuff and went back to work.

It might not be genius, but I got my post after all.

Gone Fiction

Almost halfway through November and this is my third post? One might think disaster has struck! A computer malfunction, perhaps? Global catastrophe? Plague? In some measure, all of the above may apply. My computer is fine—gods know, it hasn’t been overworked of late. The global catastrophe was the outcome of the US election. Plague-wise, Ter has been checked by her first cold in years (that’s what we get for starting the homeopathic flu program last week). She’s a fighter, though. She hasn’t missed a beat despite ongoing congestion and coughing fits, but in truth, none of the above explains why the Rebellion has been silent.

Truth is, I’ve started a new story. If I treat it like dessert and write my veggies first, I won’t get it done before my appetite is gone; not that blogging is a chore, but it can interfere with the fiction flow, and after so many months of struggle with a novel that won’t cooperate and a bunch of beginnings that won’t move past the halfway point, this one has gained some serious momentum and I intend to roll with it.

It’s liberating to drop the gloves and go for something just because I want to do it. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I tend to write in chronological order, a practice that served me well enough during the Fixed Fire storm. Blogging and short stories have shown me the joy of bouncing around from one idea to another rather than the next in line. It’s also messed with me a bit. One day a few weeks ago, after a futile stab at forcing my muse, I asked myself what I wanted to write rather than what I felt I should write, and the answer came so quickly that I knew it was for real.

So I’ve leapfrogged over a couple of FF volumes and tackled the story of Book 9: the reunion of the brother and sister who were separated at the end of Treason. I’m working specifically with him right now, wanting to get his story out before switching to another’s angle; it’s a novel-sized project with a few points of view, but again, breaking new writing ground, I’m focusing on one character at a time and planning to weave the threads together once they’re all done.

My journey continues to inspire the usual mélange of philosophy, comedy, drama, hockey woes and food porn. Life is a curious mix of black and white and fifty shades of  ... well, you get it. And, fascinating as everything is right now, I am more fascinated by someone else’s story.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

With love,

Head Hunting

There may be a worse place to live than America under Donald Trump. When I heard that extremist goons in Bangladesh had taken the heads—literally—of a few “secular bloggers”, I stepped back to evaluate just how dangerous my world could become if this stuff gets out of hand.

I mean, any more out of hand.

Truth be told, I could probably lose my head in some countries just for being a woman with an opinion. Make no mistake, gentlemen—all women have opinions. Just because those opinions are not expressed does not mean they’re the same as yours or that they don’t exist. My good fortune (so far) is to live in a country where my opinion is worth exactly what I’m paid for expressing it. If someone is threatened by what I think, they might want to ask themselves why.

Of course it means something to me. It’s my opinion, after all. If you happen to share it, great. If you don’t, great. You’re entitled. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. I guess the scary part is when enough of a shared opinion becomes an action or a movement. When fear of someone else’s opinion becomes the driving force behind a governing body—be it in politics, religion or big business— freedom of expression is the first thing to go.

And here I am, an opinionated woman with a secular blog.

Well, I’m in it now, so my hesitation to “like” a particular F***book page has been rendered duly redundant. Let’s hear it for “Republican Jesus”, a satirical site that is taken too seriously by some but not by me; it’s one of those pages where the first post gets a smile, the third gets a giggle and the sixth earns a full-on LOL. I don’t check in every day—I truly do suck at social media; how does anyone else keep up and still have a life?—but when I do, I’m guaranteed a laugh at the expense of the GOP. US politics have degenerated into something truly frightening, a satire of its former self and, I suspect, the furthest thing from what the Founding Fathers intended when they drafted the Constitution. On the other hand, it’s democracy in action, a concept that people have died and continue dying to defend. And whether, in the end, it’s Madam President or Trump the Chump in the White House, the expectation for the office will be impossible. People don’t want to solve their own problems. They want the government to solve their problems, and while I agree that everyone should be educated and earn a living wage, I disagree that it’s government’s job to resolve social issues by law. Rules can be put in place, but rules are only management tactics meant to staunch the bleeding. You can’t legislate tolerance or compassion or forgiveness or respect. Those things begin with the individual, at a grassroots level in schools and neighbourhoods and communities. Those in power are accountable for spinning the propaganda that serves their own ends; however, are we not accountable for choosing what we believe and how we behave?

I know, easy for me to say in my cushy First World environment where freedom of speech meets women’s (sort of) equality. As stated above, it’s only my opinion. If someone wants my head for it, oh well.

I just hope they take it on the first swing.

White Lace and Promises

Have you noticed how everything starts out perfect and promising?

A new home. A new car. A new project. A new relationship. An idea. Each day. Life itself.

Today is the Rebellion’s third anniversary. This is the five hundred and sixty-second post. Wow. I can’t say I haven’t been writing, can I?

I started the blog why? Well, why not?

That was the title of my first post. I had to revisit it, to remind myself of what “why not” meant at the time. It seems I’ve remained true to my original intention, which was to share writerly thoughts, bits of fiction, quotes from heroes, and philosophical hypotheses developed over the course of my journey through this phase. In some ways, not much has changed. I’m still writing the same novel. I’m still working on my attitude, trying to create a positive vibe in a world of ever increasing contrast. I’m still imperfect and hoping to improve as I go.

I have, however, discovered something wonderful. Three years later, I am happier now than I have ever been.

Blogging is not solely responsible for my progress, but it’s helped. At least I can look back and see the trail behind me. It’s taught me a few things, that’s for sure. Things like, the smallest piece can trigger the greatest response. I get comments about things that I forget almost as soon as I’ve written them, while my treasures are seemingly passed without notice. A good reminder to “detach from the outcome” and not be too invested in the end result!

Remarkably, the poem that Nicole wrote for my fortieth birthday is equally relevant today, after fifteen years and five hundred-plus posts, so here it is again, because I love it and I love Nicole for writing it, and because it’s the nucleus around which the Rebellion is built. It was the promise of the CR’s potential when I stepped into cyberspace thirty-six months ago.

Enjoy again!

With love,

Sitting on a Shady Veranda with Ruthie Wordsmyth

 “You are the Saint of Storytelling.”

I tell her while sharing bits of

smooth candy and cups of green tea
sitting on a shady veranda under a Vienna sky.

“The Zeitgeist of Paragraph! 

Mistress of Manuscript Extravaganza!”

I tell her this because it is the truth

my friend, the writer, word-spinner
is the main character of a poetic prophecy
rising with an exquisite voice
an Enchanted Empress baring her
woven soul into spirals of fiction
into epiphanies of elemental editing.

My literary gentlewoman friend

the Storyteller, Princess of Plentitude
is the keynote speaker at a symposium
for the Gorgeous Struggle
offering simple directions to the center
of the universe and sundry side-streets of Sublime.

Her biography will soon be available in trade paperback

autographed copies of Comfortable Rebellion
will grace the bookshelves of admiring fans
but will pale in comparison to my first edition hardcover
inscribed with her permanent wisdom.

Inside will the near-art experience booklovers have longed for a fort-night

inside there will be polaroid pictures, convictions and conversations
dreams and disappointments though her tears will be absent
saved in a mason jar on the edge of her prolific writing table.

“You are the Operatic Melody of my heart!”

I tell her while brewing a fresh pot of green tea.

“A Victorious Virago!”

I tell her this because it is true.

“What would I do without you?”  I ask her.

She just smiles, shrugs her shoulders 

and tells me another story.

Mature Content

Google has made available a “mature content” setting for bloggers who post on their server. I noticed the prompt on my dashboard one day, with further information indicating that, if Google gets any complaints about graphic content, the company will automatically flip the switch on the site. If enough complaints are received, Google may then shut down the site. It seems a step in the right direction, of the big cahunas on the internet attempting to regulate themselves before the government intervenes, and I’m fine with that. I just wonder how they define “graphic content”.

I’m all for censoring myself—I do that before I hit the “publish” button on a post. Then I promptly contradict myself by stating a firm belief in the artist’s right to express him/herself in whatever form he/she chooses. But then the question arises: What is art? And I admit, I’m a little confused about my own work.

I don’t write porn … I don’t think. I dunno; maybe some folks would say that I do. It depends on the setting, the situation, the characters and the relationship. I try to be tasteful about any physical intimacy—even the rough stuff—and if you write about vampires and warriors, at some point you’ll be writing scenes of blood and violence. The skill involved in writing fiction through a filter is no small thing. I do my best, with some success, might I add, but in the end, it’s a little scary to know that my opinion of my work may matter less than that of a reader who has issues.

I considered whether or not to flip the switch and have the site automatically warn visitors that mature content awaits. At this point, I’ve decided against censoring myself that severely. My intention is always good, to send out a positive vibe, tell a compelling story, share a laugh or rant about my hockey team, but as for graphic content residing on this blog, I really must protest.

The Terrible Twos

Happy birthday, blog! You and I have survived two years together and it’s been a ride. Mostly fun, sometimes frustrating, very much a learning experience, and I’m glad I started it all those months ago. Here’s to a third year (or more) of fiction, philosophy and Ru-minating!

But wait, there’s more!

Now Comfortable Rebellion has a sibling on the horizon—the “Ruth R Greig: Author” Facebook page. Still under construction as I try to make the application do my bidding, it’s a sign that I am serious about making this writing gig pay. Social media is a good way to start; I’ve heard too many people say that publishing deals these days come only if an author already has a following. Of course, I have to build that following, but Dr. King said you needn’t see the whole staircase; you just have to take the first step. Trust has figured prominently in my vibe of late, so, in the words of Yosemite Sam, I’m a-takin’ it.

Onward, little blog; go forth Author page!

Oh, geez, what’s next? A Twitter account???

Blethering

Now that Christmas is over, I have a solid chunk of time in which to write.

It’s also time to rethink the blog.

My original purpose was to share my creative journey with posts of process, progress, inspiration, and a little hockey talk tossed in for fun. I meant to offer food for thought, and perhaps some discussion, but recently the posts have been pure fluff.

There is nothing wrong with fluff. It’s light, it’s entertaining, it’s easy to digest and even easier to write, but it also takes time to compose and my true love has suffered for it. Momentum has stalled, assuming that momentum was ever achieved, on my meatier creative works. I have lately given myself permission to focus on completing a longer project rather than placating the bloggy voice that tells me a post is past due. Having to grant this permission was my first hint.

Somewhere along the line, Comfortable Rebellion became Uncomfortable Responsibility. The director of quality assurance has issued a warning: keep it upbeat, keep it creative, and keep it meaningful.

I will continue my writing exercises. I will post updates on my progress with the project du jour. I may also “publish” the occasional story in a series of Saturdays, since I fully intend to finish more short stories in the coming year. And there will always be room for gushing about heroes and icons and all good things. I do admit, reluctantly, that life makes means to kill our joy with stress, and I have been more stressed than I realized of late, but I’m aware of it now and am looking the monster straight in the eye. Toss in my Ter, my angels, and access to a universe full of opportunity, and you have a winner in Ramblin’ Ru.

Did I say “ramblin’?” No more of that. We’re going back to the egg, you and I. Back to the realm of dreamers and artists, magicians and vampires, poets and philosophers. Back to my happy place. The Rebellion is comfortable once more, so pull up a chair and I’m brew us some tea.

There are stories to be told.

With love,

Happy Anniversary!

Comfortable Rebellion is a year old today. Ordinarily, I’d do a rejig to get it back on track, but it seems to be evolving in line with my original intention, which was to have it evolve in line with me. I set out to write about writing, about process and creativity, and to share some of my work. I also meant to write about Stuff in a positive and encouraging way. I aimed to make a warm, safe place online where you could drop by for a cup of tea and a story, perhaps for a bit of lively debate or a review of what I’m reading/watching/listening to in hope that you’ll be inspired to try it yourself.

There’s a lot of me in this blog simply because I only have my own experience from which to draw. Where possible, I’ve related items culled from other sources (admittedly peppered with Ru-isms), mixed with family history, philosophical concepts, sport scores, and the occasional WTF??? During the course of CR’s first year, I have written two lengthy short stories, a few really short stories, revised some existing works, and am still hacking away at the novel. If I ever suspected that blogging was cutting into my writing time, looking at the post count kinda makes me look whiny(er). In truth, this past year has been an adventure in creativity, in finding ways to put a positive spin on life’s little negatives (though I’m still unconvinced that gum surgery was necessary for my spiritual development) and, as an unforeseen bonus, in inspiring my siblings and sire to start Google accounts! I didn’t intend on writing for an audience, but since I have one … thank you all for coming by. You have helped to keep me writing.

Gluten-free birthday cake, anyone?

Blog Art

part of my kit currently getting the most work

Tomorrow’s post is about honeybees—and I only offer that tidbit because it inspired today’s post.

Many of the photos put up here at CR I have taken myself, especially since the arrival of my beloved Canon. Others obviously originated elsewhere, and I’ll happily give credit where it’s due if I am ever caught. I’d give it up front except that I rarely know who took/drew/assembled whichever photo I choose to complement my musings du jour.

But back to the honeybees. A post about honeybees is well-served by a picture of a honeybee. Problem there is that, no matter how harmless to humans or vital to the ecosystem they are, honeybees are still insects, and insects of any ilk make my toes curl. I actually found a pic that would have suited, except that it’s a picture of a bug and after some (okay, not that much) thought, I decided to go with the cutesy option and find a cartoon.

Photos are easier to use than cartoons, mostly because many ’toons are visibly copyrighted and a watermark wrecks the effect, i.e., the best drawings that Google found were armed against unauthorized use. So I puzzled for a bit, then, just as frustration began to bubble, a little voice suggested that I draw my own picture.

Well, why the heck not? I can draw. I must be able to, else why would I have an arsenal of artistic weaponry in my writing room? Drafting pencils, coloured pencils, pens, felt-tipped markers, art erasers (I go through a lot of those), paintbrushes – if it can be found in a grade school student’s desk, I have the grown-up version in mine. A sampling is pictured above (photo copyright by Ru, 2014)

So I did it. I drew my own honeybee. Tune in tomorrow for the great unveiling. Though, truly, I’m sticking with the writing gig.