Categories
Literary

Favourite Lines from Finnegans Wake (so far…)

I’m 36% of my way through James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. It’s as mad as I was hoping for and I can’t wait until the end to share some of my favourite lines (so far…)

“Luckily there is another cant to the questy. Has any fellow, of the dime a dozen type, it might with some profit, some dull evening quietly be hinted – has any usual sort of ornery josser, flat-chested fortyish, faintly flatulent and given to ratiocination by syncopation in the elucidation of complications, of his greatest Fung Yang dynasdescendanced, only another the son of, in fact, ever looked sufficiently longly at a quite everydaylooking stamped addressed envelope?”

“Does your mutter know your mike?”

“Incredible! Well, hear the inevitable.”

“How is that for low, laities and gentlenuns?”

“But what was the game in her mixed baggyrhatty? Just the tembo in her tumbo or pilipili from her pepperpot? Saas and taas and specis bizaas.”

“All she meaned was golten sylvup, all she meaned was some Knight’s ploung jamn. It’s driving her dafft like he’s so dumnb.”

I’m looking forward to the remaining 64%…

 

 

Categories
Visual art

Doodle Tuesday

Here’s another one of my funny little doodles…

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Above: pens on squared paper

I hope you like it! I use chance methods to create my drawings and paintings. I’d love to hear from others who do the same. I’m also up for any collaborative projects! Send me an email if you have any suggestions: examiningtheodd (at gmail dot com)

Categories
Visual art

Doodle Tuesday

april 2019 4

Categories
Film Literary Visual art

The Mason Of Imagination by J.M.R

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The Mason Of Imagination

 

Hello, here I am look me up tell me what you think.

See the man of 40 some years expose reality through imagination.

Come and listen to the tale, get a snack. Have a drink.

Listen to my story and of my contemplation.

I never came from money my mind my favorite toy.

These worlds I had inside my youth had no knowledge of reality.

As I grew I saw others let thier worlds go, seeing them as belonging to a girl or boy.

I watched imagination die I saw love burn yet did I let go, no.

Not me.

I go for positivity.

I fight for the right to smile and laugh.

I battle for the effects of coffee.

Euphoria I pour yet I’m the carafe.

I am a philosopher poet, artist and bard.

A genuine sineater placed in the world to compound hope.

Hope in the human race is hard.

Watch me! Watch me walk across this tightrope.
J.M.R.
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Take at look at his YouTube channel where you can find random videos of his art, spoken word, claymation and other things.
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Categories
Visual art

Doodle Tuesday

Here’s another one of my funny little drawings.

april 2019

Categories
Literary

The Monday Poem – That of a Duel in France by G. E. Farrow

THAT OF A DUEL IN FRANCE

Oh, Fa-la-la! likewise Hélas!
A shocking thing has come to pass,
For Monsieur Henri Delapaire
Has fallen out,—a sad affair,—
With Monsieur Jacques Mallette.
La femme?” Of course! They both declare
They love la belle Nannette.
Ma foi! They’ll surely come to blows,
For one has tweaked the other’s nose,
Who quickly snaps, with fierce grimace,
His fingers in the other’s face.
A duel must result.
A Frenchman’s honour ‘twould disgrace
To bear with such insult.

“Pistols for two!”—in French,—they cry.
Nannette to come between doth fly:
Messieurs! Messieurs! pray, pray be calm!
You fill your Nannette with alarm.”
Parole d’honneur! No.
Revenge!” they cry. The big gendarme,
Nannette to call, doth go.
Quickly a crowd has gathered round,
Pistols are brought, and seconds found;
A grassy space beneath the trees,
Where gentlemen may fight at ease;
Then, each takes off his coat—
Glaring meanwhile as though he’d seize
The other by the throat.
The seconds shrug, gesticulate,
And pace the ground with step sedate;
Then anxious consultation hold
O’er pistols, for the rivals bold
Who now stand white and stern;
Their arms across their chests they fold,
And sideways each doth turn.

The seconds place them vis-à-vis,
And give them word to fire at “three”;
Brave Monsieur Mallette shuts his eyes,
And points his pistol to the skies;
Brave Monsieur Delapaire
His hand to steady vainly tries,
It trembles in the air.
A deadly silence: “Un—deux—trois!
Two shots are ringing through the Bois.
Two shots,—and then two awful calms;
As, senseless, in their seconds’ arms
The duellists both lay.
(Their faces pale the crowd alarms,
And fills them with dismay.)
“Killed?” Goodness gracious—oh, dear no!
This couldn’t be,—in France,—you know,
For pistols there they never load.
But caps were they which did explode:
They’ve only swooned with fright.
See! one some signs of life has showed;
The crowd claps with delight.
They both revive. They both embrace.
Twice kiss each other on the face.
* * *

“Stay! Hold!” you cry. “You said, I thought,
La belle Nannette the gendarme sought?”
She did,—la belle Nannette,—
She sought, and found him—charming quite.
She stays there with him yet.
She “never cared for Delapaire,”
She says with most dégagé air;
And “as for Monsieur Mallette,—well,
He may discover—who can tell?—
Someone to marry yet.”
Meanwhile le gendarme pour la belle,
The fickle, fair Nannette.
Categories
Literary

Short Story Saturday – The Record by Forrest J Ackerman

This week’s short story is Forrest J Ackerman’s The Record. It was printed in the first edition of Ray Bradbury’s fanzine Futuria Fantasia in 1939. Bradbury was in his late teens at the time, and only four issues of the fanzine were published. Other contributors included Robert A. Heinlein, Damon Knight and Hannes Bok.

Bradbury included the following introduction to The Record:

This being the first issue of FuFa I feel fortunate in being able to offer a piece of scientifiction by the field’s most famous fan.

THE RECORD was written first in 1929, scarcely more than a sketch, on two pages. Ackerman was thirteen. ED EARL REPP, LA author of THE RADIUM POOL, said of it: “I found it delighting and exceptionally interesting for the writing of a boy so young.” Ackerman re-wrote it into a three page story, later, the present product. It has not been touched since. It is not being retouched now. Allow me to present THE RECORD as a record of how Forrie wrote, spelled and punctuated six years ago at the age of sixteen. ED.

Of course, Ackerman went on to become a well-known magazine editor, writer and agent (including for Bradbury himself). 1939 was also the year of The First World Science Fiction Convention (Worldcon), which Ackerman attended in costume, paving the way for thousands (millions?) of con-goers and cosplayers. He also appeared in over two hundred films, including Dracula vs. Frankenstein, Future War and Amazon Women on the Moon. Although Ackerman died in 2008, he won an award in 2014 for another fanzine published in 1939, this time his own Imagination!

THE RECORD

by FORREST J. ACKERMAN

For twenty years—for twenty long, horror filled, war laden years the Earth had not known peace.

Hovering over the metropolises of the world came long, lean battle projectiles, glinting silver in the sunlight or coming like gaunt mirages of grey out of the midnight sky to blast man’s civilization from its cultural foundations. Man against man, ship against ship—a ceaseless and useless orgy of slaughter. Men, at their battle stations in the ships, pressed buttons, releasing radio bombs that blistered space and lifted whole cities up in shattered pieces and flung them down, grim ruins, reminders of man’s ignorant hatreds and suspicions.

And gas—thick black clouds of it—billowing over the cities, seeking every possible egress, pushed forward by colossal Wind machines. But even when Victory came for the one side, often Nature, in one of her vengeful moments, would send the black gas flowing back to annihilate its senders.

Rays cut the air! Power bombs exploded incessantly! Evaporays robbed the Earth of its water—shot it up into the atmosphere and made of it a fog that condensed only after many months. And heat rays made deserts out of fertile terrain.

Rays that hypnotized caused even the strong minded to commit suicide or reveal military secrets. Rays that effected the optical nerves swept cities and left the population groping and blind, unable to find food.

It was a war that destroyed almost all of humanity. And why were they fighting? For pleasure and amusement!

In the middle of the twenty-second century, every nation had a standard defense. The weapons of war of each were equal—not in proportion to size, but actually, since man-power no longer counted high. Pacifism had done its best, but the World was armed to the hilt. And now—though illogically—it felt safe—for every nation meant the same as if all had nothing.

Another thing—there was no work to be done. Robots did it. And there seemed nothing left to discover, invent or enjoy. Art was at its perfection, poetry was mathematically correct and unutterably beautiful—worked out by the Esthetic machines. Sculptoring had been given the effect complete, artists hands guided by wonderful pieces of machinery. Huge museums were crammed with art put out synthetically.

And thus it was with the many Arts and their creators who grew stagnent in their perfection. And it was that way with the many sciences also….

Paleontologists had found, and articulated, and catalogued every fossil. The ancestor of the Eohippus, the little four-toed Dawn Horse, was discovered; the direct line between man and ape established in skeletal remains; the seat of life itself definitely proved Holarctica. And great bio-chemists, skilled in the science of vital processes, had created synthetic tissues and muscles and flesh, built upon the frames that had been recovered bodies with skillful modeling … even supplied them with blood and given them the spark of LIFE … so that Paleobotonists recreated the flora of a prehistoric era. Again the ponderous amphibious brontosaur pushed through marshes. Fish emerged upon the land, and the first bird archaeopteryx tried his imperfect wings for flight. In the regulated climates of long dead ages, fish, amphibians, reptiles, birds and mammals lived again for the edification of those interested in the very ancient—or who were amused with queer animals.

But that was only paleontologically speaking. There were the heavens to be considered. They had been: the stars and planets weighed and measured, their composition noted, courses plotted with super-accuracy. Every feature had been mapped—every climactic condition recorded. Life had been named and numbered … then photographed. And these were but first considerations. Actually, what wasn’t known about the Solar System had not occurred as yet. But that would probably be remedied by a machine to view the future.

There was physics, biology, anthropology, zoology, geology, bacteriology, botany—and ‘ologies’ and ‘otonies’ and ‘onomies’ such as ran into figures which only machines could calculate.

A book could indeed have been written of the accomplishments of super race. But this is of the WAR itself, and how it came about, and how it all ended.

Stated simply, in 2150 the point of DIMINISHING UTILITY had been reached. To the hungry man, the first course of dinner is wonderfully delicious, the second good, the third satisfying. Through the ages people have hungered after luxury and leisure—but when he finds his food, a lot of it, MAN finds suddenly that it no longer appeals to him. In fact, too much is bound to make him sick and often disagreeable. He looks around for something else. So did the people of the 22nd Century. They had all of the pleasurable amusements they wanted, but it was all so intellectual. Everything was culture. They had surfeited with it. And suddenly they wanted to forget it. All play and no work made MAN a discontented citizen. A reaction set in. Man was not completely civilized as yet——THE WAR!

Twenty-one years the war raged. And scarcely a million survived. Bit by bit this million was whittled down by the weapons of destruction to ragged handfuls of things that once had been cultured. Finally only one hundred humans remained alive—and they kept fighting blindly, none of them realizing how close to oblivion they were crowding themselves and the future of humanity—and they went on killing, killing, killing!

It is doubtless but what the entire human race would have vanished, leaving the world to the more competent, though half-ignorant, hands of the beasts, who fought and killed one another for self-preservation and for food—not because of madness … and who did not have books and talk and have culture. The human race would have gone, had it not been for the record.

The fighters of WAR’S END, leaving their machines and countries to congregate for personal combat, were engaging in hand-to-hand attacks in the ruins of what once had been a tall and powerful city in the Twentieth Century, but now lay crumbling, its proud buildings falling to the ground, sticking out iron-rusted skeletons to the sky—and the city was LOS ANGELES!

HEDRIK HUNSON was fighting with phosphorized fists—hand inclosed in chemically treated gloves that burned as they struck the antagonist, insulated on the interior for the wearer—when suddenly the two of them were caught by a spreader. The other man died instantly, but Hedrik got it in the side and was whirled about sickeningly, and survived.

He was lying painfully on something when he came to, but felt too dizzy and sick to move. At last, when his head had cleared a bit, he rolled over into a sitting position and reached out his arms to grasp—a phonograph!

Big things came in small packages in the days of 2171, and a portable phonograph might well be taken for a weapon of some sort—which was exactly what Hedrik thought! And you can hardly blame him, because no one in that generation had ever seen one of the things.

There was a curious story connected with the dying of music, concerning the days of 2050 when there was a movement to stamp out all symphonies and songs and things even slightly sentimental.

—but back to Hedrik!

Hedrik found the crank that wound the portable, turned it, reasoning that perhaps it gave power—and then—holding it away from him—he waited for rays to spurt out or something to explode. Nothing happened! Hedrik was disappointed. After an agony of perspiration and puzzlement he finally accidentally placed the needled arm onto the disk. The disk, he noticed, was black and filled with little undulations. The disk was like a wheel—so Hedrik thought—it should revolve like one, shouldn’t it? He pushed the starter thoughtfully and was more than surprised when the disk started spinning.

From the phonograph came music—music and singing! The lost Art had returned! The Art banished under compulsion had made a comeback.

Some man was singing on the record—in a queerly interesting and familiar tongue, the ancient English. The singer seemed sad, almost crying. And Hedrik was thrilled as he played it over and over again, drinking in the new experience like wine on the lips of a connoisseur. The voice rose, fell, lingered. And Hedrik suddenly didn’t feel like fighting anymore!

The music floated out over the tumbled ruins, descended to the ears of the other people. AND THE FIGHTING CEASED! They were transformed. They came running to crowd about the machine.

And there in that aged music shop they stood enthralled—music filled their souls. It was exactly what they had needed and wanted for many years. And it had been denied them. Music was the balancing force … the force that would help them struggle ahead rebuilding the world. And next time they would be saner … they knew … the lesson of luxury had been learned and learned well. Never again would they leave all of the work to the machines. Now they would work and sing and play.

It would be work … hard work … for some time to come. But they had found music again, and that would anchor them to sanity.

And thus was mankind saved through a record—SONNY BOY!



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Futuria Fantasia Issue 1 also included this charming little advert:

FUTURIA FANTASIA! FALL ISSUE COMING UP AS SOON AS YE EDITOR RETURNS FROM JAUNT TO MANHATTEN (in case you intend writing me and telling me I spelled MANHATTAN wrong in the editorial and above, I already know it … it was just a typical-graphical error.) THE NEXT ISSUE WILL BE EVEN LARGER—CONTAINING YOUR COMMENTS ON FUFA AND ARTICLES BY ACKERMAN, YERKE, HENRY KUTTNER, JACK ERMAN AND RON REYNOLDS. There will also be a play by play dew-scription of the trip to New Yawk and the happenings there in the science-fiction outfield—by Bradbury of course.

You can read another of Ackerman’s stories for free here (Weaver Wright being one of his many pseudonyms) and his review of the 14th World Science Fiction Convention here.

I’ll end with one of Ackerman’s most important quotes:

My wife and I were listening to the radio, and when someone said ‘hi-fi’ the word ‘sci-fi’ suddenly hit me. If my interest had been soap operas, I guess it would have been ‘cry-fi,’ or James Bond, ‘spy-fi.’ – (Yes, he’s responsible for the term many readers of Examining the Odd use daily – Sci-Fi)

Categories
Film Music

The Friday Film – John Cage “Water walk”

This week’s Friday Film is John Cage’s Water Walk.

Did you know that John Cage created visual art too? Take a look – it’s quite lovely.

Categories
Visual art

The Wednesday Painting

Here’s a new painting for The Wednesday Painting.

Categories
Visual art

Doodle Tuesday

Here’s another one of my funny little doodles. I hope you enjoy it! I use chance methods to create my drawings, paintings and poems. I’d love to hear from others who do the same!

all-of-us.jpg