Clutter, Minimalism Comments (0)
Yesterday I wandered into a local antique store and spent an enjoyable time poking around at all the interesting vintage items and jewelry there and talking to the proprietor about steampunk decor. I mentioned to her that I’ve been thinking about selling my antique Amberg filing cabinet, which I don’t need now that I’ve gone paperless. However, I added, I’ve been hesitating because even though I don’t use it, it’s a nice old piece that goes well with my other furniture and I’m afraid that I might find it difficult to replace if I end up regretting its loss.
“There’s always more stuff,” she assured me, gesturing around her.
So true. As I’ve pared down over the years, I’ve often ended up looking through catalogs or visiting shops like hers and thinking, “wow, that would look great with….” But I’ve learned the hard way to appreciate but not covet. That is, I’ve learned how to admire something, acknowledge that it would look great with my decor or be fun to own, and then put it back down again. I know from experience that too many of the “objets d’cool” that I buy on the spur of the moment end up in the charity pile as soon as my minimalist, control-freak tendencies reassert themselves.
But her words serve as useful reminder that if you’re thinking about decluttering for the new year, there are very few objects that can’t be replaced. If you don’t love it or use it, and if it’s not an emergency or survivalist necessity (which you will love on the day it’s needed), then go ahead and get rid of it. If you regret the loss later, you can always find something else to replace it.
There’s always more stuff, after all.
(Image from Bubba’s Antiques & Mercantile)
drupagliassotti @ January 6, 2012
Clockwork Heart, Steampunk Comments (0)
In the midst of all my finals grading, a fun project has appeared — writing out the pronunciations for about 54 words, places, and names used in Clockwork Heart, to help in the recording of the Brilliance Audio book, which begins later this month. Yay! This is another first for me, and I’m enjoying the glimpses into the audio publishing world that this experience is providing me.
In the meantime, I’m busy with grading finals and reading candidate files for our department’s job search, as well as working on miscellaneous other projects such as running my RPG Right of Rule, reading submissions for The Harrow Press’s Mortis Operandi, and setting up a new yaoi research blog that’ll go public soon (we’ll be looking for contributors, by the way….). Over winter break I’ll be finishing up a steampunk research paper for Steaming into a Victorian Future, finishing the first draft of my NaNoWriMo novel Imprimatur, revising the travel-study class Imagining Venice with my co-prof in order to resubmit it for Spring 2013, and doing the usual winter-break class-prep stuff for the courses I need to teach in spring. Oh, yeah, and I discovered last week that this blog is, for some reason, on a server using some kind of old mySQL that prevents me from updating to the newest versions of WordPress, so I may (shudder) try rebooting it over winter break, which means if everything here abruptly vanishes, well…. you know what happened.
drupagliassotti @ December 14, 2011
When you get to a certain age, suddenly your colleagues’ and friends’ parents start to require hospitalization for terminal illnesses. Unfortunately, I’m at that age, and several of my friends and family members are in that situation right now. The impending death of a loved one serves as a bittersweet reminder, in a holiday season traditionally associated with renewal (of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem) and birth (of Christ), that life is a cycle of beginnings and endings.
Memento mori means “remember that you will die.” The phrase was traditionally used to remind the great that wealth, power, and victory are fleeting things — it was a phrase designed to encourage humility and gratitude in those who might be tempted by their success to forget that all things end.
Today, the phrase may also serve to remind us that we need to live lives worth living. There’s no do-over in life; no rewind; no reset. This is it. Are you enjoying what you do? Are you leading a life that you’ll be able to leave without regret for things left undone or words left unsaid?
If your answer is no — why?
In the whirl of noise and activity that is so often part of the Western holiday season, it’s useful to take a quiet moment to contemplate death, at least long enough to ask yourself whether if you died now, you’d be able to die content, knowing that you had contributed something to the world. Have you been a good family member and friend? Have you made others happy? Have you contributed something of beauty to the world? Have you helped extend humanity’s knowledge of itself or the universe around it in some way?
It’s not about what you have; it’s about what you’ve done. Some of my friends’ and family’s parents are dying now, and I sincerely hope they are leaving a legacy of love that will offer some comfort to them and to their children when they pass.
Image from Thaneeya McArdle – Fine Art & Illustration.
drupagliassotti @ December 8, 2011
Imprimatur, Male/male Romance, NaNoWriMo, Steampunk Comments (0)
Well, done with the 50,000 words challenge, anyway; Imprimatur itself is still about three to five chapters away from completion, I suspect. I’ll keep working on it, but at least today’s sprint for the finish line will allow me to grade papers tomorrow secure in the knowledge that there’s no imminent deadline hanging over me. I have a lot of papers to grade, including all the rough drafts of the film theory papers my students need to have completed by finals week. And they all, gulp, need to be done by Tuesday….
Here’s a last little excerpt; as always, please keep in mind that it’s very rough, first-draft work:
Jay spun around and lunged forward, aiming low and holding his forearms braced over his head.
He rammed into the hips and groin of the man who’d opened the door, driving him backward and into the hallway. Somebody swore and Jay threw himself to one side, kicking out. His heel hit something and he used it to push himself farther away, rolling over the floor and up to his feet.
Two men there, one he recognized from the autocarriage, one — the one on the ground — whom he’d never seen before.
He spun and ran off in the opposite direction.
A window, a window — he needed a window without bars, but all that lined the hallway were closed doors. The stairs he’d climbed up were behind him. He hoped this corridor wasn’t going to dead end; what kind of building would that be? There had to be another stairwell down at the other end of the wing.
He spun around a corner. Two men — he angled himself toward the wall and sprang up onto it, crouching low and running as fast as he can. Startled, both men jerked away in surprise as he ran across the wall and past them before kicking himself off and back to the floor again.
“Jay Whitsun!” one of them shouted. Jay faltered a second before catching himself.
It wasn’t Bishop’s voice or a member of his family’s, and he didn’t give a damn about anyone else.
“Stop!”
Not a chance. He careened left and spotted stairs. Perfect; the architect hadn’t let him down.
“Somebody — stop him!”
Up or down? Usually he preferred up — few men were willing to chase him onto the rooftops — but in a building with barred windows, he had no guarantee of finding easy access outside. On the other hand, down likely meant more guards and that damned glass-shard-covered wall again. But down meant doors, too.
He made up his mind and dashed down, only two see two large men running up with leather-wrapped clubs in their hands. He jumped up onto the wooden handrailing and leaped foward over their heads, tucking his knees to his chest and allowing himself to spin once in midair before opening his eyes. Off — he braced — and landed, hard, dropping to one knee that slammed against the floor. He winced and stood. Pain in his hand, pain in his knee, pain in his ribs.
Then somebody tackled him from behind, arms wrapping around his midsection and throwing him forward. His injured knee gave out and he landed badly, hissing as he reached out to break his fall with his wounded hand and it slapped against the floor, leaving a smear of crimson from his blood-soaked bandages. He started to squirm, but an expert arm wrapped around his neck and began applying pressure. He struggled as his vision began to darken.
As always, my thanks to the good folks who put on National Novel Writing Month each year; it’s always inspiring to participate!
drupagliassotti @ November 27, 2011
Imprimatur, NaNoWriMo, Steampunk Comments (0)
A little bit more….
Jay abandoned his search and walked to the end of the row, turning to look up the next. Bishop was standing there, clutching his cane in one hand and his lamp in the other, not moving. He looked up as Jay raised his lamp. His hair was a shock of white in the dim light; his expression, impossible to read. “You can’t close your heart for the rest of your life.”
At last Bishop moved, looking away from him, staring at the shelves as he started walking again.
“I can. I have. It works.”
“You’re ‘fine’?”
“Yes.” He stopped and set the lamp on the floor. “Here it is.”
Jay pursed his lips and walked forward, setting his lamp next to Bishop’s. The inspector was right. There it was — a series of thin, cheaply printed, paper-covered rosters of the Royal Society for Scientific Inquiry’s membership.
Jay turned his back on them and laid a hand over Bishop’s metal hand, safely wrapped around the head of his cane.
“Your hand is still shaking. You’re not ‘fine.’”
“As fine as a cripple can be.” This time Bishop started to move away, pulling his hand to one side. Jay wrapped his fingers around Bishop’s metal wrist, grabbed Bishop’s coat lapel with his other hand, and leaned forward to brush his lips against the inspector’s.
Bishop’s head jerked back in surprise. Jay saw a flash of fear in the other man’s expression.
“Stop calling yourself a cripple,” Jay said, firmly. “And stop trying to push me away. It won’t work. I’ll keep coming back.”
“I don’t want you.”
“You’re lying. We both know you’re lying.”
“What the hell is this insane obsession you have with me?” Bishop burst out. “It doesn’t make any sense!”
“Why not? You’re ethical, brave, kind, handsome —” Jay moved his hand from Bishop’s lapel to his mouth, gently covering the sputtered protest the inspector was making. “And stubborn, but not as stubborn as I am.”
“You’re an idiot,” Bishop declared, as soon as Jay moved his hand. “I have absolutely no intention —” His words were broken off by the clatter of his cane against the stone floor. They both looked down to see his metal hand clutching Jay’s sleeve.
“Hell,” Bishop breathed, staring at it with a look of betrayal.
drupagliassotti @ November 24, 2011