FTAC – A Comment on Web Time

Reading – Richard Adams – _The Girl in A Swing_

Back when, I would be done . . . and perhaps working on my own work . . . or working on a photograph . . . or a piece of music.

With multiple blogs, the Facebook nexus, news from everywhere in the world in near real time all day, redeveloping a necessary, even healthy, seclusion is proving challenging. For any of even middling independent means or involved with discretionary or leisure time, the challenging of organizing this mess is really pretty large.

The offer of money — independent contracting that obligates time on a calendar — may help organize the wealth in the information environment; developing a commitment to an independent project may also clear away some of the power of a sweeping information current.

Either way, we’re going to have to evolve “countermeasures”, lol, in web-related behaviors and habits.

On two blogs, my first and the latest in personal journals, I’ve kept a category titled “19th Century Modern” and (from an apartment) it’s partly about assuming aristocratic privilege _at any level of income_ and using time to get to the things we like to do — keeping a garden, playing a sport, working on an art — and if we’re too busy here on Facebook, we’re “chatyping” in place of all those other things.

Among my retired friends — I’m really not in their category — none have the complaint of being bored or of having too few activities or obligations. The drift is opposite: over-involvement in many things seems more the cause for concern. Plainly, for bright people with the means to volunteer time or indulge private pursuits, the environment, even if the real space thing is as small as a computing station in a room in a house, is as rich as can be.

The time has come on the “information highway” to throttle back some notches.

—–

“FTAC”: “From the Awesome Conversation” — my term for what is engaged in 1) the daily round of chatyping and cross-posting on Facebook, and 2) more specifically, the global democratized political conversation accessible in that venue.  “FTAC” has become a category on my “BackChannels” blog.

While one mind may well address many pursuits in life, one cannot ecologically, professionally, or socially do so equally or without the support of quite a bit of gathered financial and social capital — more than I’ve got, in any case.

Chatyping online seems a most convenient and least cost pursuit, but the same proves expensive in time and uncertain as regards various forms of return, from the development of influence, which is where I think I’ve done well on Facebook, to nurturing new business (not so good by way of how I feel about where I’m sitting at the moment).

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Rainbow Over Lowe’s, Hagerstown, Maryland, July 23, 2008

Rainbow Over Lowe's, Hagerstown, Maryland, July 23, 2008

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Reading – Richard Adams – _The Girl in A Swing_

I’m sorry I marked the first paragraph of the first chapter of this old and deckle edged first edition, but even so slightly used, oh what a still magical and mysterious experience the reading remains.

Adams’ work reminds: while a great writer may write with great economy, he may also write as if he and the reader had all the time in the world for melding into the work.  The Girl in a Swing is that kind of book, one that moves along with the force of a slow, deep current, and that from another world — well, a couple of them, actually — in any case far removed from the two-second Internetpressions so abundant, distracting, impersonal, and rapacious — they eat eyeballs while worming their way into minds, you know — in this cyberspace becoming also cybervoid.

So I have a well written book to read, and I am tempted to give it its cover-to-cover due in one sitting.

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Resting Deep

Detail, Suncatcher Windchime, Hunter Hill, May 5, 2013I can feel it: this ain’t gonna be no nap.

“If you had it to do over again . . . .”

What if you do have it to do over again?

This time without the brow beating, the screaming, and the yelling (and the disappearing act)?

This time without the ghost careers dreamed by somebody else and proven, for me, uninhabitable?

It would be different leaving the job-job at the bank and setting the compass for the South Seas, but that Gauguin by way of Maugham story’s about leaving: this is about staying and being for a while drifted in suspension.

Either way, either story’s about ambition and art.

For having been the good son, for having done too many favors, for volunteering, for working on other people’s boats, for taking permanent jobs that weren’t and wouldn’t be for anyone, for reading too much and grading too many papers (considering the result), for suffocating a long time, for being poor a long time too, for being a chump (too long) . . . I think I will be a while processing all that.

Old story: The North American Review sent me $20 for a short-short.  I cashed that check, added about $4 to it, drove down to Bottom of the Bay on old Route 1 in Laurel, Maryland, and brought home a bottle of Chivas.

And that was that.

The end.

Then.

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Detail, Suncatcher Windchime, Hunter Hill, May 5, 2013

Detail, Suncatcher Windchime, Hunter Hill, May 5, 2013

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Detail, Suncatcher Windchime, Hunter Hill, May 5, 2013

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Eating Chocolate, Sipping Coffee

Two days: no sales on the Amazon Kindle e-publishing adventure.

😦

I’ve read Nicholas Sparks, and I so do not wish to write that badly.

Then too, I’m practically in Nora Roberts’ back yard — true: 30 minutes, if that, to her bookstore and cafe in Boonsboro (Maryland), and my soul would probably fare better getting in its chocolate and coffee fix in that atmosphere rather than in the blacked out (for photography) recess of my office and its desktop environment.

Despite myself, I will probably wind up playing music in bars.

* * *

The really right response to the post-publication blues?

Rest deep — then get started on the next book!

Oh, yeah, while I’m at it in this shared note to self: trade off a little of that 27-year-old hot shot for the 57-year-old cool daddy within.

Then,  (old guy’s code for “nap”) rest deep .

Start fresh.

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Published! For Kindle.

Change seasons–change tack.

commart's avatarCommunicating Arts - The Journal

Oppenheim, James S.  A Younger Soul: Seven Short Stories.  Hagerstown, Maryland: Communicating Arts, 2013.

The busyness enabled by the web — the Facebook thing and its 570 buddies; the several blogs; the unbridled span of artistic and intellectual interests — finally staggered me, and the whole “Bertha-the-Printer” thing (she’s checking herself out by spitting ink as I type) feels like the last straw: I’ve done enough for glory!

My environment may be rich, but I seem to remain ever the bohemian rattling around inside of it.

I haven’t set down the cameras, far from that, but am more inclined to license images than print them (unless there’s an order out there tall enough to cover the complete costs of the work and produce some pizza on the side), to continue shooting for fee (of course), and then, using Amazon’s vendor program, to get started on the next…

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Treetops, Hunter Hill, April 27, 2013

Treetops, Hunter Hill, April 27, 2013

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An Exhausted Writer’s Retreat – Sunset, Blinds, Hunter Hill, May 1, 2013

Solitaire Sunset, Hunter Hill, May 1, 2013

On the old Oppenheim Arts & Letters, I had noted several times in its “19th Century” modern section the horror of having applied serious creative writing chops and energy to “chatyping” — that’s what I call all of this — at models.com, where I traded my floridity (it’s nice seeing spell check deliberately upset) for a more perfunctory how-to on quite a few topics, modelmayhem.com (still there but scarcely look in these days), Zoetrope.com — with 1,052 free and highly rated reviews provided by yours truly, I remain the “All-Time Most Active” reviewer in the Photo Wing of Francis Ford Coppola’s “virtual film studio” (much good that exuberance has done me) — and then . . . Facebook.  The upshot hasn’t changed: for glory, I guess, I have composed tens of thousands of notes and small essays that engaged somebody (in the photographer, model-photographer, political enthusiast communities), were probably helpful, and were certainly part of the global chat stream.

Nice way to go broke.

* * *

I shot one wedding last year.

The caterer who brokered the deal after the “other guy” called to say he couldn’t make the date, told me last week, “They were so happy with your pictures!”

Good.

However, it would have been nice to have had a dozen weddings on the calendar at this point, but then (and not the caterer’s fault) I’ve been only passively promoting for a while: my business card is Out There, but the dreaming and scheming feels old, and I haven’t gone on to invest in the latest kind of laptop presentation (in fact, if I ever go out — scary notion, that — it will probably be with a large portfolio or loose sheets inside an art case).

Related: “Big Bertha” the HP B9180 printer, wants a new print head (I may have one around here, but the office has gotten warehouse like and hard to search) . . . whatever, I’m tired of spending money on inks to keep her happy, and then too I’m ready for a more standard Epson 3880, which I would swing easily with a $3,000 print order — how hard could that be?

Back to the wedding side of the whole shebang — truly the happy couple:

121006-D2xb-2250

* * *

In addition to the online chatyping, I’ve been busy with the synagogue’s choir and have recently hauled the guitar out to an open mic and jam (now that’s relaxing!), and, I guess, there’s been phone friends, an additional smidgen of volunteer activity, probably more dining out just to get out than I should do, or have been doing — definitely more than either stomach or wallet can afford — some compulsive shopping (Orvis, Territory Ahead, 32 Bar Blues) — which is funny because that’s all about not being here but being somewhere else!

Add Stage One Leukemia.

I’m a little tired, which seems in retrospect a cyclical complaint as I get around to it periodically, and in retrospect, I feel like I have just spent decades in search of work that would never materialize fully or in a transforming way, and the what has happened while busy making plans for other things (thanks, John Lennon, publicist, Allen Saunder, author), is . . . wow, I’ve kept something together — Jim’s Bar & Grill & Home Theater & Library & Garden & Office & For Once, Easy on the Island.

Lucky man: I have the wealthier man’s mansion and studio stuffed inside of 1,000-square-feet of garden apartment.

Should anyone Out There happen upon my Lost Youth, please do return it to the owner.

In the meantime, as God made Ford the Father of the Automobile and Ford The Company made the Mustang, I suppose all is not lost after all.

Mustang 2000, Waxed Bullit Rim

Anyone up for a drive?

🙂

Truly, I am ready to spend less time online, more time lazing over fiction (again), and some time trying to write the sort of thing that might stay around a while.

* * *

John Lennon wrote this for his son Sean but I wonder if it’s not as much a son’s song as a father’s.

I don’t know if Lennon would have been the father I’d rather have had, but I know the one I had absolutely hated The Beatles, hated popular music, and couldn’t sing a note even half as well as the average mule.

# # #

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Robin Defense, Hunter Hill, April 2013

Robin Defense, Hunter Hill, April 2013

In the seven years in which I’ve adjusted to living at Hunter Hill, an apartment complex just beyond the fringe of Hagerstown, Maryland, about six miles south, if that, from the Pennsylvania border, I have raised, by turns, doves, wrens, and robins by way of leaving habitat or space for nesting.

The doves simply took over a hanging basket.

Dove Nesting, Balcony Garden, Hunter Hill, Hagerstown, Maryland,

Thinking that it looked cool to leave some gardening materials — hemp rope — in a bag hanging on the knob of the utility closet door, the wrens must have thought it a chimney.  Before they got to that, they tried setting up on a yard sale sculpture, a keystone or gargoyle, possibly for the Lyric Opera House in Baltimore.

Keystone, Bird's Nest Haircut, June 18, 2011

All of that brood, four birds, I recall, survived in that sun-warmed humid sack to fly away and return to poop on my deck another day. As species go, not unlike some humans, those really don’t forget where they come from.

And the Robins, if you look twice at the above, found the railing and rain gutter combo perfect for a round mud and straw nest.

Robin's Eggs, Hunter Hill, May 2009

All birds fledged.

The mess left on the brick beneath and to the side of the nest continues to fade.

The rule, as I understand, is once nested, hands off by Federal law, so I have learned to fight them wherever they are, humiliate them, and collect the tax for the defense . . . wait . . . blog confusion . . . .

🙂

I have learned, and with the luck to be here during the day, to discourage nesting.

Next to “grid sticks”, which I’ve also used on planters and hanging baskets, I have found really the most effective behavior for the nest builder is making a sudden personal appearance accompanied by a human roar so determined it would send King Lear leaping for safe ground and disappearing in the heather.

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Entering Retreat – Early Spring Snapshot – Hunter Hill, April 2013

2013-04-27-Lx5-a-008

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Reading Completed; Reading Started: Good People and Snoops

An appropriate cross-post having to do with reading, writing, and a retreat from perhaps living too much online.

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