Mind Mapping

A cartographer’s nightmare.

Mind mapping is a brainstorming technique used by artists, advertisers, programmers and members of countless other disciplines.

It’s a way to visualize connections among and between things. It’s a way to chart the flow of a process, of a story, of an idea.

I like mind mapping and project management software. For a while now, I have been partial to Personal Brain software—now, I guess, called just The Brain. It’s a great way to tie together a lot of disparate items, allowing you to link to web pages, photographs and other files, notes, etc.

It’s fairly resource intensive, eating up your RAM and disk space, though, to say nothing of the overhead in maintaining it if you really want to use it well.

Still, I like it—if only for the pleasure of saying, “hold on a minute while I open up my brain.”

But I found a simpler, web-based mind mapping tool at bubbl.us.

It’s very easy to use with clear and simple directions.

So, get on over there and start planning your next novel.

Good neighbors

A blessing.

Jean Kerr, one of my favorite writers of humorous essays, once said, “What I am looking for is a blessing that is not in disguise.”

I’m thankful today to report that I have found one.

Good neighbors.

We moved here because we had bad neighbors. “The upstairs neighbors from hell” is a mild description.

So, we were pleased to find a sweet old couple on one side of us and a very nice and never there—younger couple on the other side as we moved into our new home.

We all lived here at the Creek in perfect amity. Neighbors here are important. Maybe not as important as in NYC where you are living on top of each other, but still, houses on the water tend to be close together.

Sadly, we lost all of our original neighbors within the first two years. Death claimed the old folks within a few months of each other. The economy got the younger generation on the other side a few months after that.

Right now, one house is still empty, but I am pleased to report that the other has been sold and occupied. It’s been about two months, and things seem to be working out well.

The new neighbors are just the right amount of friendly and, most importantly to me, are quiet. That could change, of course, but so far, so good.

What’s a little ironic is that they are originally from New York, too. Not the City but the Island and not within the last twenty years—but still…it’s a small world.

I’m cautiously optimistic. Anything can happen, of course, as we know to our dismay.

But right now, I am thankful.

I hope we all live here for a long time in peace and harmony. And I hope the other house goes to really nice people, too!

What is it with these dreams?

And can we make them stop?

I am not a person with a strong belief in the predictive power of dreams. I don’t think they are premonitions or portents.

Thankfully.

Because I have been having some very odd ones lately, and I’d hate to think what they presaged if I gave any credence to that idea.

Usually, I think dreams are sort of a mash-up of images from your waking life. With the exception of the Actor’s Nightmare—where you can’t remember what play you are doing or everybody else is speaking lines from a different play or in a different language or, worse, your costume is missing.

That one is an anxiety dream.

I have, in my life, had it in various other incarnations as well. The Director’s Nightmare—where you are at tech rehearsal and no one—not the actors, not the stage manager, not the designers—will do what you ask. The Playwright’s Nightmare—where your reading is starting and you realize you forgot to tell your leading lady and there’s no way she can fly in from the Coast in the next 15 minutes.

Fortunately, those stress-related imaginings are just that. Imaginings. None of them have ever come true. (Although I have stood on stages and watched fellow actors’ eyes go blank and known something perilously similar to the Actor’s Nightmare.)

The thing I am wondering about today is why, all of a sudden, I am having these Grand Guignol horror movie-like dreams. For the last couple of days.

Mafia hit men.

Axe murderers.

It’s not like I’ve been watching horror movies recently. Or even the news.

I’ve been spending my time with BBC period pieces. Edward VII. Downton Abbey. Edward & Mrs. Simpson. (Just as a side note, imagine my surprise to find Sylvia Buchman’s (Paul Reiser’s mother on Mad About You) younger days were spent, in part, as Wallis Simpson!)

And when I haven’t been enjoying tea cups and crown jewels, I have been trekking to the Delta Quadrant with the crew of Voyager. (Someday, I will get even with my niece for this whole Netflix thing, but that is a subject for another time.)

So, I haven’t been basking in terror. And nothing particularly stressful is going on just now that would translate into a fear of getting killed.

I’m just having these horrible dreams. And I’m not enjoying them, and I’d like them to stop, please.

A happy medium

Marry one, if you can.

A little trouble with the washing machine today.

Water on the floor.

Not all over the floor, the which no amount of optimism or understatement could legitimately describe as “a little trouble,” but enough to be noticeable. As in, a certain dampness manifested itself around my toes as I transferred the latest load to the dryer.

My mild “uh-oh” brought the MotH* running.

And this is where my Tuesday Tip of the day begins to walk the tightrope.

My dad was not a handy man, as my mother will be the first to tell you. It is questionable whether he really had any idea of the proper way to hold a hammer. (There’s no question at all that he didn’t know anything about power tools.)

It was a source of friction, since my mom grew up on a farm with four brothers fixing and building things and a father who was a carpenter. Officially. With a sticker in a union book and everything.

So, you don’t want to marry somebody who doesn’t know what to do if you need a nail driven or a light fixture installed.

On the other hand….

Before I drew the next breath after the “uh-oh,” the washing machine was on its side, three big clamps were removed from its innards, and I was being admonished to get out of the way!

Had I not put my foot down (damp toes and all), the whole machine would be in pieces right now.

See, I’m fairly certain this is not a huge mechanical failure.

I think it may just be residual splashing as the machine empties into the sink. (We’re still using, “temporarily,” a portable apartment-sized washing machine we acquired when we had an apartment.) That has happened once previously.

Anyway, I think a little more observation is in order.

And I know that disassembly of a decades-old, stop-gap machine is not something you want to undertake when you’ve already agreed that you’re going to get a new machine someday and are just using this one in the meantime.

I appreciate the skills and inventiveness and sheer willingness to experiment of my stagehand husband.

But, sometimes, “uh-oh” is more applicable to his tendency to dive right in than to the actual problem.

So, when you are choosing a spouse, I suggest a happy medium in the Mr. or Ms. Fixit department.

Because, you know, I find it hard to believe those three big clamps don’t have a purpose that isn’t going to be served by their current location up on a shelf.

But we’ll see.

* MotH = Man of the House

‘Gators to starboard

Eeek!

Some weeks ago, as you are reading this, but actually right now, as I am writing it, I was/am sitting on the dock enjoying one of a run of beautiful days we are having here in Florida where the temperature is in the 70s and the humidity is low.

I love that I get to spend this part of my life sitting on a dock, in sunshine or shade as I choose, surrounded by water and birdsong (and the occasional spider—but that’s a small price to pay), with WiFi that reaches far enough that I can be online.

I’ve always had a little trouble just sitting outside enjoying nature without a book or something. Those spiders get more obtrusive—to say nothing of ants—when you don’t have something to occupy your mind.

So, it’s hard to say, on a day like today, which is the greater miracle.

Is it the low temperature? Is it the low humidity? Is it the cloudless sky? The glassy smooth water? The recently mown lawn? The internet access? The birds?

Is it…could it be…even remotely possibly…the two alligators that just swam past me?

There is certainly a part of my brain that votes for the “swam past” part.

I’m glad they’ve gone on. I’m glad they didn’t come any closer than they did.

But, seriously, in NYC, I rarely got sudden and unexpected reminders that human beings share this planet with other species. The occasional pigeon, yes. The unpleasantness of rodents and insects, sure.

I’m not saying alligators are pleasant.

But they’re different.

As a child, I got to entertain my friends with the story of the three-legged alligator that would come up out of the swamp to be fed hamburger in my grandmother’s yard.

Now, the sudden splash in the middle of the creek could be a mullet or a manatee.

Or an alligator.

So, you know, it turns out my house isn’t just named after the little anoles and geckos and skinks.

Casa Lagarto.

It’s also named after those two big reptiles floating on down the creek.

El lagarto.

Ellagarto.

The alligator.

Not everybody has one—let alone two.

Patti Smith

Godmother of Punk

Poet, singer, songwriter, activist. Patricia Lee “Patti” Smith has had quite a jam-packed life.

Highly influential in the punk rock movement, Smith has been a performer and songwriter for nearly 40 years. Acclaimed in her own right, she has also co-written with Bruce Springsteen, toured with Bob Dylan, co-wrote a play with Sam Shepard, had a love affair with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe and married Fred “Sonic” Smith, a fellow musician.

She has been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, was named a Commander of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by the French Ministry of Culture, won the National Book Award for Nonfiction with her memoir, Just Kids, is now working on a crime novel, pursues photography and continues to perform and support causes in which she believes, some of them controversial.

I’ve never been much of a fan of punk rock. But I admire any woman who can achieve what this one has.

Video games

Sort of.

I am not sure this qualifies for Silly Saturdays. I mean, I’m not sure it’s silly enough. There actually might be some redeeming aspects of this game.

Maybe.

You’ll have to try it yourself.

I must warn you. My highest score has been 8. On the other hand, I get tired of it quickly.

Those aforementioned redeeming qualities?

Hand-eye coordination, maybe. Improved perception of spatial relationships? Increase in your ability to think ahead?

Patience with constant losing?

I don’t know.

See what you think.

Cursor Invisible

The object of the game is to click to break the white circles. The obstacle is the cursor disappears after about 3 seconds, so you have to guess where it is.

Good luck!

When your mind is a blank

You’ve got “Room to Write”

The only thing worse than a blank page (or better?) is a blank mind.

For a writer, however, it can feel like the end of the world. Certainly, of that career that you are still struggling to get off the ground.

With the internet, of course, come lots of websites full of writing prompts. Random. Daily. Whatever you need. And they are all useful—and used.

If you’d like something a little more portable—and, arguably, more substantive, I invite you to take a look at Bonni Goldberg’s Room to Write.

With 200 “daily invitations to a writer’s life,” you ought to be able to find something to jump-start those moments of blankness.

These “invitations” are different from the ordinary prompt in that they are accompanied by mini-essays on writing along with the assignment. Each entry takes up a single page (of this smallish-sized book). There’s the little essay: Goldberg’s own meditation on the day’s prompt. There’s the assignment. And, there’s an applicable quote or two from other writers.

Some of the assignments seem too complex and weighty for me when I’m just looking for a way to get my hand moving across the page. Some don’t interest me. Others are spot-on perfect. And, of course, each entry’s classification changes with time.

You can work your way through in order. Or you can open the book randomly and get to work.

Plenty of free prompts available elsewhere, of course. But this is a useful find.

Non-functional function

Beauty for no reason.

Today, I am thankful for the human impulse to create beauty even when it serves no other purpose but itself.

We seem to have drifted from that impulse as we become more enamored of efficiency and utilitarianism, but once upon a time—and I think it still lurks within us—we took the time to make even the most useful things beautiful.

As testimony to this impulse, I bring you:

Manhole-covers.net

This website is a gallery of old French manhole covers.

What could possibly be more functional than the cover to the access point to the sewers?

And yet, craftsmen designed and metalworkers created works of art—to lay down in the street and be trodden on.

Nowadays, here in the United States, our manhole covers are relatively plain. A manufacturer’s name stamped into the metal, perhaps a numeric code allowing workers to identify the location.

Less expensive, I’m sure. Functional. Doing what it needs to do and no more.

(Trivia question: Do you know why manhole covers are round? It makes it impossible for them to fall through the hole.)

So, we gain speed on the assembly line and we lose a bit of beauty out of the world.

The impulse is still there, though. Watch any of the decorating programs on HGTV. If you ever get the chance, take a look at the main building of the Jacksonville Public Library. There are people who still believe in beautifying the utilitarian and manage to buck the system and carve out enough time and money to do so.

And today, I am thankful for them—and wishing for a more developed sense of visual creativity so that I could be like them.

What happened

To my artist brain?

This is what I want to know.

I’m convinced we all start out with the ability to be hugely creative—and then, something happens.

I don’t know what.

Maybe an art teacher laughs at a drawing. Maybe we make too early comparisons between our own lopsided clay pots and the Ming vases we see in museums. Maybe we just get too caught up in linear thinking to make the leaps and connections required for innovation.

Something happens, though.

Usually, I think of myself as moderately creative. I have had some success with writing. I did recently discover a heretofore underestimated aptitude for drawing.

But then I see something like this:

And I wonder.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Monthly Archives: May 2013