Consuming and Creating: Part 5: Opposites

When I was little, opposites were a big deal. Stop and Go. Over and Under. I'm sure you can think of some.
I have heard someone speak about choice. He said that although the opposite of choice is often given as no choice, what really destroys choice is a lack of consequences. If no matter what you choose the same thing happens your choice doesn't matter. So it would appear the opposites don't really matter it's the antithesis of choice that can affect things.
It made me think about creating. The first thing that comes to mind when I try to think of the opposite of creation is destruction. But perhaps the worst kind of destruction, the kind that destroys creation, is apathy. Or maybe apathy isn't the right word, but not wanting to create, having no desire, or need or anything that leads to creating things. Consuming can cause apathy. It's easier to consume than create so why not just consume? So in someways maybe consumption is the antithesis of  creating, (although it is not in others see Part 2.)
And maybe opposites are not nearly as important as we thought when we were 5.

I'm Not an Artist

Growing up I had quite a couple of friends who were artists. They doodled during class and drew in their free time. Art was their life.
That was never me. I've always liked art but I've never considered myself an artist.
Right now I am working as an artist, and it is weird. I have been enjoying it so far but I'm not very good, so sometimes I'm like "why would you want to pay for my work?"
Maybe I should readjust my definition of "artist" but that is difficult because although I appreciate art and enjoy doing it I still see it as a little useless.
Quite a conundrum. Maybe I should go eat an apple.

Research

Author's are smart.... at least good authors. They may not know a lot of things but they know how to research. I've heard some of my favorite authors talk about research. In a podcast Brandon Sanderson talked about how much research he did on canals and how they effect the economy for his trilogy Mistborn. This surprised me because when I read them canals weren't a big part of the book. And yet as my sister said the other day, "if the author gets it right the reader doesn't even notice, but if the author messes up it takes you out of the book." At the back of Sarah Eden's books she often writes about the research she did for that book in particular. She seems to get it spot on.
For my novel (that I am still working on), I have researched wolf biology and culture, human hunter gatherers, telling time at night, how far a person can walk in a day, desert animals and plants,  second language acquisition, to name the majority. And it is a fantasy world. That's why historical fiction is so intimidating to me.

Fred, My Head and Me (and oh yeah, my subconscious)

Recently I have realized that I think I see conversations different than many people.

It rubs me the wrong way when people say things like "it was so nice to see you" when I walk out the door, when I had been in the same room for an hour and they never once talked to me. 

The other day someone asked if the seat next to me was available. When I said it was, they sat, introduced themselves and then promptly turned away from me, and didn't say anything else. When they left they said "it was so nice to meet you."

I wanted to say "I don't think we met."

I am not saying these people are at fault, in fact they were just being polite. But I think that it bothers me so much because words are more of a contract to me than perhaps they are to others. 

Conversations almost feel  like a contract to me.

Here is a general but fictitious conversation. Obviously silly because how can I know what my subconscious is thinking because then it wouldn't be sub....

Fred: Hi. Are you saving this seat?

Me: No feel free. 

Me Head: Now I will have to talk to someone.

Fred: What's your name?

Me: Rebecca. What's yours?

My Head: Hurry! What else can I ask?

Fred: Fred. So what are you doing right now?

Me: Working. How about you?

My Subconscious: You care enough to ask a question, you must also care enough to acknowledge my existence next time we cross paths.

Fred: Oh, I'm going to school.

Me: For what?

. . . [conversation continues, reasonably balanced between us] . . .

Fred: Well, it was nice to meet you.

Me: You too. See you later.

My Head: It actually was fun talking to you.

My Subconscious: This means that we are now "friends" and in situations where we both are we will seek each other out to converse again.

Except that never happens, and so I always feel slightly betrayed when they don't come over to me and actually talk to me. (Not that I go over to them. Yes I am a hypocrite.)

Basically, I think I take conversations too seriously.

Through the Grass

My sister brought to my attention that out of my last five blog posts three of them had pictures of something (plums, tigers, owls) through the bushes (or trees). So here is one more.
When I was little I was always sad when my parents said it was time to mow the grass because I loved laying on the ground and peaking through the long grass pretending I was a tiger, or some explorer about to discover something amazing.
Apparently I still feel that way, I just take pictures instead of laying there on the grass.

The Great Owl Mystery

I was sitting at my desk working when I heard something outside my window. The sun had already set but it wasn't late. Only about 7 or so. The noises kept coming. Owls I decided, but also a coo of another bird, I wasn't sure what.

The next day I remembered my nephew and niece had seen an owl in the pine tree outside my window a couple of months ago.

I decided to investigate. I went and poked around the pine tree and saw something suspiciously white against the yellow pine needles.

It was quickly identified as an ulna (lower arm bone or... wing in this case) of a bird. Next I went underneath the tree. More evidence:

Dark grey, relatively small feathers were scattered everywhere, but there was no evidence of owl pellets. I was disappointed. But did not give up. 

I went and asked my resident ornithologist, she viewed the feathers and suggested some local birds such as Pine siskins, quails, and starlings. 

We compared the new ulna to my comparative skeleton collection (the Flicker from Bird Morality).

The Flicker ulna is 2 inches long and has distinctive bumps running its length.

The new ulna is 1.75 inches long and has no bumps.

The victim was not a flicker.

Because the ulna is part of the wing we decided that it's length would most likely be a fitting ratio to wingspan (instead of length of bird). Flickers, according to wikipedia, have a wingspan of 17-21 inches. 

Now it was time for some math:

2 in = Flicker's Ulna

19 in = Average Flicker's wingspan

1.75 in = Victim's Ulna

x = Victim's approximate wingspan

Flicker (2/19) Victim (1.75/x) 

 x = 16.625 in

Pine Siskins only have a wingspan of about 7 to 8 inches, and quails (besides being too colorful) have a wingspan of 12.6-14.6 inches). Too small.

But starlings had a wingspan of about 12-17 inches. Perfect.

We think the owl had a starling for dinner.

Assumptions: The bone and the feathers were from the same bird.

Ratio between ulna and wingspan is similar between species.

ASV

When I was in high school some friends and I were all active on my brother's forum, (which were fairly popular at the time). Somehow one of the threads got started talking about all the violent emoticons there are. Cute little smilie faces beating each other over the head with mallets or getting shot. I suggested, jokingly that we should start a club called Against Smilie Violence (ASV). Two of our friends joined and we became a very small club, and I think the only thing we ever did was make T-shirts.

But sometimes I still think about ASV and what it stands for. Recently I have been reading a series called Skullduggery Pleasant by Derek Landy. It is an urban fantasy that is quite violent but really funny. I like them, but sometimes they make me feel guilty. 

I guess I just find it disturbing how often really violent things are portrayed as funny, (the squirrel from Ice Age anyone?). Perhaps I find it most disturbing because I often think they are funny.

When I was a teenager I realized that joking about not liking someone made me not like them. You think it is a joke until it becomes all too real. So what happens when you laugh when people in media fall down stairs, or have a fist fight? I'm not sure I want to go there. . .