First Published: 2018 October 30
A few days ago, I had the wonderful opportunity to see Resonet at the Brighton Early Music Festival. Now, I didn’t know it at the time, but, despite the fact that England is smaller than Iowa, it takes longer to get from point a to point b. And, I also was unaware that Brighton was on the southern edge of the country. All this is to say that what I thought would be a .5-1 hour trip ended up being an almost 5 hour round trip to get to the concert.
The show was medieval music, featuring Resonet together with Brighton Early Music Choir.1 The choir was nice, but not extremely notable, which is to be expected from community choir. Resonet’s director played a citola, and did so with equal parts grace and style. That is, at times he played with flourishes and showmanship, and at others, very subdued and calm. Their percussionist seemed to have the perfect backdrop for every piece, from a gong to a dulcimer. Although I was promised a hurdy gurdy that never appeared, the instrumentalist on recorder and bagpipes was stunning.2 The final instrumentalist played recorder and shawm and did so wonderfully.
As for the singers, the baritone had the voice made for singing love songs. The soprano was clear and pure, and the countertenor slotted perfectly between the two.
But, as is becoming the case more and more, much of my enjoyment of the show did not come from the scripted portions. I met a wonderful older woman3 who I chatted with for a good half of an hour or so. The interactions I can make like that are part of why I love music and cities.
I also got a chance to speak with the conductor about his citola, the piper about his pipes, and the dulcimist4 about his dulcimer. It was all great fun, and well worth being out too late.
All in all, it was a great time, and I forgot how nice it is to watch live music in a small5 space.
Today I had the wonderful opportunity to see Resonet at the Brighton Early Music Festival. Those of you with a grasp of English geography may know that Brighton is 2 hours by public transit from London. I did not, but do now.
The show was medieval music, featuring a group and the Brighton Choir. The choir was nice. The group’s director played a citola, and did so with equal parts grace and style. Their percussionist seemed to have the perfect backdrop for every piece, including a dulcimer. Although I was promised a hurdy gurdy that never appeared, the instrumentalist on recorder and bagpipes was stunning. The final instrumentalist played recorder and shawm and did so wonderfully.
As for the singers, the baritone had the voice made for singing love songs. The soprano was clear and pure, and the countertenor slotted perfectly between the two.
But, as is becoming the case more and more, much of my enjoyment of the show did not come from the scripted portions. I met a wonderful older woman6 who I chatted with for a good half of an hour or so. The interactions I can make like that are part of why I love music and cities.
I also got a chance to speak with the conductor about his citola, the piper about his pipes, and the dulcimist7 about his dulcimer. It was all great fun, and well worth being out too late.8
wow I wish Grinnell had an early music choir↩
I’m still annoyed that there wasn’t a hurdy gurdy↩
which should be unsurprising to anyone familiar with early music, as older people are the overwhelming majority of attendees↩
this is the term I choose to use, regardless of correctness↩
i.e. not multiple tiers of people↩
which should be unsurprising to anyone familiar with early music, as older people are the overwhelming majority of attendees↩
this is the term I choose to use, regardless of societal norms↩
though I am writing this on the trip back, and may feel differently when I arrive↩
First Published: 2018 October 29
Tonight, I had the wonderful fortune of seeing The Height of the Storm at Wyndham’s Theatre. It was a very confusing show, layering time, subjective and objective realities colliding within a fracturing mind. It hit me very powerfully, although I haven’t had to watch someone around me undergo it. I have felt some of the deja vu that the show plays with, especially when thinking about my grandparents.
The stage was interesting. When I first saw it, I felt a little nauseous, because it felt almost as if a two point perspective drawing made in three dimensions. However, as the show progressed, it began to feel more and more natural.
First Published: 2018 October 28
Mark 10:47 “On hearing that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to cry out and say, ‘Jesus, son of David, have pity on me.’”
Today’s gospel shows us that even when the world is against us, Christ is for us. Bartimeaus1 calls to the Lord. People around him mock him, and yet he persists. But when the Lord answers him, he doesn’t ask for all his problems to be solved. Rather, he asks for divine intervention only in the part of his life which needs it, his loss of sight.
To me, that’s the other part of the message of today’s gospel. We are told that we can ask God for help, and that He will answer, even if those around scorn us. But, we should ask him only for what we cannot ourselves, or cannot via mortal means, accomplish.
which the reading informed me means son of Timeaus↩︎
First Published: 2018 October 27
Like I’ve mentioned before, I1 compose. But, that composition is always alyrical or setting words to music. But, today on the bus I was playing with the2 ukulele.3 Someone asked me to sing a song about them, so I tried to make one up.
Unsurprisingly, I thought it was better than those around me. A heckler told me that I needed rhymes. There I remembered I do horribly under pressure. But, as I pushed through, I remembered how to think of rhymes and rhythms in real time.
Then the ride ended and we got off the bus.
So, on the journey home, my mind was running with creative song ideas. Since pop country is the furthest acceptable genre from pure country music allowed in rural Iowa, I decided that I would write in that genre. The fact that there aren’t many genres that you can do4 with male voice and ukulele helped me come to that conclusion/
As I started writing though, I’d get stuck about one couplet5 into each set of lyrics. Every so often I’d end up with a whole verse6 before realizing that I had nowhere to go with the lyrics.
Finally, I got a verse and chord progression that sounded nice and left me room to grow.7 Now all I need is another verse, a chorus, and a second set of verses. Easy.8
Like I’ve mentioned before, I9 compose. And, today on the bus I was playing with the ukulele.10 Someone asked me to sing a song about them, so I tried to make one up.
I thought it was ok, until someone yelled that it needed to rhyme. I then learned that I can’t think of rhymes when put under pressure.11 But, right as the ride ended, my creative flow kicked in. That meant that my head started thinking of music.
And, since everyone loves a good country song,12 my mind started thinking of country music. But, I can’t write a normal country song. Despite living in what the Census defines as a “rural” area, I didn’t have the experiences that a country song tends to need. I didn’t have a dog that I loved and lost, or a heartbreak, or an unhealthy relationship with alcohol or a car. To rebut the comment about singing anyways, I can’t be that fake. My high school friends would find out.
So, about one couplet13 into each set of lyrics, I’d get stuck. Finally, I got a whole verse out. Now I’m stuck. But, I figured out the melody,14 which is good because I tend to forget melodies. So, I’ve got four lines, a melody, and a chord progression. If I can just get four more lines and a chorus, I’m cooking.
attempt to↩︎
because there’s only one in my life↩︎
as I always do when given an instrument↩︎
well, do well at least↩︎
two lines↩︎
four lines↩︎
yay!↩︎
?↩︎
attempt to↩︎
as I do when given an instrument↩︎
so there goes my rap career↩︎
don’t lie, Take Me Home, Country Roads is the best song around↩︎
two lines↩︎
and wrote it down, which is more important↩︎
First Published: 2018 October 26
Today, I had the amazing opportunity to visit Stonehenge. It’s definitely not a monument I had ever planned on visiting, so the fact that I went to it is really cool to me. It’s certainly more impressive and large than the mental image I had before seeing it.
Also, I brought my ukulele with me today, and while at a pub, was told that I could play it if I wanted. While playing John Denver’s beloved Take Me Home, Country Roads, an elderly man at the bar joined along in singing. It was great!
First Published: 2018 October 25
Today, I had the opportunity of attending the Grinnellians in London1 alumni meetup. It was really interesting. After an hour or so of socializing, we were given a talk about Global Grinnell, and its initiatives.
I found it interesting that the focus was solely on English2 people we were bringing to Grinnell. When I asked about things that did not fit into this catagory, I was given a few examples in the social studies division, and theatre. I find it odd that we don’t do anything with S and M3 in a Global Grinnell, especially since more and more students are majoring in those disciplines. But, maybe I just phrased my question badly.
First Published: 2018 October 24
As I’ve mentioned more than a few times, I do music. However, I doubt myself a lot when it comes to music. Part of this is that I have a bad ear, especially among my music friends.
Now, this isn’t a disparagement of myself in an attempt to get sympathy. Rather, it’s a prelude for what follows. As we all know, it’s horrible when you have a song stuck in your head. As I’ve learned, it’s even worse when the song is written in Irish Gaelic, and so you can’t search for the song by lyrics. But recently, I realized that the worst way to have a song stuck in your head is a melody that you haven’t heard.
That is, a tune started playing in my head, coming from the sounds I’ve heard and wanted to hear. But, although I believed the melody was a certain series of notes, I didn’t believe that it would be true, and so changed the notes when I transcribed it. When I eventually played it back to myself, I realized I’d written a different melody.
It took me just ignoring my mind, and trusting my instincts to get the melody I’d heard. And, now the tune isn’t stuck in my head anymore. Yay!
Yeah
First Published 2018 October 23
Consider the word diary. What does that concept encompass? Is a series of thoughts about life, such as Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations a diary? Or, would an autobiography be considered a diary? Through a series of dichotomies, the form of a diary is more easily shaped. While there are many paths, this tree will be explored only in the route that leads to a diary. Other limbs are pruned in the interest of time.
The first division in this tree is that of reality. Writing either has a goal of portraying reality, which is writing realis, or does not, writing irrealis. However, addressing reality can be a goal of a work even if it isn’t the the sole, or even primary goal. As long as a goal of the work is the representation of reality, the work falls into the realm of writing realis. As diaries nominally take the form of a chronicle of life, they are concerned with reality.
Within writing realis, another dichotomy can be drawn. This new dichotomy is the break between writings that are concerned about a single person, writings solus, and writings that are not, writings multis.
In the interest of fairness, there is a reasonable rebuttal to this dichotomy. Many works are not entirely about a single person, but contain sections that are. Should these writings, therefore, lie somewhere between a writing solus and writing multis? In this example, the key to understanding the dichotomy lies in the scope of observation. While the work at a whole would be a writing multis, the sections concerned with a single person are writings solus.
This idea of the classification of works changing based on the scope they are viewed through is important piece in defining a diary. Certain sections of a diary may place focus off of the author, and therefore belong as writings multis, but the diary as a whole has its focus on the author, and so belongs as a writing solus.
We again cleave the category of writings realus solusque. Writings solus are either presented as written by their subject, writings sui, or presented as written by another, writings alius. The important distinction to make here is the word “presented.” Although a “blurb” (short pre-informative piece explaining a person’s expert status before a presentation) may be written by its subject, it is still phrased in the third person as a literary convention. As a diary is generally seen to be a record of self, it belongs in writings sui. Here, we see Meditations fall off the branch of diary, as it is written in the second person as a form of address, rather than the first person style of sui.
All writings sui either attempt to convey the passage of time, as writings tempus do, or do not, as writings atempus do. Although a given entry in a diary may not convey the passage of time, and therefore be a writing atempus, the chronicling of dates conveys the passage of the subject’s life, making the diary a writing tempus.
The final division to define diary is that of chronology. Writings tempus can be written after the bulk of their narrative has occurred, in writings praeter, or written as the narrative progresses, writings iam. That is, autobiographies are written as a retrospective account of life, as if weaving the threads of an author’s life into a coherent tapestry. Diaries, as a contrast, may attempt to weave this tapestry, but as they chronicle events as they occur, the tapestry woven lacks a pattern. So here again, although each entry in a diary may be a writing praeter, as it presents the threads of the day after they’ve occurred, in a neatly bundled piece of time, each entry is written before the tapestry as a whole can be seen, making it writing iam.
By exploring the definition of the literary form of “diary,” the value of dichotomizing writing becomes apparent. Through finding the definition of a form through defining what it is not, it becomes easy to decide whether a work belongs in that form. That is, to see if a writing is a diary, one must simply ask whether it meets the requirements above: if the work focuses on expressing the reality (realis) of a contemporaneous account (iam) of the author’s (solus suique) passage through time (tempus), we will call it a diary. If not, we will choose another term.
Consider the word diary. What does that concept encompass? Is a series of thoughts about life, such as Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations a diary? Or, would an autobiography be considered a diary? Through a series of dichotomies, the form of a diary is more easily shaped. This tree will be explored only in the route that leads to a diary. Other limbs are pruned in the interest of time.
The first division in this tree is that of reality. Writing either has a goal of portraying reality, which is writing realis, or does not, writing irrealis. However, addressing reality can be a goal of a work even if it isn’t the the sole, or even primary goal. As long as a goal of the work is the representation of reality, the work falls into the realm of writing realis. As diaries nominally take the form of a chronicle of life, they are concerned with reality.
Within writing realis, another dichotomy can be drawn. This new dichotomy is the break between writings that are concerned about a single person, writings solus, and writings that are not, writings multis.
In the interest of fairness, there is a reasonable rebuttal to this dichotomy. Many works are not entirely about a single person, but contain sections that are. Should these writings, therefore, lie somewhere between a writing solus and writing multis? In this example, the key to understanding the dichotomy lies in the scope of observation. While the work at a whole would be a writing multis, the sections concerned with a single person are writings solus.
This idea of the classification of works changing based on the scope they are viewed through is important piece in defining a diary. Certain sections of a diary may place focus off of the author, and therefore belong as writings multis, but the diary as a whole has its focus on the author, and so belongs as a writing solus.
Again we cleave this twice divided category. Writings solus are either presented as written by their subject, writings sui, or presented as written by another, writings alius. The important distinction to make here is the word “presented.” Although a “blurb” (short pre-informative piece explaining a person’s expert status before a presentation) may be written by its subject, it is still phrased in the third person as a literary convention. As a diary is generally seen to be a record of self, it belongs in writings sui. Here, we see Meditations fall off the branch of diary, as it is written in the second person as a form of address.
All writings sui either attempt to convey the passage of time, as writings tempus do, or do not, as writings atempus do. Although a given entry in a diary may not convey the passage of time, and therefore be a writing atempus, the chronicling of dates conveys the passage of the subject’s life, making the diary a writing tempus.
The final division to define diary is that of chronology. Writings tempus can be written after the bulk of their narrative has occurred, in writings praeter, or written as the narrative progresses, writings iam. That is, autobiographies are written as a retrospective account of life, as if weaving the threads of an author’s life into a coherent tapestry. Diaries, as a contrast, may attempt to weave this tapestry, but as they chronicle events as they occur, the tapestry woven lacks a pattern. So here again, although each entry in a diary may be a writing praeter, as it presents the threads of the day after they’ve occurred, in a neatly bundled piece of time, each entry is written before the tapestry as a whole can be seen, making it writing iam.
By exploring the definition of the literary form of “diary,” the value of dichotomizing writing becomes apparent. Through finding the definition of a form through defining what it is not, it becomes easy to decide whether a work belongs in that form. That is, to see if a writing is a diary, one must simply ask whether it meets the requirements above. If the work focuses on telling a contemporaneous account of the author’s passage through time, it is a diary.
Consider the word diary. What does that concept encompass? Is a series of thoughts about life, like in Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations a diary? Or, is every autobiography a diary? Through a series of dichotomies, the form of a diary is more easily shaped. This binary-branching tree will be explored only in the route that leads to a diary. The other limbs are pruned from this discussion.
The first division in this tree is that of reality. Writing either has a goal of portraying reality, which is writing realis, or does not, writing irrealis. Of course, just because addressing reality is a goal of a work doesn’t mean it’s the sole, or even primary goal of the work. As long as the goal of addressing reality is a goal, it falls into the realm of writing realis.
Diaries nominally take the form of a chronicle of life, and are thus concerned with reality. Within the division of writing realis, another dichotomy can be drawn. This new dichotomy is the break between writings concerned about a single person, writing solus, and the writing that is not, writing multis.
Now, a rebuttal as to the validity of this dichotomy may be posed. Most works are not entirely about a single person, but do contain sections that are. In this example, the key to the dichotomy lies in scope. While the work at a whole is a work multis, the sections concerned with a single person are writing solus.
Now, this idea of works changing based on scope is an important piece in defining a diary. Although certain sections of a diary may place focus off of the author, and therefore belong as writings multis, the diary as a whole has its focus on the author.
Again we cleave this twice divided category. All writings solus are either presented as written by their subject, writings sui, or presented as written by another, writings aliud. The important distinction to make here is the word “presented.” Although a “blurb” (short pre-informative piece explaining a person’s expert status before the aforementioned presents) may be written by its subject, it is still phrased in the third person as a literary convention. As a diary is generally seen to be a record of self, it belongs in writings sui Here, we see Meditations fall off the branch of diary, as it is written in the second person, as a form of address.
All writings sui either attempt to convey the passage of time, as writings tempus do, or do not, as writings atempus do. Although a given entry in a diary may not convey the passage of time, and therefore be a writing atempus, the form as a whole conveys a passage through the life of the subject, making it a writing tempus.
The final, and most difficult to convey division is that of chronology. Writings tempus can be written after the bulk of their story has occurred, writings praeter, or written as the story takes place, writings iam. To explain, autobiographies are written as an account of life, trying to weave the threads that had occurred in the author’s life into a coherent tapestry. Diaries, as a contrast, attempt to weave a tapestry without a pattern, chronicling the events as they occur. Although each of the entries may be writing praeter, since the writing is not attempting to outline the whole of the author’s history into a coherent thread, rather simply chronicling the events as they occur, the diary as a whole remains writing iam.
By exploring the definition of the literary form of “diary,” the value of dichotomizing writing becomes apparent. Although a dreaded prospect by many, the idea that genres can be grouped into mutually exclusive categories makes defining a given work as belonging to that genre easier. So, to see if a writing is a diary, one must simply ask whether it meets the requirements above. If the work focuses on telling a contemporaneous account of the author’s passage through time, it is a diary.
Of all of the writing that is, was, or will be, only two kinds exist. All writing is either non-fictive (concerning itself with reality) or fictive, which does not. Now, to address the inevitable rebuttal of writing that concerns itself somewhat with reality, imagine a lamp. A lamp is either lit or not. Even though it may not burn its brightest, it still burns, and is lit, or is completely extinguished.
Diaries nominally take the form of a curriculam vitae, and are thus concerned with reality. Within the division of non-fictive writing, another dichotomy can be drawn, that which is biographical (concerned with a single person’s life), and that which is not. Again, a rebuttal as to the nature of this dichotomy may be posed. There are writings that contain a series of biographies. Each of the biographies within the whole are biographical, while the sum work is not. In such a way, a writing can be biographical or not, depending on the scope with which it is viewed.
Oddly, the question of scale makes the defense of a diary as biographical more tenable. Certain entries in a diary may focus on others, but the diary as a whole still focuses on the author.
Again we cleave this twice divided category. All biographical writings either find themselves as narrative (expressing the life through time), or not (expressing life atemporally). Many non-narrative biographies take the form of a “blurb,” or short pre-informative piece explaining a person’s expert status before the person presents. At the peak of the genre, the blurb expresses no notion of time, only of accolades. Again, although any given entry in a diary may be non-narrative, the diary as a whole conveys the life of an author through time.
Up to now, the divisions of writing into a tree have not followed typical genre listings. This next division, however, is a common one. Narrative biographies are either autobiographical or not. That is, narrative biographies are either written by the subject or not.
Here, the objection may be raised that the division between self and not should be placed above that of narrative, since blurbs are often written by their subject. However, since blurbs are written in the third person, tend to convey only publicly available knowledge, and portray the subject as a platonic ideal, good blurbs look the same, regardless of authorship.
Now, one of the less controversial pieces of typical diary writing is that a diary is written by a self about a self. This lends it nicely into the autobiographical category, and sets up for the final binary division of writing needed to specify the diary.
All autobiographies are either retrospective, concerned with chronicling the events before them, or not, and are concerned with recording the events as they happen. Here, we again confront the issue of scale. While each entry of a diary is written retrospectively, the diary as a whole is not. That is, although entries are written after the events, the aftereffects of the events recorded occurs after the entry is scribed.
With these divisions in mind, a a diary is a non-retrospective, autobiographical, narrative, biographical, non-fictive piece of writing. Now, the question may be raised as to the purpose of defining a diary, and what goals were meant to be achieved. As today’s political climate shows, without consistent definitions, no debate can be fruitful. In giving a specific definition for diary, a more fruitful debate as to the merits of diary as a form can be explored.
If we look at all writing that is, was, or will be, there are only two kinds of writing. There’s non-fictive writing, writing that concerns itself with reality, and fictive writing, which does not. As a metaphor, think of a lamp. A lamp is either lit or not. If it is slightly lit, it is still producing light.
Diaries nominally take the form of a curriculam vitae, and are thus concerned with reality. All writing concerned with reality is either biographical (concerned with a single person’s life), or not. Now, here a potential division can occur. What about, for instance, a series of biographies? To me, each of the biographies should be seen as their own work. In such a way, a writing can be biographical or not, depending on the scope with which it is viewed.
But, since diaries are a single person’s record of their own life,1 it seems fair to say that diaries are still biographical. Now, all biographical writing is either narrative or not. A narrative biography is concerned with expressing a life through time.
Many non-narrative biographies take the form of a “blurb,” or short pre-informative piece explaining a person’s expert status before the person presents. While each entry in a diary may be non-narrative, the diary as a whole conveys information through time.
Now, the divisions so far have been fairly novel.2 All narrative biographical non-fictive writings are either autobiographical (focusing on the life of the author), or not. Now, some might argue that a blurb can also be autobiographical or not. However, since blurbs are written in the third person, and tend to convey only publicly available knowledge, a good “autobiographical” blurb should be indistinguishable from a good non-autobiographical blurb.
So, since a diary, as mentioned above, is a writing by a self about a self, it is autobiographical. Finally, all biographies are either retrospective, where the idea is to record events after they’ve happened, or not. Now, again we run into the problem of scale. While each entry of a diary is written retrospectively, the diary as a whole is not. That is, although entries are written after the events, more events take place and are recorded after the writing. In general, the diary takes place contemporaneously.
And so, a diary is a non-retrospective, autobiographical, narrative, biographical, non-fictive piece of writing. In the interest of length, the rest of the tree remains unfilled, though it is fillable.
Diaries, like many aspects of stereotypical female adolescence, are a nebulous concept.3 But, like any scientist, I hate undefined concepts.4 So, I’ve been thinking about what a diary really is.
I tried defining it a few different ways. First was through exclusion. In A Brief History of Diaries, Meditations by Marcus Aurelius is considered a diary, as is a shopkeeper’s logbook. Both of those didn’t seem to fit what I would consider a diary, but I couldn’t figure out why.
Then came the idea of5 splitting all types of writing into binary divisions. It took a few tries, but I think I’ve gotten something that works. Of course, writers hate dichotomies,6 so I needed to make sure that each category was a real dichotomy.
If we look at all writing that is, was, or will be,7 there are only two kinds of writing.8 There is writing concerned with reality,9 and writing that isn’t concerned with reality.10 Of course, an immediate push back to this would be “what about writing that is partially concerned with reality?” That’s non-fictive. It is concerned with reality. It’s like saying “a room either has some form of lighting, or it doesn’t.” Dimmer lighting, or lighting only in one corner still satisfies.
Obviously,11 diaries have a focus on reality, so they are non-fictive. Next, all non-fictive writing is either focused on a single entity, with the rest of creation12 serving as a backdrop to it, or not doing that.
It may be helpful to give examples of writing in each category. In the biographical category, there are diaries and biographies. In the non-biographical category, we see things like epic poetry.13
So if I ignore that, all writing concerned with reality is either narrative or not.
BREAK
Narrative writing is writing concerned with telling a story. Think about a typical biography. Conversely, there are non-narrative writings, such as instruction manuals.
Within narrative writing, there is autobiographical and not. Autobiographical writing is writing concerning the author. So, a member of an ethnic group writing an ethnography of the group, or authors writing about themselves.
Finally, all autobiographical writing is w
To me, a diary14 is a non-retrospective, autobiographical, narrative, biographical, non-fictive piece of writing. In order, I’ll explain each of these pieces, from least to most specific.
As a person who’s taken Linguistics, I understand the importance of grouping things into dichotomies. As an artist, I understand the frustration of false dichotomies. So, I’ve attempted to group all writings into mutually exclusive categories. First is fictive and null-fictive writing.
Confusingly, my definitions are based the opposite way here. Null-fictive writing is writing concerned with portraying reality, while fictive writing is not.
All writing concerned with reality either has a singular entity at its focus: biographical, or not, null.
All biographical writing is either narrative: biographies and whatnot, or null: blurbs.
All biographies are either autobiographical: about self, or not: all other biographies.
Finally, all biographies are either retrospective: all the action takes place before writing, or not: diaries.
What’s a diary? To me, a diary15 is a non-retrospective, autobiographical, narrative, biographical, non-fictive piece of writing. In order, I’ll explain each of these pieces, from least to most specific.
As a person who’s taken Linguistics, I understand the importance of grouping things into dichotomies. As an artist, I understand the frustration of false dichotomies. So, I’ve attempted to group all writings into mutually exclusive categories. First is fictive and null-fictive writing.
Confusingly, my definitions are based the opposite way here. Null-fictive writing is writing concerned with portraying reality, while fictive writing is not.
All writing concerned with reality either has a singular entity at its focus: biographical, or not, null.
All biographical writing is either narrative: biographies and whatnot, or null: blurbs.
All biographies are either autobiographical: about self, or not: all other biographies.
Finally, all biographies are either retrospective: all the action takes place before writing, or not: diaries.
at least in common definitions↩
at least as far as I could see↩
what differentiates a horse from a pegasus from a unicorn? If a unicorn has wings grafted on, does it stay one?↩
well, hate’s the wrong word, maybe “am uncomfortable with”↩
like a good little linguistics child↩
not that they’re special, just that the two English people I said the idea to were immediately hostile, and I’ve never tried grouping music into categories, although the pushback to the Hornbostel–Sachs doesn’t seem to be very major to me (although I’m also almost 60 years late to that fight [wow the 1960’s are more than 50 years away] so what do I know)↩
as far as I can guess↩
ooh maybe this would make an opening line↩
non-fictive writing↩
fictive writing↩
wow, the more I write the more I realize how dangerous that word is. Just because I’m finding something obvious as I write about it doesn’t mean that everyone ever will↩
another word I’m realizing may be taken differently than intended↩
ok so this one may be a bad kind of dichotomy, because it seems completely arbitrary. I can’t think of anything that I couldn’t argue isn’t concerned with a single entity unless I don’t allow breaking, which doesn’t work later. I also got into the whole internal dialogue of “if you believe that God is completely incomprehensible, and that we only see aspects, and every religion sees its own aspect, why do you believe you’re in the ‘One, Holy ... Church’?”↩
in order from most to least specific↩
in order from most to least specific↩
First Published: 2018 October 22
Tofay I had the wonderful opportunity to see Antony and Cleopatra as performed at the National Theatre. It was really well-staged and lit. The sounds were amazing, with one exception.
In the script, it calls for the predecessor of the oboe and bassoon to be playing, as it’s an eerie sound. Instrad, the show chose to use cello. It was certainly a different effect, and not one that I personally was a fan of. But, overall, the sounds were fantastic.
The show was a modern adaptation, and was skillfully executed. The stage continually amazed me, and was hard for me to even comprehend how it some of the changes might be done.
First Published: 2018 October 21
Isaiah 53:11 “Because of his affliction he shall see the light in fullness of days; Through his suffering, my servant shall justify many, and their guilt he shall bear.”
Today is the 29 Sunday of Ordinary Time in Year B.
Today’s first reading speaks about how someone will bear the sins and burdens for others. In doing so, he will “justify many.”
I don’t know why, but I really appreciate the imagery in the first reading.