The Birds from IPSA

When it comes to inspiration, sometimes you just have to close those eyes, blank out any thoughts, and let whatever wants to wander through happen.

So... I did.

And what happened to wander through was a long, long ago writing I did for a class in college. It was one of several projects (brilliant projects, I might add) that were part of my Writing for Broadcast course.

The Birds from IPSA.

The International Penguin Spy Association.

Run by Ben and Gwen, two emperor penguins. Their nemesis? A walrus with a broken tusk named... wait for it... The Vicar.

Seriously. This was my project.

The class was tasked with writing a half hour television show. Script, direction, sets, costuming, props, cues, the works. Any subject. Any form. I suppose if I had wanted to write about penguins I could have scripted a documentary, but where is the fun in that. Nope, I wanted to do more of a throwback to the shows of my childhood. Think Man from UNCLE (see what I did there?!)... Wild Wild West... Lancelot Link...

Yep... What's the path my brain went down. A weird, twisty path of penguins in fedoras and trenchcoats; a broken toothed walrus with an ascot; a dingy upstairs office with a door with a dirty window with the cover name of the agency (somehow, that tidbit escapes me at the moment) and worn plank wood floors.

I also can't quite remember the plot of my pilot show. I suppose I could rummage around in the Memory Box that has been packed and repacked and moved at least three times for the original transcript. But the plot is not really the point here. (This is assuming I had a point when I started, or even need to have one.)

The best part of the whole thing was that Professor Grow not only let me create my strange little show (yes, with a raised eyebrow, but he did), but he graded it based on the required criteria. And gave me an A. Sound writing, proper plot development, accurate layout, stayed in time frame, etc. I did get chastised for the use of The Vicar, seeing as how the church in England may not have taken kindly to his character. I suppose those were more politically correct times. Professor Grow always graded blind, with our names on the back of the final page, but I'm pretty sure he knew this one was mine. This may or may not have had anything to do with the paper I had written as Opus, the penguin from Bloom County. (I had a thing for penguins in college. Don't ask.)

Inspiration and creativity should never be "graded" on the subject matter or who the artist happens to be. The final project should be seen for what it is. It is personal, and sometimes singular, and sometimes entirely unnoticed and unappreciated by the world around it. The beauty in the creation belongs to the creator. The world may see it, or not; judge it, or not; grade it, or not; chose to appreciate it, or not. And that part doesn't matter.

Rabbit Holes

Or how I decided to start writing again, got lost, and found myself.

I used to write. A lot! I had great discipline, and would sit down with my first cup of coffee, and write. Almost every day. Almost. Then, life got busy. I mean, not in the actual "busy" sense. But I let myself slack. A lot. And I "let myself go". Until I was rather "out of shape" and no longer disciplined, creatively speaking.

I would start up again, here and there, with smatterings, only to abandon the muse. (Or, maybe she abandoned me, with my half-hearted efforts and lack of focus.) Then, the other night, when I had a thought about my fear of pressure cookers... and it didn't let go. Instead, it grew, and grew, and grew, until I quite realized that it needed to be scripted out. Sort of like when a tune gets stuck inside one's head and the only way to be rid of it is to let it out by singing it. And thus, I remembered my blogs. Plural.

Now, if you look over to the right, you can see a listing of posts. And a gap. A looooooooong gap. An 8 year gap. That does not mean that nothing creative happened in those 8 years. It just means that nothing creative happened that got posted here. Blogger is quite an interesting platform. Once logged in (and that was the tricky part that took longer than my first writing once I was in!), there is this great home page. This page of wonders holds all your settings, templates, resources, etc. And... it shows the list of blogs that you have started. Apparently, I used to write. A lot.

I like to be organized ~cough understatement cough~ and I obviously tried to be a bit orderly when it came to my creative inspiration. I have a recipe blog... for food. And one for martinis. (Ok, mixed drinks shaken and served in martini glasses.) And poetry. And jewelry making. And catharsis. And quite a few for when I had started up writing again and tried to travel down a different path. But this one, my "Amok" time (bonus points if you got that reference), was my favorite. Well, after Stuff We Eat, which is nothing but my recipe journal.

It was on The Muse that I just kind of let the words flow. After I hit "publish" yesterday, I started reading the older posts. Backwards. Yep, I didn't go and start with the first one to see how I got to this point. Nope. I starting working my way back. It was... interesting. Very interesting. And I started rediscovering myself, who I was, what I loved. And... who I am.

I guess I kind of got too "busy" at some point and lost myself along with the writing. And I'm kind of glad I didn't attempt to start yet another new blog fresh, but instead decided to build on the one I have always liked (second) best.

And I think I need to start posting on that recipe blog again as well!

Of Cabbages and Kings...

I made corned beef last night.

This is a big deal. HUGE!

I did not make cabbages though. On this point, I want to be clear.

The reason that this is a big deal is because corned beef terrifies me. Not the meat itself; no, of that, I am most fond. It is the entire process of the making of the meal. You see, my father made the most excellent corned beef, having learned from his mother. It was perfectly spiced and tender and my mouth still waters. And it also involved the most deadly piece of kitchen equipment known to man. The "pressure cooker of death"! Seriously. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that this pot would kill me given the chance, and I wholeheartedly believed this. And it scared the bejesus out of me! Yea, verily, it did. The cooker itself was rather innocent looking enough... with the exception of the mysterious gadget affixed to the lid. Of the pot itself, I had no fear. But that gadget... that round, wobbly instrument of presumed death... THAT was what would do me in! Once the cooking process was begun, and the enticing smells started seeping out, drawing one ever closer... that was where the danger lay! And the wobbly would begin its dance. Slowly at first, then ever more feverishly. Dancing, and wobbling, and singing, and wobbling, and steaming, and wobbling. I assumed it would lure you in, that pot of savoriness, wait for just the right moment... and WHAM! Off the wobbly would fly, hit me square between my young eyes, and end me. Right there, in the kitchen. (It was the pot, in the kitchen, with the wobbly!)

Now, the wobbly never once came flying off, not in all the years (and years, and years) of corned beef that my father made. I never gave it the chance. I kept my distance, knowing that if I dropped my guard, it was death by wobbly for me. I grew up, moved out, and never attempted a proper corned beef. This was mainly due to my refusal to ever own a pressure cooker. Nope, it wasn't inviting that danger into my home! I attempted to cook them a couple times, using misguided Dutch Oven or oven braised recipes. It can't be done, I figured... that wonderful, tender goodness... unless you risk your life! I was doomed to tough, bland chunks of sadness.

So, ok, I was wrong. There is this new miracle thing out there, and the House got one for Christmas this year. (That is an entirely different writing to be attempted another time.) This thing... this "Instant Pot" of wonder... well, it did it! A little Guinness, a little broth... some onions... (also another writing to be found on Stuff We Eat a Lot another time) and it happened! A wonderful lump of perfection that corned beef of my youth! Without the foreboding.... without the fear! Well, maybe just a little fear. I did need to push the "Pressure" button. And release the steam. But I did it.

It is said, "Do one thing every day that scares you." Challenge accepted , fear conquered. I suppose facing my fear of phyllo dough is next.

Ink Blots

Gotta love advancements in technology.
~cough~

I had a printer long ago (so long, it is still plugged into my Windows 98II computer... don't ask) that was the best ever. I printed hundreds, nay thousands, of pages on tiny little ink cartridges. It would even print on "empty". And when the colors ran out, well you could still print in greyscale. For a long, long, LONG time after the refill light began flashing.

Not so in the modern world.

There came the day when "regulations" ~cough cough~ required manufacturers of technology to no longer provide "updates" for computers created before 2007. This meant that by 2009 I could no longer do ANYTHING on my old workhorse & I was forced to upgrade. And print everything at work. Because I no longer had a printer at home that worked with my new computer.

So, always enamored of new toys, I invested in a copier/printer/scanner/fax machine. Not just any machine... a wireless machine so I could copy/print/scan & fax from anywhere in the house. Not only was it wireless, you could use a chip or flash drive.
Wow. Welcome to the new world.

And inside this grand brand new machine was not one "all your colors" ink cart.
Nope, I now had 5.
3 primary & 2 black.
And you can select between color & greyscale.
And I'm thinkin;, "This baby will print forever!!!"

~cough cough cough~

Oh, I am SO naive.

Because these new little ink carts obviously hold an eye dropper full of ink.
And use twice that each time you engage the printer.

Case in point.
We print a lot of text documents for school, work & other activities.
You know, text.
Black & white.
No fancy pictures, or highlights, or frilly fonts (like the old days).
Just... black letters. On white paper.

How declasse.
I know.

So, I need to print something about 3 weeks ago... and the "alarm" goes off.
Not kidding.
A light flashes & a bell dings & you are warned that the end of the world is coming.
And... the printer will not engage.
The small black cart is "low".
Every other ink is registering fine, I know, because there is a fancy bar graph flashing in front of me.
I have PLENTY of ink, even a FULL large black.
But, no, no dice, not printing if the little black is "low".

Grrrr

So, off I go, to the only place that has ink in a 15 minute drive radius.
Because, I live in the middle of nowhere.
And... they are out of exactly one brand of one color.
Yep... the one I need.
For 3 weeks.
Trust me, I "checked back" frequently.

Finally, I gave up, & drove the extra 30 minutes to one of those "office" stores.
Where a nice lady met me at the door, inquired as to my needs, bent over to get my ink for me off the bottom shelf, walked me to the check out AND gave me the lower price I would have gotten at the other store.

I happily returned home, glad to be back in the Land of the Printable, carefully removed the packaging on my new little ink cart, & inserted it into the machine.
Where... it was not recognized.

I did what any rational person would do.
I removed it & reinserted it.
Five times.
Still... the "Ink cartridge not recognized" warning came up & all the little lights on the other ink carts were flashing an angry red.
Finally, in an effort to figure out just WHY the new little ink cart wouldn't play nice, I noticed it.
In tiny little letters.
"GRAY"
What?
I'm sorry, I didn't even know they MADE gray ink!
Luckily, the store would credit me even though I had mangled the packaging (& been an idiot).

So, 2 days later, off again I drove... 30 minutes there & back again.
And unpackaged & reinserted my new little black ink cart.
Only to have... you guessed it... now both the red AND the blue ink carts flashing at me & the alarm going off!!!

Excuse me?

I only print in black & white?
Who-body stole my colors?

OK, fine.
I can still print stuff at work.
Except, now I need to scan something.
You know, that technology where you insert a document, the green light passes over it, & it saves to your computer.
No printing involved.
Only, in an effort to be efficient, save me from certain doom, & drive me mad, the copier/printer/scanner/fax machine is incapable of performing ANY function if the ink is low.

And, yes, I removed the carts, shook them vigorously & replaced them.
Several times.

So, off I went to the 15 minute away store.
Again.
Only to find (drum roll please) that although now they were sufficiently stocked with black ink, they were out of red.

Oh.
My.
Sweet.
Lord!

My only recourse was to purchase the "saver" pack.
You know, the one with all 3 primary colors AND the large black ink. (The small black ink is suspiciously absent from the "saver" pack!)
I saved... $1.

~cough cough cough cough~

I came home, connected the cable to the laptop (because, of course, the wireless isn't working either), turned on the machine, and watched the little alarm go off. Again.
So... I did what any person would do in this situation.

I smacked it.

And proceeded to scan my document AND print 20 pages, some in FULL color of the beautiful USF campus complete with blue skies & palm trees, without a hitch.

Note: at this point, I still have not replaced the "empty" red or blue inks.

I swear, this whole thing was a conspiracy of some sort.

And now I know why psychologists use ink blots for sanity tests.