Short Changed

Close ... but no cigar.

Still here ... and still writing ... and still contemplating the world. I'm fond of the idea of folded proteins at the moment. I wonder if they could fold into little yachts or even umbrella shapes - a thought I hope to develop into a song for my literal (literary musical). Every Protein Folds.

A few movies have disappointed of late, despite solid, reasonably intelligent plots and controlled emotional topography.
As I left the cinema, I wondered why I wasn't buzzing about the latest Indy film. A few minutes of thought later I had the answer. Easy to demonstrate:

[Little baby spoilers start here ...]

In Indy 1, a jeep-load of Nazis plummets over a cliff; in Indy 2, a cart-full of Thuggies cartwheels into a flaming abyss; in Indy 3, a tank rolls into a ravine plunging a horrified bad guy to his death ...
In Indy 4, a vehicle laden with Russkies nearly goes over ...

In Indy 1, the bad-guys' faces melt; in Indy 2, chief baddy falls into a ravine and his shattered body is dismembered by crocs; in Indy 3, chief baddy ages a hundred years in a matter of seconds ...
In Indy 4, chief baddy sort of just vanishes.

Sure, Indy 4 has its candy store moments (the bomb blast and the ants come to mind), but too many set-ups fall short of expectations.
Similarly, in Hannibal Rising, some guys are killed in reasonably tame ways, and often the viewer isn't even invited to witness their demise. Certainly the ending limps apologetically into the credits with none of the visceral pay-offs we so fondly remember from Silence of the Lambs or Hannibal.

[Little baby spoilers end here, folding into little baby protein cranes.]

Sequels are inherently imbued with mass expectations and preconceptions formed by their predecessors. Our latest game, Haze, suffered in part as a result of expectations that were not fulfilled.
However, we have no excuses for failing to hit the highs and lows, the tapestry of moods, the gasps and the tears that the reader so rightly deserves. And, as McKee observes, once we create a high, we are obliged to subsequently raise the bar: the reader should feel as though his journey is intensifying rather than waning (or, at least, that it is altering direction), for it is such expectation which entices him to turn the next page.

Mercy Wake

I knew your beauty, shared your smile,
And sunlight buoyed me place to place.
I stole your mercy all the while;
Slept to your voice; woke to your grace.
Now, 'tis Hope who sleeps;
The lands that pale; the skies that weep.

How swift the silent ghosts invade,
Their burdens dripping gallow's light,
The dull cortege, the dead parade -
Dilutes my senses; mocks my plight.
'Tis ardent Fate beseeching me
With nought but bones in her embrace:
She stains your words;
She masks your face.

Yet, tho' you may be lost to sight
And I may never turn to see,
I feel your breath upon my neck.
It warms me for eternity.


For J.

Zap Machine

Whack machine with plungers to brake it.

Making Sense?

'Crikey! These new glasses make everything look much bigger!'

My son made me watch EastEnders with him on Wednesday.
This woman and her baby and a man are locked in a bedroom, and there's a mad doctor attempting to break through the door.
I tried so hard to contain myself ... but eventually I had to vent:

'It doesn't make any sense! Why don't they open the window and cry for help? Why are they just cowering in the corner? It doesn't make any sense!'

To which my son replied:

'Some things don't make sense to make it more exciting.'

That told me!

'Crikey! These new glasses make everything look really shiny!'