Disney and Pixar did a great movie when they did UP! However, I find as I get older, I find I relate to the character Carl Fredricksen (done by Edward Asner) more and more, and I still have another fifteen years to go to get “there.”

The community where I live had their annual firework display last evening. The park across the street is the launch site, so sitting on the veranda allows me to see the whole event from a third-row seat POV. (Well, not quite, as there’s a street light in the way to light the parking area by the building. You need something to shield the minor supernova bright LED on the pole…annoying, but manageable.)

My building is devoted to senior living facilities, but there is a sub-division full of family duplex units managed by the same company on the other side of the building, so there’s a LOT of locals in the area, and the presence of my neighbor’s kids/grandkids/nieces/nephews/inlaws/outlaws insures there’s a constant stream of people wandering past all evening. It’s almost as interesting a show watching the people as the sky. Not to mention the (invisible from the patio, but clearly heard) launches from the 40 other buildings behind mine and those firing from the eight-building apartment complex across the street. Many of the visible ones were roman candles and low-cost/power items from the local general stores, but the Phantom Fireworks store (located about a kilometer away) apparently had a good year from the sounds of it.

Finally, after about an hour and a half of the amateur warm-up acts, the stage cleared for the main event, hearlded by a single firework launched into the darkening sky. You could hear (and feel) the excitement in the crowds awaiting the start from the patios on all four floors of my building. It got (relatively) quiet while the smallest voices announced “Grandma, it’s starting!”

It was over in around twenty minutes, give or take a few seconds. In my opinion, easily the WORST firework display I’ve seen in 60+ years. It wasn’t for lack of trying, however.

By my rough estimate, they launched about a thousand projectiles into the sky. Apart from the initial launch (I believe it was a test shot to see what the wind conditions aloft were), there was never another period where there were not at least 3 shells bursting in the sky at a time, with several sessions of a dozen or more simultaniously exploding at once. The finale had too many going off at once to count, but they wasted more in the last 90 seconds than what a full 90 minute display used to send up back in the 60’s and 70’s when I was growing up.

Don’t get me wrong, I like watching fireworks. The operative word here is WATCHING, though. Looking for the launch streamer and tracking the dark projectile along the path, anticipating where and when it would explode. Then, the BANG and watching the sparks spreading across the sky. Watching them die out and listening to the “oohs” and “ahhs” from those around me and discussing just how great the best ones were. Then a modest delay and repeat the process. A great way to kill an hour or so on the mid-summer holiday.

But this year’s event also gave me pause to consider the plight of my fellow veterans that served in combat zones (I was on a ship and was never involved directly in combat…I honor and respect my fellow brothers and sisters in arms who DID see combat directly and I salute you!). In past displays, there was the chest-crushers (nothing to see, but a huge BANG that generated a tangible shock wave you could track by the echos returning from distant buildings and hills) sent up to make sure you were still awake (or to awaken the babes that were sleeping…sorry mom). But they made up a very small percentage of the show, typically only 2-3 in the whole evening. Last night there were a couple of sessions where there must have been streams of 15-20 going off in carpet-bombing fashion. Maybe there was a half second or so between a shell and the next, almost too fast for the flash to die away from one before the next exploded. I’m reasonably certain there were some seasoned vets that were looking for shelter…

Technology has evolved a lot since I was a kid. There are shaped charge fireworks that explode into identifiable shapes: hearts, stars, circles. I think (guess?) there were some of these last night, but it was difficult to tell as before one shot opened totally to view, another couple were going off, too, both near and far. The shells that changed colours a couple of times or launched screamers and spinners were not noticable as they were masked by several others vying for your (limited) attention.

Conspicuously absent was the parachute flare launch of my youth, where a shell would burst and a brilliant white flare would be suspended from a parachute, to float several minutes before burning out. It was fun to watch and see if it would reach the ground before going out (it never did, but still…). Had they used a couple, sending the second up only after the first died off, they might have spanned the whole show…

I tried to appreciate the huge sky-filling displays which only made up a small percentage of last millenium shows, but these, too, paled into insignificance when drowned out by another dozen lesser shots overlaid at the same time. I really tried to appreciate the show, but I believe they compressed a great show by at least a factor of nine, taking a show that could have (read: should have) taken three hours and compressed it into sit-com length (without the commercials). Apparently I’m not ADHD enough for this kind of display.

Next year, I’m considering setting Mr. Spatula (my goldfish) out on the patio to watch the show and get his take on how good it is. Though, full disclosure requires me to declare ahead of time I don’t think this is going to work that well…

I think he has too long of an attention span, too…

Phred

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Last week, I had the opportunity to meet four new people at the library. Not that meeting people at the library is particularly odd, unusual, or abnormal in any sense, but in this case the people were gathered for a singular purpose: to write. Rather, to listen to each other’s writing, for this was the bi-weekly Writers Roundtable meeting.

Apparently, they have been meeting on regular basis at numerous locations for years (though not necessarily together as a singuar group…they have wandered in from other groups scattered around the semi-local area). This gathering location has been a couple years in history. The meeting I attended was only a fraction of what it was a (bi)week earlier, with 7 others failing to make a show. (Not entirely unreasonable, with it being summer; many groups decline during the summer months because of competing activities—the kickball squad being a notible exception.) Half of the regulars brought in material written and printed during the past period for the group to hear and provide input/encouragement/constructive criticism regarding the effort.

My attendance was a semi-spur-of-the-moment event, as I had only learned of the group the day prior while feeding my addiction checking books out of the library. I arrived without a clear understanding of what I was getting myself into, as the only information I had was the time posting on the calendar of events: 6:00 Writer’s Roundtable. I wasn’t sure if it was going to be the standard 12-step group, going in and introducing myself: “Hello, I’m Phred, and I’m a writer…” followed by the group response “…hello, Phred.” Not quite that dramatic, but in some ways just as intense since they were compassionate about their craft. I heard from a younger gentleman writing for a youth picture book describing a room that allowed the user to change their physical and mental capabilities. It ended with the person reverting back to their original state after “cranking the wisdom dial as far as it would go….” It would appear it worked quite well.

The other reader was a middling woman bringing in several chapters (in the 33-38 range) of an ongoing adventure involving a teenage girl and her relationship with several people in her life. As it has been in development for an extended time, I was not as able to appreciate the story as the others, but could see the passion and focus in the work presented, and see a glimpse of the depth of the characters involved.

Both works were received with great enthusiasm and delight. The group was clearly bonded together in this task and was working to help one another become more skilled in their craft. I felt involved and welcome even on the first meeting and was included in the discussions (both the ones involving the readings and the following ones about the group in general).

It was with a measure of regret that I discovered the group was specifically created and focused on fiction writing. As much of the material I create (at least 83 of 97) involves me in some way or another, it seems unlikely a disinterested third-party observer would consider it fiction (even though a close examination of the material from the inside also suggests minimal direct contact with the “shared reality” that third-party observer would be claiming as a basis for fact/fiction, so it’s debatable who’s right in this case). I expressed as unlikely my future attendance to additional meetings in the near future.

But, a definite take-away point I got from my exposure to those for whom this process of putting pen/pencil/ribbon/toner to paper/screen/display is a serious adventure was to clarify a misunderstanding I developed from my education as a youth. Or, rather, a misunderstanding I acquired as a result of the LACK of education as a youth.

Since I’m an old f*rt (it’s taken a lot of trips around the sun to reach the place where I’m sort-of comfortable saying this kind of heresy), my education was during the dark ages before the internet gave you instant, easy access to knowledge. I’m from the Encyclopedia Brittanica era of learning.

My exposure to ancient Greek mythology was essentially as extensive as my development in learning Latin, which in the public schools of the 1960’s was essentially ZERO. Therefore, I sort of understood the concept of the Muse as a friendly, gentle spirit that guided you in the development of your craft. The dictionary.com listing for the second use (subunit 2) of ” (sometimes lowercase) the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker,or the like ” reflects my thoughts of what it was supposed to be like. Light, good natured, friendly and helpful.

Not mine. Often there’s a hint of sulphur and brimstone wafting in the air when my muse has presented itself (gender neutral as it’s not clear if demonic spoor from the underworld actually come in multiple forms). No gentle taps on the shoulder or wispers in my ear to guide my attempts at creating. Rather, great hunks of flesh being rendered from my backside as it’s talons rake across my cowering body, it’s screams of styrofoam packing being rubbed together drowning out the chalkboard scraping fingernails of others trying to distract me from further attempts at maintaining sanity.

When asked, the others didn’t express the existance of a muse in their experience directly, but were driven to write for other reasons best summed up by the group leader. He said once he was asked by someone how they could “know” if they were a writer or not. His response was simply “just stop writing…if you can, you’re NOT a writer.” They write because they write. Oh, if it were only that easy…

To paraphrase something Mark Twain said about being addicted to smoking…

“…it’s easy to quit [writing]. I’ve done it hundreds of times…”

Phred

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