Last night I had the good fortune of catching Neil Gaiman's Stardust on one of the movie channels. I was iffy about it at first, but by the end it had woven itself into a very charming story filled with fantastic characters. The plot seemed a bit hurried (naturally, seeing as how it's impossible to cram every literary detail into 120 minutes) , and I know that films rarely do their books justice, so I'm planning to add Stardust to my To Read List. There's always room on my bookshelf for one more fairy tale. They're my favorite.

This time it's a baby bird. I found it lying in the curb (actually, my dog found it). I turned around because I'd walked right past it, and then I nearly ended up dragging Heidi (aforementioned dog) right out of her collar. I didn't know what the hell it was at first (you know how freaky baby birds look) but then I walked closer and leaned down and that thing opened its mouth and stretched its neck up and I was like "AAAAUUGHH!" Then I realized it was a bird and I was good.

I don't know how long it was out there baking in the sun, but I got a small cardboard box and constructed a rudimentary nest. Couldn't find any worms in the ground so I fed it some dogfood. I don't think anything's broken and it seems to be doing fine. Then again, the odds of baby birds surviving without their parents is pretty slim. I'll do my best. I don't know if it's a blue jay or a mockingbird. Maybe neither. It's too early to tell.

Last night I caught the 1989 version of Henry V on the tube (not that I know of any other version). I think Kenneth Branagh did a fine acting job, but what surprised me most was that he was not only the director, but one of the writers. A regular one-man band. Huge respect for any man adapting Shakespeare. Well done, Mr Branagh. For the late 80s, the quality of this film was excellent, even rivaling historic dramas that came 10 years later. The Battle of Agincourt was amazing (and not necessarily from a film perspective, either).

And I totally recognized 15 year-old Christian Bale who played the monumental part of THE BOY, right within the first two seconds of seeing him. The guy hasn't had a different haircut in at least 25 years and he was born with the voice he currently has. He's one of those rare people who looks exactly like he did as a kid, just now in full-size mode. A chibi-morph. I was snrrking during the whole movie.

Having never read Henry V, I was also amused to hear quotes that I recognized, particularly Colony 5's Band of Brothers. I was able to finish the quote along with the actor, which amounted to some personal epicness on my part, I thought.

Another entertaining bit of interest I discovered was that Saints Crispin and Crispinian are the patron saints of cobblers, tanners, and bikers. LOL wut?

Any writer who touts the whole "muse" thing doesn't impress me. "I can't write! My muses have gone on vacation," whines the FanFiction.net author. "My muses find inspiration in the outdoors," explains the DeviantArt poet. "I can only compose verse in such an environment under the right conditions."

You know what that tells me? These people aren't writing with their brains; they are only pulling random thoughts out of thin air, jotting them down, and hoping that the end result is legible enough to generate some feedback. (From anybody.) These people are not writing for the art - they are writing for themselves. Or for attention. Or to gratify a specific fantasy or vision that they have in their heads. They are writers with the minds of children, and the only way they can hope to grow is to abandon their childish ways.

These "authors" possess abilities so fragile that the slightest disturbance of their immediate surroundings renders them the floundering, unimaginative persons that they are; or they're looking for someone or something to blame for their lack of brainpower. They have not yet fortified and strengthened themselves against the trials of tedium and outside influences, nor have they trained their minds to the almost-zen state of consciousness through which the words can flow. More importantly, they have not matured to the point of being able to accept the responsibility that comes with being a true writer.

I know this is because no true, hard-working writer wants to go halvsies on intellectual property with some whimsical nonsense like "muses". Until a writer has been infected by the greed for their own personal glory and the vicious lust of their creativity, they will continue to fail in their endeavors. They will continue to thoughtlessly peck on the keyboard, hoping to become better writers while not actively pursuing their own self-education in the matter. And even when they do manage to write something good, what happens next? They turn around and attribute that rare glimmer of artistic creativity to some imaginary "mojo faeries" whose mercurial mercies render them into helpless victims. They are effectively cheating themselves by admitting that they are nothing without their muses. But perhaps that is all they are capable of being in the first place: nothing.

I joke around a lot when others talk to me about my writing. I'm sure I've said once or twice, "Yeah, I must've been channeling some 19th century psychopath when I wrote that!" or various other incarnations of sarcasm. But the truth, my friends, in its totality and absolute clarity, is that when I write, it's all me. No muses. No talismans. No rabbit feet or dreamcatchers or crystals or gods or ghosts dictate to me the things that are swimming in the black ocean between my ears. They belong to me and always will, and my jealousy will not permit me to share them with another.

If I'm not writing, it's either because I don't feel like it, or I've lost interest in the material that I'm producing. It's not that my muses took a vacation, nor is it because I can't find the right patch of sunshine to sit in while I listen to Jonas Brothers on my iPod and daydream about Twilight plotlines. It's my fault if I'm not writing. I will accept the blame because it means I can accept the glory. I am in control. I am all who was ever in control.

P.S. And just for the record, I don't even pretend to believe I'm a great author. I've written almost no original material and most of that material is quite terrible. I've got a lot to learn still, but I'm beginning to see how things work in the world of writing. Hence the preceding observation.

Some time ago I caught Black Snake Moan on TV and I actually enjoyed it. It was a good story with symbology to boot (my favorite). Too bad it wasn't a book or I might have loved it. In any case, over the course of the months that passed I fantasized about a parody, since that's the principal function of my brain. My newest fandom fit the bill and won the bid, and last night I wrote the intro while the internet was down. This latest concoction in my queue of Ghost Rider crimes I dub Black Heart Moan. If the title makes you facepalm in utter despair, give me a second chance. It's not as bad as it sounds and I'm working really hard on perfecting (heh, I said 'hard on') my creative narrative. Please give it a read if you like (it's not much yet, though) and tell me your thoughts.

The steam was rolling off the road from yet another hard rain shower as I was making my way home this afternoon. The sun was baking the blacktop, the humidity thick enough to slice. I have no love for this kind of jungle weather. I turned into my neighborhood with disdainful thoughts when I spied a thick black coil in the center of the road. It's a snake was my first thought. Holy shit, he's going to get killed was my second.

I turned my wheel to avoid hitting the snake and pulled into the nearest driveway. The visibility on this part of the road was poor, and the neighbors have a piquant for ignoring the speed limit signs. I couldn't just drive on and hope for the best; I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I saw the snake's carcass in the road the next day.

I got out of my car. It was still sprinkling, hot and muggy with the sun shining through the steam. The snake was lying still, but I could see it was alive and uninjured-looking. It was perhaps 36 inches in length, two inches in girth at the thickest part. I hesitated a second, not so excited about the possibility of handling a venomous animal. I stepped into the road and saw that it was a black snake, or rat snake I think it's called. Non-venomous. I knew I had to act quickly if I wanted to save it--perched on a dangerous hill with SUVs that like going 45 mph is not where I want to be.

I reached down and grasped it gently behind its head, then used my left hand to grip its midsection (I'd seen it done in person often enough and knew enough about snake anatomy to avoid hurting it). It writhed, a good sign, and as I carried it to a small patch of woods on the side of the road, I felt its muscles moving and its bone structure intact. It was a huge snake, though I only remember it upon reflection. If I had spread my arms as far apart as they could go I think I still could have had a hold on it.

I laid it on a bed of wet, warm leaves and stood up. It was then that I noticed the blood on my right hand, the one that had been grasping behind the head. I think the snake might have gotten clipped by a car, though there were no obvious signs of injury, no crushed head or anything. I washed the blood off my hands in the gutter and returned to my car, shaking from the adrenaline.

I've never been forced to rescue a wild animal from the road, certainly not a snake. My brother is the snake handler in the family, not me. I felt like a hero for my good deed, but I worried, thinking about the blood. Where had it come from? I started my car and returned home. Righteous indignation took hold of me. How could anyone be so careless as to destroy a creature like that? I could have cried, but I got a hold of myself after a minute or two.

I later returned twice to see if the snake had moved; it had, and the third time I checked, it was gone. I hope it's okay. My heart doesn't bleed for many things, but animals in the road is one of them.

This past Tuesday I attended a high school band concert at my alma mater. One of the pieces played by the concert band really caught my ear, Apollo: Myth and Legend by Rob Romeyn, published in 2008. At first listen during the warm-up, I thought it was a piece from Pirates of the Caribbean. It kept nagging me after I went home, and I finally did some research. It turns out I was right.

Apollo: Myth and Legend composed by Rob Romeyn
He's a Pirate composed by Klaus Badelt
Side by side comparison (2 MB mp3, 1:21, 224kbps VBR, 44hz)

It goes from Apollo to Pirate with a brief silence between; the latter is extremely overcompressed, like most modern music, so it will seem louder. Apollo, to its credit, has more variation, creativity with the percussion, and less repetition in the rhythm sections. I think both pieces generate excitement, however "influenced" Romeyn was by the swashbuckery that was PotC.

Thinking about changing my major. Again. Schools, too. My potential occupation field doesn't seem very promising. I just need something I can do until I publish my first book and garner the hatred of the world like my hero, Stephenie Meyer. In any case, graduating from tech school sounds so much more badass than a state college.

Started reading another Clive Cussler novel, Plague Ship. I inherited it from a cock-up of duplicate birthday gifts. As formulaic and predictable as they are, the dude knows how cultivate suspense and action. The sheer volume of his work is pretty admirable, too. And at least I can understand what the hell is going on, unlike my last experience with a Cormac McArrghy novella. Won't go down that Road again.

Ahh. Dinnertime. Everything is well.

Everybody knows two things: 1) A movie is never as good as the literature upon which it is based, and 2) A movie's sequel never does as well as its predecessor.

It seems like the producers are going from consideration to commencement with Ghost Rider 2, which sends waves of horror rippling through every fiber of my pink mortal guts. The first Ghost Rider was mildly entertaining at best. And I'm a fan. There was no character development, it lacked a solid storyline, the plot had more holes than Blackburn, Lancashire, and I firmly believe that the only reason a copy of the screenplay cannot be obtained from the internet is because Mark Steven Johnson, who couldn't write directions out of a cardboard box, is trying to cover up his hack-and-slash job of mangling the putrid puddle of pus he'd already offered up as a screenplay.

Yeah, those are harsh words. But I believe I'm justified in my convictions. Ghost Rider could have been an epic movie of pure yes, but it wasn't. And I know that Johnson had a hand in selling the film short of its potential. A lot of people did, including the actors themselves. It was dumbed down and raped from its comic form, washed, wrung, hung to dry, and translated into a tangled jumble of CG-garbage. While I enjoy the movie for my own sick intents and purposes, I don't approve of what was done in order to bring one of the coolest Marvel legends to the masses.

Bottom line: It could have been done better. A lot better.

I dread the even bigger flop that GR2 will bring. It makes me sick just to think of it. I can't imaging fucking up GR more than it's already been fucked, but unlike most of the GR filmmakers, I've got an imagination and the things I'm seeing scare the shit out of me. Unless Johnson took a hike, had an epiphany, or learned to write those directions out of that cardboard box, my hopes are living downstairs with Satan. (Who says that if Hell gets anymore bad rep that he'll unleash Armageddon three years early.)

I can't remember ever having a semester that lasted so F***ING LONG. FIVE F***ING MONTHS. All I can do is swear right now. At least it's over for the next few months. God, the agony that was Spring '09.

I've already started to get caught up on extracurriculars. Just yesterday I wrapped up Chapter 11 of Wedlocked and posted it; now that I don't have anymore finals to study for I can focus on finishing some kiribans, fanvids, fics, and maybe even website construction. I'm gonna start out slow since I don't want to kill myself at the beginning of my summer break, and I definitely plan to spend a lot of time AFK and taking it easy. I think I almost burned myself out this time around.