Monthly Archives: February 2011

More work on Morphology (shiny video)

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I sat down last night to try a couple of things–working out how the Caldera Creative Works logo would look Tron-ified for the movie and to build the light jet I’m going to get to ride in the final film. I wanted to take the light jets from the movie

and kind of marry them with old-school WWII dogfighters, like the Spitfire, in order to give them a kind of older feel.

There’s no doubt that the current light jet pulls inspiration from modern jetfighters. I particularly get an F35 vibe from them–compact little angular homeboys that rock everybody’s socks. So it’s only fitting that our “prototype” light jets pull elements from the classics of aviation history. Anyways, here’s a quick render of what the thing looks like thus far. It’s missing a couple of things and is untextured, but it gives you a nice idea of how it’ll look in the flick. I think it feels heavier than the ones in Legacy, which is what I was aiming for.


I decided to throw some colour on that bad boy just to see what it’d look like. It looks like schiggity schwa.

Light jet

Click to embiggen.

Ice and Oil

Another prose poem, this one from earlier this semester, about teaching, and teaching creative writing in particular.


Ice and Oil

I watch the children dance upon the razor’s edge. No slippers upon their feet, no music upon the breeze. Only shoes of ice and oil, threatening treachery with every step, every pace and turn and link and separation.

I’ve danced these steps before. I have fumbled these steps, teetered upon the micrometer-measured scalpel-blade of judgement. I’ve watched my own dance drip down both sides of the steel.

I watch them dance upon the razor’s edge in shoes of ice and oil and I extend a hand as my voice calls time. I slowly check their balance against the pull of gravity. Until the time comes, they must all continue to pirouette in a line. The time will come soon enough for those who can dismount to do so and for those who must fall to fall.

Their shoes are melting. Water and oil form a frictionless curtain between steel and ice.

I slowly remove my hands, and suddenly I am no longer pulling them up, but waiting below them to applaud their stride off the edge or to catch them as they fall. There are two sides to this. Dichotomy.  Continuance or cessation. As simple as it can be. Occam would be proud.

I watch them dance upon the razor’s edge in shoes of ice and oil and extend my arms to catch one falling. The child scrambles, frustrated, against my grip but as I help ice-clad feet find purchase once again upon the cold-forged steel of requirement they skate off to rejoin the others, bruised ego and vertigo forgotten, lost in the dance.

I cannot let them fall. They must choose which direction they step off the razor’s edge. As long as they don’t trip or slip and make their choice whether to step off one way or another I applaud.

I watch the children dance upon the razor’s edge. No slippers upon their feet, no music upon the breeze. Only shoes of ice and oil, threatening treachery with every step, every pace and turn and link and separation. They step off, one by one, picking a direction and following it, continuing the dance out of my line of sight. One dismounts with a pirouette. I smile.

Driving Distracted

I’m sick of all this Tron posting. Work’s progressing but it’s time to share some other stuff.

Earlier this year, I started experimenting with a form that’s kind of foreign to me. I’ve never dabbled in poetry–I’m a prose writer, a screenwriter, an artist. Not a poet. But there’s something lacking in prose sometimes. Abstract experiences are difficult to capture, and they require a much more loose structure, an ability to express the world and one’s thoughts in an abstracted way.

Enter prose poetry. A perfect balance between the form I’m comfortable with and the range of expression I need.

This one was written in October 2010, as I was driving west on Baseline Road, completed as I pulled into the driveway, and immediately recorded for posterity.

* * *

Driving distracted.

I know this road. I’ve driven it before. Eyes become less about absorbing details as picking out impressions of objects in space. I can’t be bothered to read or respond or evaluate everything I see.

I’m thinking about love.

Trees and street lights, lit signs all streaks of light and noise but no form, no shape. Not objects, no mass, just observable oddities as I move through space. I am aware of vibrations in my palms but not my grip on the wheel. Taillights blur into a single-point perspective, then disappear. Matter is not conserved. It’s all darkness and distance and relative spatial relations as I’m driving this road, the road I’ve driven before.

Intersection. Four points of colour, corners becoming cardinals. I turn left.

This street is dark. I’ve left streetlights and stop signs behind. Movement is irrelevant in empty space. There is no point of reference, no points of light to triangulate my tenuously-held position in relation to my life. Adrift is not the word. I’m under my own power, but my direction is indeterminable. I realize that since well before I turned, I have been ignoring the objects in space, disregarding plotted points in favour of the immeasurability of nothing in between. Easier to not know than to focus on the obvious.

It’s dangerous to drive like this, unseeing and at speed.

I make a turn on faith. A meandering left, in a direction I’ve gone before. It feels right. And at long last a point comes into focus. Defined against the darkness. High-intensity, and installed long before I left. More objects are here, but I don’t see them, not because I’m focussing on the nothing any more but because they are relative, their positions serving to navigate towards the horizon that I see coming, light-years and months away.

Space bends. Relativistic dilation makes it all seem very close. I have to remind myself that I have further to drive tonight.