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The day always starts well with several pages of ramblings beginning with the realisation that today is designated the Glorious Twelfth by those who take joy in blasting birds out of the sky. And that thought lead to this sentence in Luis Alberto Urrea's The Hummingbird's Daughter; "Gusts of butterflies flew out of the bean fields as if the wind had been painted and had shattered into white chips".
What is the opposite of 'sublimation'? Is it possible to freeze gas suddenly, directly to its solid state?
At school we were taught that descriptive writing exercises the imagination and were duly sent out to find an object to bring back to the classroom and then write about it. I brought back the umbriferous flower of a common weed.
Cleave. A word that is its own antonym.[edit monday 17 August 2009: I learn from listening to Steven Fry's BBC Radio 4 programme Fry's English Delight that this would be called a contranym.]
The only party for me happened when I reached my seventh birthday.
This bad writing is akin to poor music: random notes, no rhythm, no melody, no beat . . .
What do I hear, see, taste, smell . . . what do I feel? try this exercise: descibe colours to a blind man; music to a deaf man; taste to a man who has lost his sense of smell
An amateur musician practices a piece of music until he makes no mistakes . . . then stops. A professional musician plays until he cannot make mistakes . . . then keeps playing.
To defend myself from those who may think I'm misogynist recast the preceding sentences completely or use the ugly he/she construction.
These are the gleanings from nearly five pages of my morning writing and now back to the quotidian round of living. I shall be in the bookstore today. Come by and ask me about a book or author I don't yet know. Choir practice this evening . . .
What is the opposite of 'sublimation'? Is it possible to freeze gas suddenly, directly to its solid state?
At school we were taught that descriptive writing exercises the imagination and were duly sent out to find an object to bring back to the classroom and then write about it. I brought back the umbriferous flower of a common weed.
Cleave. A word that is its own antonym.[edit monday 17 August 2009: I learn from listening to Steven Fry's BBC Radio 4 programme Fry's English Delight that this would be called a contranym.]
The only party for me happened when I reached my seventh birthday.
This bad writing is akin to poor music: random notes, no rhythm, no melody, no beat . . .
What do I hear, see, taste, smell . . . what do I feel? try this exercise: descibe colours to a blind man; music to a deaf man; taste to a man who has lost his sense of smell
An amateur musician practices a piece of music until he makes no mistakes . . . then stops. A professional musician plays until he cannot make mistakes . . . then keeps playing.
To defend myself from those who may think I'm misogynist recast the preceding sentences completely or use the ugly he/she construction.
These are the gleanings from nearly five pages of my morning writing and now back to the quotidian round of living. I shall be in the bookstore today. Come by and ask me about a book or author I don't yet know. Choir practice this evening . . .
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