Friday's Forgotten Books: Jean Craighead George

I was saddened to hear of the death of Jean Craighead George yesterday. I think Liz Hand first published a link on Facebook, but loads of others shared the news with the same feeling of loss for her absence and joy for her vivid adventures of the outdoors. One of my former students said she gives a copy of My Side of the Mountain to all the children she knows on their eleventh birthday. What a wonderful habit!

It's no hyperbole to say that book changed my life. A born pagan, I spent months afterward trying to live in the wilds of our back yard (>_<), constructing a "home" in the grapevines dividing my grandparents' house from the Tabors' next door, forming ambitious plans for the giant maple at the corner of our yard in the elbow of the L-shaped fields belonging to St. Gerard's, and attempting to mash acorns into some kind of pancakes -- producing bitter results, which I think Bertie can attest to as well (what are brothers for, but to experiment upon?).

I still long for a falcon.

She has an immense list of publications, which she admits to find intimidating:

This alphabetical list of books is enough to scare off even me. Some of the books listed below are no longer available in print. If you're interested, you probably can find them in the library. The list is not really long when you consider that there are almost 250 million beautiful plants and animals on this earth that I could have written about. 

Generous with herself she posted her email for people to write to her and gave children advice on how to write:

Most of us need a prod to get ideas swirling in our heads. Once that happens it is easy to write. Here are a few prods for writing a story. Perhaps you can use them, perhaps you will say "ugh" and come up with your own original way to write a book. No matter which - write - and write out of the love of words.

Drop by and see some videos with this lovely author and celebrate her life.

See the roundup of FFBs over at Todd's this week.

✍ And a proper announcement later, but check out the new dark fiction site, A Knife and a Quill, for whom I'll be writing reviews; they've kicked off with an interview with me. ☠

AudioBoo: Moths

One touch easy recording, that's what an Audio Boo claims to be. So I had to try it out on my new shiny toy. This is a poem that's supposed to be appearing in a magazine at some point but that was about a year ago that they said so, thus I wonder if it will ever come to be (impatient? I don't know what you mean!). So here's a lovely Atlas Moth photographed by my pal Ayub at the Butterfly World Project (which I'll be seeing this spring!).






Alert readers may recognise the opening line swiped from a news story headline (thanks again, Mark H-J, for bringing it to my attention) that also appeared in another, somewhat more serious, poem "Lullaby" that appeared in Chronogram last summer:

Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds;
Mothers hear the sound of unspoken words;
Fathers know the wishes in your heart;
The magic of love is the only true art.

Massively busy this week: and Bertie's coming to visit next week. Much to be done, yet there is still time for the idle creation of memes:

Surprises and Melancholia (Bitch Buzz)

I meant to do a Friday Forgotten Book, but today took a few unexpected turns which involved a glorious day at the beach, a much overdue haircut and a shiny new iPad2 (thank you Fulbright Foundation) which is charging now. So I have added some lovely photos to the Ireland photo album, including a cute little Scottie dog (oddly enough, I'm working on a story that has one as a character). It's often difficult to get the corvids to sit still long enough -- or close enough -- to get a good picture, but rooks have been the best so far. Sitting in a tree on Claddagh Walk, one proved low enough to allow me to get a couple of shots that look all right. I keep trying to get the hooded crows and the magpies -- they're such fun to watch, but wisely wary of humans. Of course, in Galway there are always swans.

Low tide always has such interesting textures in the sand. I like the barnacles and seaweed exposed as the water recedes. Such a variety of textures. Makes for interesting pictures. And there's always my favourite spot. Sigh. It's so picturesque.

My column is up a bit later than usual: overdose on film coverage in the wake of the even more disappointing than usual choices. How the impact of a film like Melancholia could be overlooked seems a mystery. Oh wait, no it doesn't. It focuses on women and isn't a "chick flick" (horrid term).

Oscar Nomination Melancholia

As Bitch Magazine has already observed, the sky is blue, water is wet, and the Oscar nominations are a big feminist disappointment. This seems to be the year they officially become as irrelevant as the Grammys, an industry showcase that reflects no vision of reality outside the industrial boardrooms. In a year when awards can be offered for run-of-the-mill biopics that make horrid people "vulnerable" and "human" (one begins to suspect a subterranean right wing campaign funding both the films and the awards). At least the National Society of Film Critics and the jury at Cannes  picked up on it.

In the seemingly ever smaller number of films that pass the Bechdel Test, one major film got completely overlooked for the major awards: Lars von Trier's Melancholia. It's kind of stunning because it includes the sort of bravura acting that usually gets awards—had it been men in the roles, perhaps the statues would be lining up. Perhaps it was the uneasy accusations of misogyny leveled at von Trier particularly in the wake of Antichrist. But here's the thing: every female character does not have to be a squeaky clean role model or redeemed hooker. Male characters have the space to be good, bad or better yet, complicated. Women remain largely relegated to secondary roles in most films and to films dismissed as 'chick flicks' when they star in them.

Melancholia is no chick flick. It is harrowing in so many ways—not least for the unflinching portrayal of real depression...

Read the rest at BBHQ as always. I have more to say about Melancholia, I think. I've really only scratched the surface here: I want to talk about visualising the end of the world -- and the music, too. Anon -- always too much to do!

Setting Sail for Inishmore

Miss Wendy and I tried to do the overnight B&B trip to Inishmore. We got up early Tuesday to go get our tickets for the ferry and make arrangements. The woman at the ticket office said the crew were making a decision at 9. They decided not to go that day.

More timid folk would have decided then and there not to make a crossing in January.

Miss Wendy and I, however, were determined, so we went back yesterday and sure enough, the ferry would be sailing so we got our bus & ferry tickets, but decided not to do the whole B&B thing, which ended up being just as well. Remote islands in the Atlantic in January, it turns out, do not offer experiences conducive to relaxed enjoyment. Imagine our surprise.

We found ourselves back in Connemara on the bus, which took a bit longer than we had anticipated to get to the ferry terminal. Miss Wendy, as you know, used to work at the Coast Guard Academy and has been on whaling trips and whatnot. My family used to have its own boat and I've been on ocean ferries before.

I have never been in water that wild! Miss Wendy said she understood now why Poseidon was the patron of horses as well as the sea as we plunged up and down in the waves. Arm rests have other uses than just resting arms, I discovered. I was trying not to think of things like The Poseidon Adventure and just roll with the waves. Even as I write this, I feel that strange sensation again. I didn't feel ill at all, just nervous.

Very very nervous.

It didn't help that all the islanders we met that day said, "Rough crossing?" and then proceeded to regale us with their own decisions not to take the ferry that week. The woman in the stone shop showed off her arm brace and said how she was supposed to go to her doctor on the mainland, "But I'll leave it until next week."

Our tour around the island brought us to seals (which I don't think either of us could make out) and lots of sea birds, which Miss Wendy found in her guide book. The ruins of the 8th century monastery and its cemetery were quite lovely and picturesque, living history.

The beauties of Dun Aengus were considerable but there was a bit of a problem; as the woman in the heritage office told us, "Be careful by the cliffs." What she might have said was, "The opening to the ring fort creates a kind of wind tunnel that combined with gale force wind will knock you off your feet." We discovered that for ourselves. Some dramatic footage of the cliffs.




The cafe where we warmed up before the hike up to the fort gave a lovely warm glow from the turf fire and the delicious food. The pub at the end of the tour proved a welcome sight as we tried to steel our resolve for the journey back. By the time we walked to the pier, the wind howled and the rain assaulted us. We got on board, but they warned us they were changing us to another boat. After about a quarter of an hour, we all decamped for the smaller, less swank ferry.

A few people had told us the journey back would be better, but coincidences added to our nerves. In the pub the telly showed a Raging Nature program on people dying in blizzards detailing how it feels to freeze to death and the woman sitting across the aisle from Wendy read a novel Dead Tomorrow! or something like that. I think we both blanched when one of the sailors, after staring out the fore window for a time intently, reached up to the row of life jackets hanging on a shelf above our heads. However, he was just retrieving his newspaper which he'd put up there. So we plunged on through the sea in the dark this time, rolling and pitching, rising to meet the waves and it was a bit better but still nerve-wracking, so we were glad to reach shore.

You can see all the Inishmore pictures at the end of the Ireland album. I think we're going to treat ourselves to a spa day today. I expect I may be back to visit the Aran Islands.

Critters Poll: still time to vote for me for best horror short, or as part of the Dark Pages: International Noir anthology; you can also vote for the lovely QoE's artwork as cover artist.

BitchBuzz: Butterfly World Project

I'm heading off to Philadelphia for Authors After Dark with Kit Marlowe this morning; doubtless I'll have stories to share from there. Hope to see Todd and Alex while I'm in town. My column today features a lovely place that I can't wait to see first hand. I learned about it from the fabulous photographer of the Pirate Pub.

The Butterfly World Project

By K.A. Laity

Chances are you've spent the last few days desperately defending your small shop from local thugs, wearing your fingers out texting your thug pals for the next riot hotspot, or sobbing quietly as the world seemed to be melting into a fiery ball before your stunned eyes.

When the latest round of cynical politicians trying to capitalise on tragedy for gains in the polls or just to sabotage their rivals gets you down, you need something to restore the will to live.

Just outside London in the rolling green of Hertfordshire you will find the Butterfly World Project, an oasis of beauty and peace that will provide the antidote to fire, police sirens and screams of horror. This £27 million project was conceived by Clive Farrell, a butterfly fanatic and lepidopterist whose dream was to create a tribute to the butterfly and a dedicated centre of learning for the preservation of this fragile and beautiful species. The project is now in Phase III and by the winter of 2012, should be the biggest butterfly experience in the world...

Read the rest at BBHQ!

I Have the Most Amazing Friends

Well, you knew that, right? But they continually amaze me anew; I was flabbergasted today with this incredible treat. Thank you, Niamh! I am still speechless. Can you believe it? This cake shows the fae folk of Ireland welcoming me to a little cottage in Galway by the bay. And the pièce de résistance? Chocolate stout cake.

The pictures don't do it justice. The incredible artistry of the waves of the sea, the trees, and the little chocolate woodpile! All the little fairy folk and the roaring fire: absolutely gorgeous. Everyone said it was almost too beautiful to eat -- but we managed to find a way to do it. As Maryann said (or was it Allan?) it's kind of like a Buddhist sand mandala -- painstakingly created but not meant to last. Except chocolate, mmmm.

The perfect capper to a wonderful day; Mary's home is such a sanctuary, although even out in the hills it was in the 90s. I headed out to the cave as usual and there was a good blast of cold air coming out from its depths. It was a relaxing day with people drifting in and out, conversations and quiet. Wonderful to spend a glorious day with some of my favourite people :-) I felt much better than yesterday, when watching the horror unfold in Norway made me want to runaway with Yeats' Stolen Child.

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Chanctonbury Ring at Midsummer

Liz and I sallied up the rather muddy and slippery slope to Chanctonbury Ring today, which was a bit more daunting than we assumed. In part that was due to the lack of signage. In fact we initially drove past the parking area because there was no warning for the picnic area, just a small sign tucked away next to a cattlefield. Not exactly an optimum picnic spot, but it is really pretty countryside. But where to go from there. We followed a woman who seemed to know where she was going with her black Lab, but she turned back when she saw how muddy it was. We pressed on, being determined to make this walk. Of course it was a lot steeper than we thought it would be, slippery through the woody paths. Recent rain had brought down a lot of detritus and mud which made the trail challenging, but the forest was beautiful and quiet but  for bird songs.

We were congratulating ourselves on at last reaching the top, but when we walked out into the meadow at the top, there was no sure indication of which way the ring lay. Ah, we thought, noticing an intrepid pair of obviously seasoned walkers, we'll ask them. Well, they had no idea; they had much more detailed maps of the area and yet were uncertain exactly where we or the ring fort were. But we all agreed on the most likely direction and struck off again (they quickly pulled ahead of us). We admired the sheep and were cheered to see the growth of trees in the distance that seemed to look like the ring and admired the view around us -- well, as long as it lasted because the clouds closed in and the rain began and the wind whipped up to show us who was boss.

However, we were determined now and nothing would stop us from making the last bit of the journey and sure enough we could see the earthen wall and walked up into it to find a guy with his bike (I'm guessing he did not come up the same path) gathering mushrooms. We had quite a feeling of accomplishment as the wind whipped around us and decided to  celebrate by heading back down. It's quite an amazing journey. Legend says that you can conjure the devil by running around the ring counter-clockwise seven times. He will offer you soup for your soul.

Liz made soup for lunch; I ate it anyway. It was very good.

The Oxford Odyssey, Part 2

Our visit to Rowan Oak today, Faulkner's home -- a very comfortable and soothing home.

Then we went off to the Clear Creek Recreation Center to do a little strolling and bird watching. Anyone know what those grapefruit-sized things are? Some kind of nut?

BitchBuzz: Little Earthquakes

My latest column for BitchBuzz touches on the laughable comment by an Islamic cleric that women's provocative dressing and sexual desire causes earthquakes. Ridiculous because even small children who look for logical answers to natural phenomena know about fault lines, but just another depressing indication of the scapegoating of women that goes on. Until my friend Byron turned my head around:

Dust kicked up across the net this week when a Iranian cleric, Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, claimed that women dressing provocatively and "spreading adultery" were responsible for earthquakes. Kind of makes you wonder if some woman's solo pleasure caused the eruption of the Icelandic volcano (since apparently [she says arching a disbelieving eyebrow] masturbation is the last sexual taboo remaining).

The responses across the globe were predictably a mix of amused and angered: amused that someone in the 21st century could so ignore so much accumulated scientific fact, angered that it's still possible for so many people to blame women for a wide variety of evils...

Read on to see the insight my pal gave me (and gratuitous Tori Amos lyrics :-)

Nearly the end of the semester so everything is busy madness. Yesterday was a non-stop day from when I awoke far too early from a bad dream, teaching, office hours, teaching, faculty meeting (where I had to present the Women's and Gender Studies Certificate for approval, which it received despite some cranky emails before the day), a reception for our first volume of the undergraduate research journal, back to write my column, off to meet up with friends and then back home again in time to finish writing the column and off to bed. 

Wow -- even makes me tired just typing it.

Happy Earth Day, folks. Do something nice for the planet -- and not just today, either.

Welcome, spring!

Review: Bright Star

I headed off to see Jane Campion's latest film, Bright Star, with my intrepid fellow film reviewer, Peg, on Friday. Yes, it was another afternoon matinée, or what we have come to call the blue hair screening. It was also a particularly packed one, so there was nowhere to go to get away from the gentleman next to me emitting rather noisy, um, eruptions, nor to escape the man a row back who suddenly began snoring loudly upon the instant in which one of the characters mentioned needing to sleep (about two thirds of the way through the film).

Named for Keats' poem "Bright Star" the film follows the development of the attachment between Fanny Brawne (Abbie Cornish) and John Keats (Ben Wishaw) in the early nineteenth century. The cast is full of actors you recognize (well, if you watch a lot of small British films) and for the most part excellent and able to slip into their roles with ease. Paul Schneider as Charles Armitage Brown sometimes seems to be powering his Scottish accent with a bellows, nonetheless he has a terrific physical presence that makes much of the intricate intimate relationship between himself, Keats and Brawne. Wishaw brings a vulnerability to the poet, but also a wistful humour. His passionate reactions at times seems to be about to make his limbs fall apart. Cornish brilliantly conveys the awakening interest Brawne develops for this most unlikely man, and her transformation from hard-headed bon vivant to love-sick partner completely captivates.

The film is leisurely and episodic, as you might expect from Campion -- it's also incredibly gorgeous, making the most of both the period costumes and Brawne's fascination with fashion. The color is absolutely breathtaking in some scenes (yes, yes, the bluebells lavender [thanks, Chloë!]) and as enervating as a black hole in others. I can't recall the last time an entire audience stayed spellbound through the closing credits, but in our showing they did -- everyone listening to Wishaw's recital of "Ode to a Nightingale" as the music continued and the credits rolled by. Wonderful.

Contrasts

So, my day started by waking up to this disturbing sight:



because I had stayed at Jenise's after celebrating her birthday with Cary Grant movies and some wine -- and then a little Hennessey. Yum! Of course it was more relaxing to know I didn't have to drive home that night and her guest room is quite comfortable and, as you can see, guests are carefully watched over.

Nonetheless I was up early to join friends for a day's retreat to relax and recharge at Universal Pathways. The lovely Mary Browne has created a gorgeous sanctuary in Berne, NY with acres and acres of countryside and forests, streams and a cave. We all wandered about in various locations then met up at the main building for lunch, then wandered off again, though many of us gravitated toward the cave for a little music.



While wandering through the woods I came across this tree that had been uprooted probably by high winds. There are ravens, turkeys, elk and more in the woods around Mary's. Pheasants too, I guess, though the only one we saw had been hit by a car on the road!



After wandering through the woods I came out into a wide field, still green, though the leaves have begun to change. I could see where the elk or deer had lain in the field, so with the midday sun shining bright I decided to do the same. There was hardly a cloud in the sky anywhere as I gazed up, and though the wind was cold, the sun was quite warm. It was like being ten again. Big smiles. Good day.