The first day was a long day, beginning with a 6am train up to Liverpool from London after a fun night out (more about that soon) and ending with an evening reception. The nice thing was that I was bumped up to first class on the trip, so like any good peasant, I had endless refills of tea and a free breakfast. I love train travel, especially across the beautiful English countryside. I saw fields of cows (and not just Holsteins!) and of sheep (black-faced with tiny lambs) and horses, ponies, a murder of crows, eruptions of daisies all along the tracks, swans sailing along tiny brooks, three hares, outside Tamworth the sudden appearance of orange poppies, a goat, a geodesic dome, a brace of trainspotters, a fluffy white cat in the middle of a deep green field. Here and there were gnarled trees, leafless, as if writhing in some secret pain. I noticed that from the back the Virgin staff's uniforms looked like Starfleet uniforms. We passed a pub called the Grazier's Arms and I wondered what a grazier was.
The cabby had no idea where the mystically titled Carnatic Halls were despite my handing him a map; he was equally amazed that I liked London which he thought a horrible (Southern) place. Nevertheless, we found ourselves eventually in the right place in time for me to drop my bag in my room and get a cup of tea before the first plenary session by Morny Joy. The hard part after that was choosing which panel to attend in the parallel sessions. I started out with the Indian Philosophies and Hindu Traditions, which was a delight if far too short (a problem throughout--but then any one of several panels could have been a whole day in itself). There was a fun pop culture panel after lunch (although I was disappointed the woman who had a paper on Kate Bush did not turn up), followed by a plenary by Regina Schwartz (author of Curse of Cain and more), who was a real energetic speaker. For the last session, I chose a panel on ecofeminism and environmentalism and ended up chatting with two of the speakers a great deal over the rest of the conference. After dinner there was a poetry reading, but I was too tired to stay up much later, and I did want to go over my presentation which I would give at 8.30 the next morning (eek).
Well, the presentation went okay, although the 30 minute slot really ended up compressing things a bit too much. We even went outside to hold it because the hot streak was in place even up north in Liverpool and oddly enough, the buildings were not equipped to cope with this kind of weather. The pagan/goddess panel followed immediately and turned out to be excellent and I distributed my card to all on the panel in hopes of getting their papers for my write up for the Beltane Papers.
Saturday was also the first day of Luce Irigaray, who was the inspiration for the conference and, quite often, its topic too, as many participants utilized, responded to, or critiqued her theory. I had a picture in my mind -- a Francophone literary and cultural theorist -- that did not match reality. Irigaray was no slinky, thin, cigarette-puffing icon of chic, but as a Finnish woman characteristically noted, rather like Moomin Mama. She was a delight, thoughtful but down to earth and everyone seemed to enjoy her immensely (with the exception of one guy who seemed to have come to the conference just to disagree with anything anyone said in a voice dripping with scorn). One of the few negative notes -- the other was the snooty reception poet Deborah Rasa got for (gasp!) reading her own poetry at a literature panel (a truly bizarre reaction from the panel chair).
There was a terrfic woman from Iceland who gave a presentation of a small part of a much larger project that I hope to get a copy of; I learned about wonderful medieval Indian mystic Lalla from a Pakistani woman who now lives in Atlanta, and about amazing speculative fiction by women (like Katharine Burdekin) in the late 19th and early 20th century from a Portuguese woman who teaches English literature. It was a wonderful time for conversations, the mix of women from around the world was really the best part. All too soon it was time to leave, but many of us exchanged cards and emails and hoped to keep in touch. There are plans for publications and projects and many were already talking about "next time"; may it come to pass!
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
A Rosetta Stone
Thanks to my brother, Robert, I just got hold of a long lost lynchpin of my childhood: Shrieks at Midnight: Macabre Poems, Eerie and Humorous, as selected by Sara and John E. Brewton and illustrated by Ellen Raskin.
He and I each had this book checked out from the Elmwood Elementary School library for ages. Unwrapping the package this morning I recognized the cover immediately and started flipping through it. It's great to have that sense of finding a long lost friend; better yet that it is still fun to read.
Algy saw a bear;
The bear saw Algy.
The bear had a bulge;
The bulge was Algy.
I first read Dorothy Parker between its orange covers (her classic suicide lament "Résumé"), and it was probably also my first exposure to Edward Lear. Who can say the profound effects it had on my developing subconscious?
Little Katy wandered where
She espied a grizzly bear;
Noticing his savage wrath,
Katy kicked him from her path.
Little Katy, darling child,
Met a leopard, fierce and wild;
Ere the ugly creature sped off,
Little Katy bit his head off.
So many of the poems (like the above) lack an attribution. But there are also many well known authors who turn, at least occasionally, to the macabre:
WAKE
Tell all my mourners
To mourn in red --
Cause there ain't no sense
In my bein' dead.
-- Langston Hughes
Thank you, Robert!
He and I each had this book checked out from the Elmwood Elementary School library for ages. Unwrapping the package this morning I recognized the cover immediately and started flipping through it. It's great to have that sense of finding a long lost friend; better yet that it is still fun to read.
Algy saw a bear;
The bear saw Algy.
The bear had a bulge;
The bulge was Algy.
I first read Dorothy Parker between its orange covers (her classic suicide lament "Résumé"), and it was probably also my first exposure to Edward Lear. Who can say the profound effects it had on my developing subconscious?
Little Katy wandered where
She espied a grizzly bear;
Noticing his savage wrath,
Katy kicked him from her path.
Little Katy, darling child,
Met a leopard, fierce and wild;
Ere the ugly creature sped off,
Little Katy bit his head off.
So many of the poems (like the above) lack an attribution. But there are also many well known authors who turn, at least occasionally, to the macabre:
WAKE
Tell all my mourners
To mourn in red --
Cause there ain't no sense
In my bein' dead.
-- Langston Hughes
Thank you, Robert!
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Bells, Books and Candles -- and Sigils, Bears and Rakes
Wednesday of last week we met up with Roger Sabin and Libbie McQuillan for an image-intensive day out (doesn't that sound much more dynamic than we looked at art and museums and then drank Belgian beer?). We started at the cafe in Foyle's, which has become much more like its neighbor across the street. I don't think we'd seen one another since the BD conference in Leuven/Louvain (ah, Belgium!) which was such a delightful time.
After consuming our beverages, we headed down the street to a student exhibit at Roger's college which was quite entertaining despite beginning on the top floor (did I mention how nigh-on-Texas-hot London was last week?). The works varied from the imitative to the inspired -- a big favorite was the guy who took photos of himself squeezed into tiny places (between phone booths, under benches, inside rubbish bins) then captioned them with his feelings about being squeezed into the spot. Quite amusing and had the effect of making us wonder what it would be like to worm ourselves into small openings we passed later in the day, so mission accomplished I think. Art ought to change the way you see the world.
We went off in search of the Cartoon Art Trust, only to discover that it was once again in the process of relocating, so not ready for visitors (as was Skoob one of our favorite bookstores in London). But our motto of the day was "Nil desperandum" and Roger, thinking quickly, suggested a visit to the Soane Museum where we could see some Hogarth paintings and a lot of Empire plunder. The museum was a short walk away and turned out to be a delightful oddity, chock full of the bric-a-brac the wealthy architect accumulated by the mere compulsion of interest. It was fascinating to see the Rake's Progress up close. There are so many details impossible to guess from reproductions.
Our next stop on our impromptu tour of the less-well-known museums of London took us to the Freemason's Hall on Great Queen Street to see the museum/library and even better! the gift shop. What amazing items -- wonderful silverwork, peculiar items like the horse's hoof turned into a snuff box, lots of flashy spangled ribbons and medals. We even saw some actual masons on the fire escape in full regalia, chatting on cell phones and offering a lovely contrast of the ancient and modern. But I suspect Roger is right; this openness is a concerted effort to dispel the notion that there is anything even remotely unusual about the Masons.
"People might think that to become a Freemason is quite difficult. It's actually straightforward."
"Q Why are you a secret society?
A We are not, but lodge meetings, like those of many other groups, are private and open only to members. The rules and aims of Freemasonry are available to the public. Meeting places are known and in many areas are used by the local community for activities other than Freemasonry. Members are encouraged to speak openly about Freemasonry."
"Q Why do your 'obligations' contain hideous penalties?
A They no longer do. When Masonic ritual was developing in the late 1600s and 1700s it was quite common for legal and civil oaths to include physical penalties and Freemasonry simply followed the practice of the times. In Freemasonry, however, the physical penalties were always symbolic and were never carried out. After long discussion, they were removed from the promises in 1986."
Nothing to see, move along, we're just ordinary business men in aprons. Of course -- but we bought things in the gift shop anyway. Gene is very proud of his masonic teddy bear. Seeing as we had worked up a mysterious thirst by then, we headed off to Belgo to find alchemical solutions to this problem. Some Leffe did the trick for me, Hoegaarden for others. What thirst cannot be appeased by the application of Belgian beer? So we chatted away the evening over some moules frites and more beer, and had a great time.
And yes, there is more to say about the London trip: TO BE CONTINUED
After consuming our beverages, we headed down the street to a student exhibit at Roger's college which was quite entertaining despite beginning on the top floor (did I mention how nigh-on-Texas-hot London was last week?). The works varied from the imitative to the inspired -- a big favorite was the guy who took photos of himself squeezed into tiny places (between phone booths, under benches, inside rubbish bins) then captioned them with his feelings about being squeezed into the spot. Quite amusing and had the effect of making us wonder what it would be like to worm ourselves into small openings we passed later in the day, so mission accomplished I think. Art ought to change the way you see the world.
We went off in search of the Cartoon Art Trust, only to discover that it was once again in the process of relocating, so not ready for visitors (as was Skoob one of our favorite bookstores in London). But our motto of the day was "Nil desperandum" and Roger, thinking quickly, suggested a visit to the Soane Museum where we could see some Hogarth paintings and a lot of Empire plunder. The museum was a short walk away and turned out to be a delightful oddity, chock full of the bric-a-brac the wealthy architect accumulated by the mere compulsion of interest. It was fascinating to see the Rake's Progress up close. There are so many details impossible to guess from reproductions.
Our next stop on our impromptu tour of the less-well-known museums of London took us to the Freemason's Hall on Great Queen Street to see the museum/library and even better! the gift shop. What amazing items -- wonderful silverwork, peculiar items like the horse's hoof turned into a snuff box, lots of flashy spangled ribbons and medals. We even saw some actual masons on the fire escape in full regalia, chatting on cell phones and offering a lovely contrast of the ancient and modern. But I suspect Roger is right; this openness is a concerted effort to dispel the notion that there is anything even remotely unusual about the Masons.
"People might think that to become a Freemason is quite difficult. It's actually straightforward."
"Q Why are you a secret society?
A We are not, but lodge meetings, like those of many other groups, are private and open only to members. The rules and aims of Freemasonry are available to the public. Meeting places are known and in many areas are used by the local community for activities other than Freemasonry. Members are encouraged to speak openly about Freemasonry."
"Q Why do your 'obligations' contain hideous penalties?
A They no longer do. When Masonic ritual was developing in the late 1600s and 1700s it was quite common for legal and civil oaths to include physical penalties and Freemasonry simply followed the practice of the times. In Freemasonry, however, the physical penalties were always symbolic and were never carried out. After long discussion, they were removed from the promises in 1986."
Nothing to see, move along, we're just ordinary business men in aprons. Of course -- but we bought things in the gift shop anyway. Gene is very proud of his masonic teddy bear. Seeing as we had worked up a mysterious thirst by then, we headed off to Belgo to find alchemical solutions to this problem. Some Leffe did the trick for me, Hoegaarden for others. What thirst cannot be appeased by the application of Belgian beer? So we chatted away the evening over some moules frites and more beer, and had a great time.
And yes, there is more to say about the London trip: TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, June 27, 2005
There and Back Again
I think I'll work backwards to cover the trip. It might be easier and anyway, it will be great to end at the beginning. We were lucky enough to stay with our friends Brad and Liz Brooks in their Ealing home, entertained by little Sophie. It seemed a bit much, bringing our additional anarchy into their busy home -- they run a business, Sequential Design, are beginning renovations to the house, and have an active 2 year old -- add two houseguests and well, many would draw the line there. We tried to be helpful rather than another burden, but of course, we all know about houseguests and fish!
Of course our idea of 'useful' was generally things like helping to teach Sophie -- who was recently introduced to Dr. Who via the latest series -- to say "Exterminate!" in her best dalek voice. By the end of the week, even her baby dolls could say "Exterminate!" We disavow any ties, however, to the recent dalek disappearance.
Of course we would not impose on friends without bribing our way with some gifts; our currency of choice was the breakfast cereals and snacks far too unhealthy to be sold in Britain: Froot Loops (no longer Marshmallow Blasted), Lucky Charms and Doublestuff Oreos -- and the reasonably healthy Craisins. We are so very grateful to Brad and Liz for putting us up (putting up with us) -- hotels in London are outrageously expensive. Liz was kind enough to pick us up and deliver us back to Gatwick, as well as drop us off at railways before we got our Oyster cards, too.
The best thing was sitting around most nights just chatting and catching up. It's been a few years since we've been together, so there was a lot to talk about. It's great when you have the kind of friends who, even if you don't see them face to face for a while, can pick up with where you left off with ease. It was so relaxing and fun -- lots of laughs and silliness. We got a belated introduction to The Day Today, yet another terrific British comedy show. That ended up being the theme of the trip for me. I had planned to look for Sunshine on Putty and luckily enough, found it for 1/3 the cover price (yay!) at the Book and Comics Exchange at Notting Hill Gate. I also managed to get copies of recent books on Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, including Tragically I Was An Only Twin and Goodbye Again which includes many of their scripts together (Americans who only know Moore from his few films here are missing a lot, from Beyond the Fringe to the Pete and Dud dialogues). On top of that are several CDs of British comedy courtesy of Brad (thanks!) so I may keep laughing for months.
Much more to write, but I need to actually do a little work now. Good news - the Clive essay may be included in an anthology provided I can find the time to make a few alterations. But for now -- TO BE CONTINUED!
Of course our idea of 'useful' was generally things like helping to teach Sophie -- who was recently introduced to Dr. Who via the latest series -- to say "Exterminate!" in her best dalek voice. By the end of the week, even her baby dolls could say "Exterminate!" We disavow any ties, however, to the recent dalek disappearance.
Of course we would not impose on friends without bribing our way with some gifts; our currency of choice was the breakfast cereals and snacks far too unhealthy to be sold in Britain: Froot Loops (no longer Marshmallow Blasted), Lucky Charms and Doublestuff Oreos -- and the reasonably healthy Craisins. We are so very grateful to Brad and Liz for putting us up (putting up with us) -- hotels in London are outrageously expensive. Liz was kind enough to pick us up and deliver us back to Gatwick, as well as drop us off at railways before we got our Oyster cards, too.
The best thing was sitting around most nights just chatting and catching up. It's been a few years since we've been together, so there was a lot to talk about. It's great when you have the kind of friends who, even if you don't see them face to face for a while, can pick up with where you left off with ease. It was so relaxing and fun -- lots of laughs and silliness. We got a belated introduction to The Day Today, yet another terrific British comedy show. That ended up being the theme of the trip for me. I had planned to look for Sunshine on Putty and luckily enough, found it for 1/3 the cover price (yay!) at the Book and Comics Exchange at Notting Hill Gate. I also managed to get copies of recent books on Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, including Tragically I Was An Only Twin and Goodbye Again which includes many of their scripts together (Americans who only know Moore from his few films here are missing a lot, from Beyond the Fringe to the Pete and Dud dialogues). On top of that are several CDs of British comedy courtesy of Brad (thanks!) so I may keep laughing for months.
Much more to write, but I need to actually do a little work now. Good news - the Clive essay may be included in an anthology provided I can find the time to make a few alterations. But for now -- TO BE CONTINUED!
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Extra! Extra!
Gene quoted in the Hartford Courant! Of course, do they get the details right? Nah! It's only journalism...
Eye Candy
Here's Elena's first illustration for my story "Raising Lempi" -- such lovely inspiration from which to work. I can't wait to see what else she draws.
And for contrast, here's a more bizarre picture from the Arkansas Northwest Airport.
For only $4.99 you can read about proven methods for doubling your church's attendance. Talk about targeting your markets. It was on a rack with other booklets on Ozark folk tales and music.
Oh, and continuing an ongoing trend: yesterday's Writer's Almanac featured the poem "Turtle" by Kay Ryan. I don't know that I would agree with her opening line: "Who would be a turtle who could help it?"
Packed (nearly); soon we'll be away from the ozone alerts and into the smog of London. I'm looking forward to seeing the Chihuly exhibit at Kew Gardens -- a nice way to greet midsummer.
And for contrast, here's a more bizarre picture from the Arkansas Northwest Airport.
For only $4.99 you can read about proven methods for doubling your church's attendance. Talk about targeting your markets. It was on a rack with other booklets on Ozark folk tales and music.
Oh, and continuing an ongoing trend: yesterday's Writer's Almanac featured the poem "Turtle" by Kay Ryan. I don't know that I would agree with her opening line: "Who would be a turtle who could help it?"
Packed (nearly); soon we'll be away from the ozone alerts and into the smog of London. I'm looking forward to seeing the Chihuly exhibit at Kew Gardens -- a nice way to greet midsummer.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Off to England Tomorrow
I am disappointed to find that my British Library Card expired in the fall. I will have to take it along and see if I can renew it -- at least this time, perhaps, I can get a better picture! We do need to pack...at some point. Doing one load of laundry right now.
The first paragraph of my recent paper on Clive Barker is online at the best site on Clive, Phil & Sarah Stokes' Revelations. It's down at the bottom of the page with other commentaries, so I'm chummed with Ramsey Campbell, Christopher Fowler, and Doug Winter. Not bad company, eh? The paper is supposed to be under consideration for an anthology, but I have heard nothing from the editor, so who knows.
I received a rejection on a story (second one for that particular story, sigh), but an acceptance for an essay. It was the one I was hastily finishing at Kalamazoo, so I guess it was worth taking that afternoon off. It's a terrific idea that ties together several interests: medieval literature, film and horror. It's about a medieval Scandinavian ballad and two films it inspired, Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring and Wes Craven's Last House on the Left (couldn't be much more different, could they?).
I'm very disappointed, too, that the Maine Kantele Institute has been canceled this year. With luck, it will be back next August. We are thinking of coming to New England anyway because we need to see our friends and reacquaint ourselves with the color green (yes, I got a lot of green for the past few weeks, but what about poor Gene?).
And the really terrific news: we'll be seeing Patti Smith and Alan Moore Thursday night in London. WOW! Many thanks to Liz for picking up the tickets! She and husband Brad are the geniuses behind Sequential Design and longtime pals. They arranged our first trip to Angouleme and are allowing us to once again bunk at their house in London. We're very lucky!
The first paragraph of my recent paper on Clive Barker is online at the best site on Clive, Phil & Sarah Stokes' Revelations. It's down at the bottom of the page with other commentaries, so I'm chummed with Ramsey Campbell, Christopher Fowler, and Doug Winter. Not bad company, eh? The paper is supposed to be under consideration for an anthology, but I have heard nothing from the editor, so who knows.
I received a rejection on a story (second one for that particular story, sigh), but an acceptance for an essay. It was the one I was hastily finishing at Kalamazoo, so I guess it was worth taking that afternoon off. It's a terrific idea that ties together several interests: medieval literature, film and horror. It's about a medieval Scandinavian ballad and two films it inspired, Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring and Wes Craven's Last House on the Left (couldn't be much more different, could they?).
I'm very disappointed, too, that the Maine Kantele Institute has been canceled this year. With luck, it will be back next August. We are thinking of coming to New England anyway because we need to see our friends and reacquaint ourselves with the color green (yes, I got a lot of green for the past few weeks, but what about poor Gene?).
And the really terrific news: we'll be seeing Patti Smith and Alan Moore Thursday night in London. WOW! Many thanks to Liz for picking up the tickets! She and husband Brad are the geniuses behind Sequential Design and longtime pals. They arranged our first trip to Angouleme and are allowing us to once again bunk at their house in London. We're very lucky!
Monday, June 13, 2005
Houston
I recall (dimly, I must admit) the end of Anita Brookner's Hotel du Lac where the protagonist writes out a telegram to send which says "Coming home," then she changes her mind, crosses it out and writes "Returning."
I have returned to Houston, and it is quite jarring after my month of solitude. It is good to be with my sweetie and my kitties (and all my stuff -- I've barely had time to play my new harp!), but the jangling irritations of this ugly city are no more welcoming than they were four weeks ago. We had errands to run that took us out on the west side where the endless construction complicates the always horrendous traffic and I could feel my warm fuzzy feelings evaporate.
Well, we are off to England on Wednesday, so there won't really be a chance to adjust. When we return from that trip, I will have to make some changes to my life to preserve the new habits I have developed in Eureka Springs. At least it won't be difficult to keep up the walking in London. Best of all, Gene and I will be together running down the streets of London having adventures. Hey, for us picking through all the used book stores on Charing Cross Road is an adventure!
I have returned to Houston, and it is quite jarring after my month of solitude. It is good to be with my sweetie and my kitties (and all my stuff -- I've barely had time to play my new harp!), but the jangling irritations of this ugly city are no more welcoming than they were four weeks ago. We had errands to run that took us out on the west side where the endless construction complicates the always horrendous traffic and I could feel my warm fuzzy feelings evaporate.
Well, we are off to England on Wednesday, so there won't really be a chance to adjust. When we return from that trip, I will have to make some changes to my life to preserve the new habits I have developed in Eureka Springs. At least it won't be difficult to keep up the walking in London. Best of all, Gene and I will be together running down the streets of London having adventures. Hey, for us picking through all the used book stores on Charing Cross Road is an adventure!
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Before I Leave
Let me recount the things I have learned from the other writers here, who have been so generous with their own knowledge and experiences. I learned that:
[Rebecca] gullible is in the dictionary;
[Terri] even talking about Cajun cooking makes me hungry;
[Agymah] turtles love to lie on their backs with their feet kicking in the air;
[Mary] despite the best efforts of MFA programs everywhere, stories do still need a beginning, middle, and end;
[Michele] deer bite really hard.
I had a wonderful time at Dairy Hollow: wrote much, walked lots, chatted with all kinds of folks. It's very hard to leave. But Fuzzy should be here in an hour and I will be on my way to the airport. Guess I better finish packing (including this computer).
[Rebecca] gullible is in the dictionary;
[Terri] even talking about Cajun cooking makes me hungry;
[Agymah] turtles love to lie on their backs with their feet kicking in the air;
[Mary] despite the best efforts of MFA programs everywhere, stories do still need a beginning, middle, and end;
[Michele] deer bite really hard.
I had a wonderful time at Dairy Hollow: wrote much, walked lots, chatted with all kinds of folks. It's very hard to leave. But Fuzzy should be here in an hour and I will be on my way to the airport. Guess I better finish packing (including this computer).
Big Night Out
Well, I got back too late to chat with Gene, so I decided to upload some pictures and videos. We went to the Caribe for some good food and sillyness. Then we headed up to the Crescent Hotel, where there was -- as usual -- a wedding going on, and also as usual, Jesus of the Ozarks off in the distance. We found our own way of dealing with the ideas. Michele and I chatted about a million things. The roads were dark on the way back, but all downhill. Tomorrow afternoon I'll back in Houston -- it will seem so strange.
FYI: It took thirty minutes to upload the video on a phone modem. I miss my cable modem! 7M -- I have been so spoiled!
If you're ever in Eureka Springs (and why not? it's a lovely vacation spot!) stop by the Caribe for some fine food, then sit out on the Dr. Baker 's Lounge (go out on the patio!) at the Crescent Hotel and see the giant Jesus ("I love you THIS much!") of the Ozarks.
Trying not to be bitter that I have not yet seen Howl's Moving Castle...
FYI: It took thirty minutes to upload the video on a phone modem. I miss my cable modem! 7M -- I have been so spoiled!
If you're ever in Eureka Springs (and why not? it's a lovely vacation spot!) stop by the Caribe for some fine food, then sit out on the Dr. Baker 's Lounge (go out on the patio!) at the Crescent Hotel and see the giant Jesus ("I love you THIS much!") of the Ozarks.
Trying not to be bitter that I have not yet seen Howl's Moving Castle...
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Last Looks
I finally remembered to take along my pda/sampo so I could take a picture of my little schnauzer buddy and he (just barely) stood still long enough for me to take a snap:
I tried to take another but there was a bit too much sun on the lens for it to turn out well. The old guy who owns him was teasing me again, apologizing for his scary guard dog (as the dog rolls on his side for me to rub his belly). I will miss my little pal.
It was that melancholy wistfulness which brought to mind "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go," no doubt. That and perhaps the fact that I've listened to Blood on the Tracks repeatedly while I've been here (have yet to get tired of that album in -- wow! -- thirty years). Considering I started out with "God Save the Queen" in my head (the Sex Pistols version, not the traditional one) this morning, it was a bit of change. The alteration in music was most likely inspired by the landscape. "Dragon clouds so high above" and "Purple clover, Queen Anne's lace" surround me on my walks -- along with the other flora and fauna -- but also the desire to extend my magical time here:
Flowers on the hillside, bloomin' crazy,
Crickets talkin' back and forth in rhyme,
Blue river runnin' slow and lazy,
I could stay with you forever
And never realize the time.
But I leave tomorrow. We have a plan to go up to the Crescent tonight to have a drink at the hilltop bar and see the giant Jesus of the Ozarks across the valley, then go to dinner. The other writers, Mary, Agymah and Michele, will be staying on after I am gone. Other writers will come -- and go. This precious time slips away too quickly. I have to find a way to take this quiet with me.
Of course, my last walk wouldn't have been complete without one more turtle:
I tried to take another but there was a bit too much sun on the lens for it to turn out well. The old guy who owns him was teasing me again, apologizing for his scary guard dog (as the dog rolls on his side for me to rub his belly). I will miss my little pal.
It was that melancholy wistfulness which brought to mind "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go," no doubt. That and perhaps the fact that I've listened to Blood on the Tracks repeatedly while I've been here (have yet to get tired of that album in -- wow! -- thirty years). Considering I started out with "God Save the Queen" in my head (the Sex Pistols version, not the traditional one) this morning, it was a bit of change. The alteration in music was most likely inspired by the landscape. "Dragon clouds so high above" and "Purple clover, Queen Anne's lace" surround me on my walks -- along with the other flora and fauna -- but also the desire to extend my magical time here:
Flowers on the hillside, bloomin' crazy,
Crickets talkin' back and forth in rhyme,
Blue river runnin' slow and lazy,
I could stay with you forever
And never realize the time.
But I leave tomorrow. We have a plan to go up to the Crescent tonight to have a drink at the hilltop bar and see the giant Jesus of the Ozarks across the valley, then go to dinner. The other writers, Mary, Agymah and Michele, will be staying on after I am gone. Other writers will come -- and go. This precious time slips away too quickly. I have to find a way to take this quiet with me.
Of course, my last walk wouldn't have been complete without one more turtle:
Friday, June 10, 2005
Make That Three!
My dad emailed me this picture of the turtle he carved for his wood carving class:
He writes from Las Cruces: "Here's a picture of the turtle on top a pot of flowers. Notice the ripe tomatoes in the back ground. We got our first tomatoe on June 2. They grow good here, not so many bugs and insects as in Texas."
Turtles everywhere!
He writes from Las Cruces: "Here's a picture of the turtle on top a pot of flowers. Notice the ripe tomatoes in the back ground. We got our first tomatoe on June 2. They grow good here, not so many bugs and insects as in Texas."
Turtles everywhere!
A Two Turtle Day
We've been talking, off and on, here at the colony about the deleterious effects of MFA programs on writing, a conversation that has continued for me with other folks on-line. Mary, a resident, has been groanning over the pile of submissions to her university's literary magazine. Can't anyone tell a story, she said the other day, exasperated. Her words were echoed by another colleague who also edits a literary magazine in the midwest. All these careful little slice-of-life vignettes, about disfunctional families, that peter away without resolution -- that is the prototypical submission. I'm not too surprised. I recall when I was at UConn, the creative writing folk there sneered at the very idea of narrative (similar to how my current colleagues feel about anything that might be considered "genre"). If it wasn't poetry, it wasn't worth anything. So I treasured the night when I read a story (gasp!) at one of the readings and afterward poet Marilyn Nelson came up to me and told me I had inspired her to try to write narrative again.
It's a pity whenever writing gets too formulaic. I saw a great example of the nadir of that concept: a Chick tract (Scream). It's lying by the side of the road near the school, run over a few times and splayed like an asterisk now. I wonder if anyone's ever been converted by reading a Chick tract -- of course, already formulating in my mind is a story about someone who is. I'll have to make sure it also has something about a coldness of emotions in a suburban family if I want to get it into an MFA-type literary magazine.
I saw the first turtle when I took the forest path than runs parallel to the road, coming back down the hill. It was heading down the path as I was heading up to meet the road again. I laughed, but as it was forest-bound, I let it alone, mindful of everyone teasing me over dinner about the poor turtles. Agymah insists that they like to lay on the backs with their feet kicking in the air, enjoying the freedom. But I couldn't resist moving the second one. He was on the edge of the road by Harmon Park, stepping onto the tarmac. I just helped him continue his journey. He had a big scar across his back. Maybe I am pointlessly prolonging the course of natural selection, but I don't want to see him flattened today. So, I guess that makes my motives inherently selfish!
A colleague at UHD tells me her local book club has chosen my novel as their July book and she wants me to come talk to them. Wow! It's a funny feeling. I still feel amazed when someone I don't know asks me to sign their copy of my book. It's wonderful (I'm starting to realize just how much I use that word, but I am often full of wonder).
It's a pity whenever writing gets too formulaic. I saw a great example of the nadir of that concept: a Chick tract (Scream). It's lying by the side of the road near the school, run over a few times and splayed like an asterisk now. I wonder if anyone's ever been converted by reading a Chick tract -- of course, already formulating in my mind is a story about someone who is. I'll have to make sure it also has something about a coldness of emotions in a suburban family if I want to get it into an MFA-type literary magazine.
I saw the first turtle when I took the forest path than runs parallel to the road, coming back down the hill. It was heading down the path as I was heading up to meet the road again. I laughed, but as it was forest-bound, I let it alone, mindful of everyone teasing me over dinner about the poor turtles. Agymah insists that they like to lay on the backs with their feet kicking in the air, enjoying the freedom. But I couldn't resist moving the second one. He was on the edge of the road by Harmon Park, stepping onto the tarmac. I just helped him continue his journey. He had a big scar across his back. Maybe I am pointlessly prolonging the course of natural selection, but I don't want to see him flattened today. So, I guess that makes my motives inherently selfish!
A colleague at UHD tells me her local book club has chosen my novel as their July book and she wants me to come talk to them. Wow! It's a funny feeling. I still feel amazed when someone I don't know asks me to sign their copy of my book. It's wonderful (I'm starting to realize just how much I use that word, but I am often full of wonder).
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Winding Down
Only a few days left here at the colony; hard to believe it has slipped away so fast. Hard to believe, too, that a week from today I'll be back in England. It takes the sting out of ending this glorious month to know I'll be poking through the bookshops on Charing Cross Road soon. Foyle's here we come! We probably won't have time for it on this short visit, but let me at least whisper the name: Hay-on-Wye.
This is the problem -- no, no, not buying books, though many of you think so -- thinking ahead instead of being in the present moment. It was the habit I had to break when I started this wonderful sojourn. I'm already thinking ahead to Sunday and leaving, to next Wednesday and leaving for the UK. I need to get back to now, this morning, the writing I am going to do now, today. It's easier on the walks, actually noticing things around me. Got another crow feather, a big one about nine inches long. There was a storm last night (woke up around 4 and unplugged the computer) and so everyone seemed to be out this morning, drying off. I saw more types of birds this morning than I have over the whole month, including a couple I have to look up. There were the crows, blue jays, cardinals, sparrows, vultures, house finches, robins, starlings and more. One turtle, too, but far enough from the road to not be in any immediate danger.
I'm going to listen to Punk Rock Jukebox (if it's coming through steadily enough on my phone modem) and write and try to be here now.
This is the problem -- no, no, not buying books, though many of you think so -- thinking ahead instead of being in the present moment. It was the habit I had to break when I started this wonderful sojourn. I'm already thinking ahead to Sunday and leaving, to next Wednesday and leaving for the UK. I need to get back to now, this morning, the writing I am going to do now, today. It's easier on the walks, actually noticing things around me. Got another crow feather, a big one about nine inches long. There was a storm last night (woke up around 4 and unplugged the computer) and so everyone seemed to be out this morning, drying off. I saw more types of birds this morning than I have over the whole month, including a couple I have to look up. There were the crows, blue jays, cardinals, sparrows, vultures, house finches, robins, starlings and more. One turtle, too, but far enough from the road to not be in any immediate danger.
I'm going to listen to Punk Rock Jukebox (if it's coming through steadily enough on my phone modem) and write and try to be here now.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Another Story Complete!
Well, I'm not exactly churning them out, but hey -- another one, started last year and never completed, is at last done (first draft, anyway). Amazing what a little concentrated writing time can reanimate. This particular Frankensteinian creation is a relief to have completed because it will be illustrated by my pal Elena Steier who has already produced one beautiful illustration for it.
It's another one of the Unikirja stories and is influenced by sauna culture and Laura Stark-Arola's Magic, Body and Social Order. If you want to know a little more about sauna history, here's a good link.
I'm already beginning to pine for this place and I haven't even left yet. And there's so much more to write --
It's another one of the Unikirja stories and is influenced by sauna culture and Laura Stark-Arola's Magic, Body and Social Order. If you want to know a little more about sauna history, here's a good link.
I'm already beginning to pine for this place and I haven't even left yet. And there's so much more to write --
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Outside My Window Right Now
I even took a video as another one ran by (should show in Windows Media Player unless you have a Mac).
Eeek!
I received the schedule for the Conference on Women and the Divine and, of course, looked swiftly through the listings to find out what panel I was on. I'm not on a panel. My solo presentation will open programming on Saturday morning, the second day of the conference. What an honor, but -- eek! -- how terrifying! So I realized I had to rethink my approach a little. It's quite different to be responsible for holding the entire audience enthralled rather than simply being one of three or four people who have to do so.
Naturally, I woke up at 4.30 this morning with a plan. I stumbled across the room and picked up my yellow pad and scribbled away, shaping a somewhat different approach, trying to balance information and participation. The amazing thing is that I can actually read it this morning! All too often when I scribble in my journal late at night it seems nothing but gibberish in the harsh light of day. Sometimes visions refuse to be caught -- how fortunate this is not one of those times.
I saw yet another turtle on my walk this morning (oh, the humidity!) and finally decided to look up what the turtle traditionally means as a totem animal. I found this:
Turtle: nurturer, protector, mother energy
"Many Natives refer to North America as Turtle Island, because their legends say that when the earth was covered with water, Turtle dove to the bottom of the oceans bringing up earth on its back so that the people could have a safe and dry home. Turtle is at home anywhere because it carries its home on its back. It does not become attached to places, for it is free to search for new opportunities wherever they may be found. When they sense danger, or are in uncomfortable and insecure settings, they withdraw into their shell, and are protected. If you have Turtle medicine, you value both the power of the earth, the waters of the earth, and the magic of the heavens, for Turtle symbolizes both the grounding quality of earth energy, and the magic of the mystical. Using Turtle energy can help you achieve real balance in your life and your spirit so that you don't get "stuck in the mud". Turtle's medicine includes a connection with the center, navigation skills, patience, self-boundaries, associated with the feminine, power to heal female diseases, respecting the boundaries of others, developing new ideas, psychically protecting oneself, self-reliance, tenacity, non-violent defense."
Seems a very appropriate symbol for this journey. It's funny -- there are spiders everywhere here at the colony. They're apparently also a symbol of creativity, so that seems likewise fitting. And of course, there are the springs everywhere! Inspiration around every bend in Eureka Springs.
Naturally, I woke up at 4.30 this morning with a plan. I stumbled across the room and picked up my yellow pad and scribbled away, shaping a somewhat different approach, trying to balance information and participation. The amazing thing is that I can actually read it this morning! All too often when I scribble in my journal late at night it seems nothing but gibberish in the harsh light of day. Sometimes visions refuse to be caught -- how fortunate this is not one of those times.
I saw yet another turtle on my walk this morning (oh, the humidity!) and finally decided to look up what the turtle traditionally means as a totem animal. I found this:
Turtle: nurturer, protector, mother energy
"Many Natives refer to North America as Turtle Island, because their legends say that when the earth was covered with water, Turtle dove to the bottom of the oceans bringing up earth on its back so that the people could have a safe and dry home. Turtle is at home anywhere because it carries its home on its back. It does not become attached to places, for it is free to search for new opportunities wherever they may be found. When they sense danger, or are in uncomfortable and insecure settings, they withdraw into their shell, and are protected. If you have Turtle medicine, you value both the power of the earth, the waters of the earth, and the magic of the heavens, for Turtle symbolizes both the grounding quality of earth energy, and the magic of the mystical. Using Turtle energy can help you achieve real balance in your life and your spirit so that you don't get "stuck in the mud". Turtle's medicine includes a connection with the center, navigation skills, patience, self-boundaries, associated with the feminine, power to heal female diseases, respecting the boundaries of others, developing new ideas, psychically protecting oneself, self-reliance, tenacity, non-violent defense."
Seems a very appropriate symbol for this journey. It's funny -- there are spiders everywhere here at the colony. They're apparently also a symbol of creativity, so that seems likewise fitting. And of course, there are the springs everywhere! Inspiration around every bend in Eureka Springs.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Fresh Ink!
I went on down to Tattoos Eureka Style and got a new tattoo of a hannunvaakuna:
Not a very good picture, but it is hard to get a photo with a PDA of your own leg (right leg, for those of you keeping score). I had an amazing artist, Carrie Bell. I had checked out her gallery on-line, so I knew the quality of her work. I was delighted to find that in person she was wonderful too.
She was finishing up on another customer when I arrived, but we started chatting away like old friends. Turns out she was also born in Michigan and has lived in Texas. Over the course of the next 2 and 1/2 hours we shared a lot of stories and experiences, as well as book reccomendations. Carrie told me a little more about the life of this little town and I told her about how fortunate I feel to be here for this month to write. She said that a lot of the time she finds herself doing cute little tattoos for tourists, so she enjoyed the chance to do custom work with personal meaning. When we were finished (after checking and re-checking carefully; she's quite scrupulous in her work), Carrie shared with me a couple of her tattoos, commemorating the important experiences of her life, the things she had survived. Some amazing and detailed work -- I had to smile when I saw the familiar face of Ganesha who dances on her left arm, honoring two women who removed obstacles for her. It was just one more indication that I had chosen wisely.
Thank you, Carrie! I just love meeting new phenomenal women.
Not a very good picture, but it is hard to get a photo with a PDA of your own leg (right leg, for those of you keeping score). I had an amazing artist, Carrie Bell. I had checked out her gallery on-line, so I knew the quality of her work. I was delighted to find that in person she was wonderful too.
She was finishing up on another customer when I arrived, but we started chatting away like old friends. Turns out she was also born in Michigan and has lived in Texas. Over the course of the next 2 and 1/2 hours we shared a lot of stories and experiences, as well as book reccomendations. Carrie told me a little more about the life of this little town and I told her about how fortunate I feel to be here for this month to write. She said that a lot of the time she finds herself doing cute little tattoos for tourists, so she enjoyed the chance to do custom work with personal meaning. When we were finished (after checking and re-checking carefully; she's quite scrupulous in her work), Carrie shared with me a couple of her tattoos, commemorating the important experiences of her life, the things she had survived. Some amazing and detailed work -- I had to smile when I saw the familiar face of Ganesha who dances on her left arm, honoring two women who removed obstacles for her. It was just one more indication that I had chosen wisely.
Thank you, Carrie! I just love meeting new phenomenal women.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Wonderful Storm
Last night there was another wonderful storm, lighting flashes, thunder crashes, wild winds and rain pelting down. I could close my eyes and imagine myself on the deck of the Jolly Roger, tempest-tossed by the sea. And it quickly quieted the after-hours crowd from the Blues Fest where I hear there was vomiting in the streets and much rejoicing. I, however, was in my little studio completing another story (yay!), this one only a year in the making (sigh!). Work goes slowly on the play, but I do have the beginning and the end, ha ha. And another new story begun here slowly creeping along, and an old one reinvigorated (I hope anyway). Plus, thanks to Gerry Henkel, it looks like I have another acceptance from New World Finn.
My muses were busy overnight and I rethought the ending lines of the story, as well as waking up with a terrific idea for a paper on the latest film version of Peter Pan. A quick search at the Call for Papers List yielded a perfect place to submit an abstract while the idea is fresh (and it's a collection not a conference, so I will not be adding to the already busy slate of conferences--yes, the schedule I said I was going to cut back on).
I felt so unaccountably energetic this morning, I was halfway up the hill before I realized it. Yet I did not really slow down. In fact, I headed further down Pivot Rock to see what I could see -- but it curves so much, all I could ever see was the next bend. It must have been the freshness of the air, the amazing clarity that a storm leaves behind. In most places, anyhow; in Houston a storm brings no relief, "but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -- it gives a lovely light."
I finally remembered one of those Rosetta Stones of my childhood (wish I could remember the name of that orange-covered collection of macabre verses that both Robert and I checked out of the library repeatedly) that probably influenced me in subtle ways: Fog Magic. I don't recall the details of it anymore, but I remember it being one of those books that opened a hole in my head (that's a good thing), like Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and the Mary Poppins series. I suppose it has always been the case that, to borrow from Marlowe, "t'is magic, magic that hath ravished me." I will have to find a copy of Fog Magic and see what delight it offers now.
My muses were busy overnight and I rethought the ending lines of the story, as well as waking up with a terrific idea for a paper on the latest film version of Peter Pan. A quick search at the Call for Papers List yielded a perfect place to submit an abstract while the idea is fresh (and it's a collection not a conference, so I will not be adding to the already busy slate of conferences--yes, the schedule I said I was going to cut back on).
I felt so unaccountably energetic this morning, I was halfway up the hill before I realized it. Yet I did not really slow down. In fact, I headed further down Pivot Rock to see what I could see -- but it curves so much, all I could ever see was the next bend. It must have been the freshness of the air, the amazing clarity that a storm leaves behind. In most places, anyhow; in Houston a storm brings no relief, "but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -- it gives a lovely light."
I finally remembered one of those Rosetta Stones of my childhood (wish I could remember the name of that orange-covered collection of macabre verses that both Robert and I checked out of the library repeatedly) that probably influenced me in subtle ways: Fog Magic. I don't recall the details of it anymore, but I remember it being one of those books that opened a hole in my head (that's a good thing), like Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and the Mary Poppins series. I suppose it has always been the case that, to borrow from Marlowe, "t'is magic, magic that hath ravished me." I will have to find a copy of Fog Magic and see what delight it offers now.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Hot 'n Humid
It felt nigh on Houston-like as I went out for my walk this morning. Ugh. At least there's a little breeze. I found the burrow of the other groundhog, down at the bottom of the gravel road the farmhouse is on. She was poking her nose out when I passed by. My little schnauzer pal was so busy basking in the sun, I had to whistle to get his attention. "You're falling down on the job," I scolded him.
Just goes to show, there is no idea so good that it cannot be turned into stupid reality programming. Sigh.
And thanks to Gene, I found that there is a new Stonehenge, but thousands of years only assure that it is more accurate, yet less charming. Speaking of less than charming, I was glad to see Women's E-News expose another in the seemingly endless line of hypocritical 'moralists' appointed by the current administration, as they reveal in an article today that:
"The Nation magazine in its May 30th issue uncovered allegations that Dr. W. David Hager, a religious conservative obstetrician and gynecologist who sits on the Food and Drug Administration's advisory panel on reproductive health drugs, sexually abused his former wife."
He's resigning -- a little difficult to maintain that sanctimonious tone when your own moral shortcomings have been exposed.
Well, aren't I cranky today? It's the weather. But now that I've come back from my chat with Gene at the Colony headquarters, I have a dinner in the fridge and need not go back outside until tomorrow -- unless it cools down, then I'll go out on the hill and play my kantele like I did yesterday. Nothing like playing along with all the bird songs, letting the ringing sound roll down the hill. It's what Väinämöinen would have wanted.
Just goes to show, there is no idea so good that it cannot be turned into stupid reality programming. Sigh.
And thanks to Gene, I found that there is a new Stonehenge, but thousands of years only assure that it is more accurate, yet less charming. Speaking of less than charming, I was glad to see Women's E-News expose another in the seemingly endless line of hypocritical 'moralists' appointed by the current administration, as they reveal in an article today that:
"The Nation magazine in its May 30th issue uncovered allegations that Dr. W. David Hager, a religious conservative obstetrician and gynecologist who sits on the Food and Drug Administration's advisory panel on reproductive health drugs, sexually abused his former wife."
He's resigning -- a little difficult to maintain that sanctimonious tone when your own moral shortcomings have been exposed.
Well, aren't I cranky today? It's the weather. But now that I've come back from my chat with Gene at the Colony headquarters, I have a dinner in the fridge and need not go back outside until tomorrow -- unless it cools down, then I'll go out on the hill and play my kantele like I did yesterday. Nothing like playing along with all the bird songs, letting the ringing sound roll down the hill. It's what Väinämöinen would have wanted.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Shakespeare Stout
We went down to the tavern last night to send off Rebecca who is leaving the colony today (sounds more serious, vaguely SF, Logan's Run-like when you put it that way) and to have one final chance to take advantage of her earnestness -- I mean, enjoy her company. Although we did manage to make her believe for just a few seconds the other night that gullible was not in the dictionary (really!).
We were a little concerned because the "pub" looked a bit more swank than we had thought, but we went straight to the bar and it was small and quiet. The bartender said they had "just about everything" which turned out to be a gross exaggeration. Not only did they not have Bass (even!), but they had nothing at all on draft. A quick look at the beer list showed an awful lot of run-of-the-mill lowbrow brews (many--horrors!--ending in "lite"). But they did feature a couple of Rogue brews, although not the special Chef Morimoto brews. I started with a Dead Man, but after tasting Rebecca's stout, I too ordered a Shakespeare Stout. The bartender said he drank it because he was a writer -- I think the story tends to work better when the entire table doesn't eagerly answer "We're writers, too!" He did not stay to discuss writerly things.
The TV was on but not blaring (and only playing a Cirque du Soleil video anyway, colorful distraction) and the music was a succession of quietly played standards. Just right for talking -- and picking on Rebecca. Perhaps I was just a little too ebullient but I was under the impression that it was not just geeks who know that action figures are highly articulated; guess I was wrong.
We did actually talk about writing -- and teaching. Rebecca, a poet, was worried about teaching a fiction class, so Agymah and I talked about our experiences. I must say I envy Agymah's courses, capped at 15. I don't think I'd be happy teaching only creative writing, but I would not be averse to trying it for a while. We tried in vain to get Agymah to share his driver's license, suspecting (apparently correctly) that it had his given name, so to punish him we made him walk back just as fast as we had set out (when he first complained about the pace). The fireflies were out last night, lending a touch of fairy-like beauty to the evening. I remember sitting on the porch back in Connecticut, watching all the lightning bugs sparkle at the edge of the wood:
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
"Fireflies in the Garden"
Robert Frost
We were a little concerned because the "pub" looked a bit more swank than we had thought, but we went straight to the bar and it was small and quiet. The bartender said they had "just about everything" which turned out to be a gross exaggeration. Not only did they not have Bass (even!), but they had nothing at all on draft. A quick look at the beer list showed an awful lot of run-of-the-mill lowbrow brews (many--horrors!--ending in "lite"). But they did feature a couple of Rogue brews, although not the special Chef Morimoto brews. I started with a Dead Man, but after tasting Rebecca's stout, I too ordered a Shakespeare Stout. The bartender said he drank it because he was a writer -- I think the story tends to work better when the entire table doesn't eagerly answer "We're writers, too!" He did not stay to discuss writerly things.
The TV was on but not blaring (and only playing a Cirque du Soleil video anyway, colorful distraction) and the music was a succession of quietly played standards. Just right for talking -- and picking on Rebecca. Perhaps I was just a little too ebullient but I was under the impression that it was not just geeks who know that action figures are highly articulated; guess I was wrong.
We did actually talk about writing -- and teaching. Rebecca, a poet, was worried about teaching a fiction class, so Agymah and I talked about our experiences. I must say I envy Agymah's courses, capped at 15. I don't think I'd be happy teaching only creative writing, but I would not be averse to trying it for a while. We tried in vain to get Agymah to share his driver's license, suspecting (apparently correctly) that it had his given name, so to punish him we made him walk back just as fast as we had set out (when he first complained about the pace). The fireflies were out last night, lending a touch of fairy-like beauty to the evening. I remember sitting on the porch back in Connecticut, watching all the lightning bugs sparkle at the edge of the wood:
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
"Fireflies in the Garden"
Robert Frost
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Review: Sword of Hearts
Sword of Hearts
Writer/Dir: David Schmidt
I never got over my first eyeful of Errol Flynn in those green tights. So what if I first saw him in a Bugs Bunny cartoon? It was still love at first sight. Nothing much has changed since then: give me a good sword fight and I’m a pushover (add Johnny Depp and I’ll never leave).*
SOH has just that –- not to mention an eager cast, a hearty story and bucketloads of fun. Any one who’s seen my recent film reviews knows that I’m of the opinion that indy films are the only hope in the bloated industry today. Here’s a good example why: passion, fun, heart –- and here’s a novelty, a script. No fooling! An actual story with -- get this -- characters! Who’d have thunk it -- or that that and a shoestring budget will actually produce a movie not only worth watching, but enjoyable.
With a wink and a nod to every adventure flick you’ve ever loved (everything from Princess Bride to Indiana Jones), the story rolls along with intrigue, quests and hidden identities. We start with the story of the recently arrested thief, Nola Fletcher (Kathrynne Ann Rosen), who proves a resourceful and believable heroine. Her quick-witted escape from the guards leads to a fortuitous meeting with the unpredictable Geoffrey Pierce (Travis Estes) who shows his ability to think on his feet. The characters are the heart of the film, and the actors welcome us right in. Rosen, especially, must wield the muted emotions hidden from other characters, but revealed to the audience, and does so with a wining vulnerability behind her tough thief’s exterior. Estes gives Geoffrey a (nigh on Dreyfuss-esque) roguishness, but lets slip the wounded heart beneath the bravado when the right moments come -- and of course they do, for this is romance as well as adventure. There’s his lost love Grace Durant (Amy Harmon) and her now husband Tristan (Zach Thomas -- who has just a touch of Rupert Everett) and a secret no one wants let out –- or do they? Alliances shift, betrayals come -- but wonder of wonders, it all makes sense (are you, too, tired of the “twist from nowhere?”).
The rest of the cast, too, is competent and attentive. They’re attractive but individuals; you can remember who’s who. Admit it; how many films have you watched lately where you can’t tell one blandly beautiful actor from another ("I thought she was dead -- oh, now she is"). When will American filmmakers get over their hatred of imperfection (exception: men over 30. Or 50. Or 70: Sean Connery is not sexy. He is old.)? One thing British tv and indy films have in common -- real people.
And the best part –- those well choreographed fights. Films with multi-million dollar budgets have not worked half so hard to do it well. And they do it well -- the direction is good throughout, sensitive to the intimate dialogues, opening up to show a grand scale of place when needed. But the fights! Timing is the hardest part and the camera-work, choreography and editing work superbly to give credible and exciting fights (with or without swords).
So buy the DVD already and feed an indy filmmaker. You owe yourself a good time.
*Does not apply to Don Juan DeMarco.
Writer/Dir: David Schmidt
I never got over my first eyeful of Errol Flynn in those green tights. So what if I first saw him in a Bugs Bunny cartoon? It was still love at first sight. Nothing much has changed since then: give me a good sword fight and I’m a pushover (add Johnny Depp and I’ll never leave).*
SOH has just that –- not to mention an eager cast, a hearty story and bucketloads of fun. Any one who’s seen my recent film reviews knows that I’m of the opinion that indy films are the only hope in the bloated industry today. Here’s a good example why: passion, fun, heart –- and here’s a novelty, a script. No fooling! An actual story with -- get this -- characters! Who’d have thunk it -- or that that and a shoestring budget will actually produce a movie not only worth watching, but enjoyable.
With a wink and a nod to every adventure flick you’ve ever loved (everything from Princess Bride to Indiana Jones), the story rolls along with intrigue, quests and hidden identities. We start with the story of the recently arrested thief, Nola Fletcher (Kathrynne Ann Rosen), who proves a resourceful and believable heroine. Her quick-witted escape from the guards leads to a fortuitous meeting with the unpredictable Geoffrey Pierce (Travis Estes) who shows his ability to think on his feet. The characters are the heart of the film, and the actors welcome us right in. Rosen, especially, must wield the muted emotions hidden from other characters, but revealed to the audience, and does so with a wining vulnerability behind her tough thief’s exterior. Estes gives Geoffrey a (nigh on Dreyfuss-esque) roguishness, but lets slip the wounded heart beneath the bravado when the right moments come -- and of course they do, for this is romance as well as adventure. There’s his lost love Grace Durant (Amy Harmon) and her now husband Tristan (Zach Thomas -- who has just a touch of Rupert Everett) and a secret no one wants let out –- or do they? Alliances shift, betrayals come -- but wonder of wonders, it all makes sense (are you, too, tired of the “twist from nowhere?”).
The rest of the cast, too, is competent and attentive. They’re attractive but individuals; you can remember who’s who. Admit it; how many films have you watched lately where you can’t tell one blandly beautiful actor from another ("I thought she was dead -- oh, now she is"). When will American filmmakers get over their hatred of imperfection (exception: men over 30. Or 50. Or 70: Sean Connery is not sexy. He is old.)? One thing British tv and indy films have in common -- real people.
And the best part –- those well choreographed fights. Films with multi-million dollar budgets have not worked half so hard to do it well. And they do it well -- the direction is good throughout, sensitive to the intimate dialogues, opening up to show a grand scale of place when needed. But the fights! Timing is the hardest part and the camera-work, choreography and editing work superbly to give credible and exciting fights (with or without swords).
So buy the DVD already and feed an indy filmmaker. You owe yourself a good time.
*Does not apply to Don Juan DeMarco.
Three Tonne Wombats
Because both Gene and the Queen sent this to me this morning, I am destined to share it in turn:
Early Aussies co-existed with three tonne wombats
It turns out that the "megafauna" (e.g., giant, fantastical monstrous beasts) of Australia likely co-existed with its earliest human inhabitants, who had to dodge "three tonne wombats" and the "world's all-time biggest lizard."
Analyses of ancient fossils suggest that early Australian Aborigines did not wipe out the continent's megafauna in a frenzied hunting rampage. New research conducted by Australian and British scientists reveals that in fact humans and megafauna, such as gigantic three tonne wombat-like creatures, a ferocious marsupial "lion" and the world's all-time biggest lizard, may have co-existed for around 15 000 years.
Link to Science Daily
(NB: at least one of the links above is a lie!)
I saw the woodchuck--and discovered its burrow. No wonder it did so well at Not Being Seen -- there's a little hole right in the side of the rise. Saw a turtle hurtling toward disaster (well, okay, slowly crawling) and set it back away from the busy road, going in the opposite direction. It had disappeared by the time I walked back down the hill. I know it's an exercise in futility, but I couldn't stand to see another pancake turtle today.
Early Aussies co-existed with three tonne wombats
It turns out that the "megafauna" (e.g., giant, fantastical monstrous beasts) of Australia likely co-existed with its earliest human inhabitants, who had to dodge "three tonne wombats" and the "world's all-time biggest lizard."
Analyses of ancient fossils suggest that early Australian Aborigines did not wipe out the continent's megafauna in a frenzied hunting rampage. New research conducted by Australian and British scientists reveals that in fact humans and megafauna, such as gigantic three tonne wombat-like creatures, a ferocious marsupial "lion" and the world's all-time biggest lizard, may have co-existed for around 15 000 years.
Link to Science Daily
(NB: at least one of the links above is a lie!)
I saw the woodchuck--and discovered its burrow. No wonder it did so well at Not Being Seen -- there's a little hole right in the side of the rise. Saw a turtle hurtling toward disaster (well, okay, slowly crawling) and set it back away from the busy road, going in the opposite direction. It had disappeared by the time I walked back down the hill. I know it's an exercise in futility, but I couldn't stand to see another pancake turtle today.
From Väinämöinen to Gerry to Me!
I received a most wonderful gift today, an amazing, a mythical gift -- the pikebone kantele from my friend Gerry Henkel. Words, for once, escape me because I am brimming with gratitude and amazement. And sorrow -- despite the many stickers warning FRAGILE, it was damaged on its journey from Minnesota. I can only hope, that like the body of Lemminkainen (as Diane so wisely suggests) it can be made whole once more.
Kiitos paljon, Gerry. Kiitoksia!
Kiitos paljon, Gerry. Kiitoksia!
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Spa Day
Well, it wasn't *exactly* as I pictured it, but it was good anyway. I got up, went for my walk, saw my schnauzer buddy, then showered and went up to the main building. Things were hoppin'. Apparently they had some kind of grant application due and had calls coming and going, so I finally decided to just get on the trolley and ride. After all I had chosen the spa because it was near a trolley stop.
At least the trolley stop by the Colony is in the shade. It ended up being rather warm today (well below Houston levels, however). I got to the spa -- no one there. Hmmm. I tried the hotel next door since they seemed to be linked: gone for the day! Well, I had noticed another spa further back that was not only on the trolley line but had a nice OPEN sign outside. Of course when I got inside it had Eureka Springs' most ubiquitous sign, "Will Be Back At" and a clock. The hands pointed to 12.30, but without a watch (or my phone or my pda/sampo) I had no idea what time it was. Oh well.
But as I walked out the door back down the street, I heard a voice say "Did you have questions about a massage?" Fortunately, it was Heather who ended up scheduling me for a facial/massage at Health Works for later that afternoon. So off I went to have lunch in town, deciding finally to try the Mud Street Cafe where I had a rather sour glass of cab sav and a very tasty Mediterranean wrap. I dawdled at the library afterward, reading magazines. Fascinating fact: it's one of the original Carnegie libraries, still educating the common folk. Well, trying to do so -- there was a woman at a computer treating it like her own personal office, taking cell phone calls ("Yeah, I'm in the library...": scintillating) and another young woman chasing a toddler all over the building.
Anytime you look for a trolley, there's none to be found, so I left plenty of time. Naturally, one showed up immediately, making me a bit early for my appointment. Fortunately, Heather was ready for me and oh, how relaxing it was! I told her they should call this the writer's special, as it gets to those tense muscles in the neck and shoulders, and the repetetive stress in the hands and arms. I think I may have to go back for the foot massage next week. And of course, small town that it is, Heather turns out to have worked some time ago for Crescent, one of the founders of the Writers' Colony.
Of course this adventure means no work done yet (except for the edits to the book review that Gene helpfully suggested), but the recharge was worth it. Mmmmm.
At least the trolley stop by the Colony is in the shade. It ended up being rather warm today (well below Houston levels, however). I got to the spa -- no one there. Hmmm. I tried the hotel next door since they seemed to be linked: gone for the day! Well, I had noticed another spa further back that was not only on the trolley line but had a nice OPEN sign outside. Of course when I got inside it had Eureka Springs' most ubiquitous sign, "Will Be Back At" and a clock. The hands pointed to 12.30, but without a watch (or my phone or my pda/sampo) I had no idea what time it was. Oh well.
But as I walked out the door back down the street, I heard a voice say "Did you have questions about a massage?" Fortunately, it was Heather who ended up scheduling me for a facial/massage at Health Works for later that afternoon. So off I went to have lunch in town, deciding finally to try the Mud Street Cafe where I had a rather sour glass of cab sav and a very tasty Mediterranean wrap. I dawdled at the library afterward, reading magazines. Fascinating fact: it's one of the original Carnegie libraries, still educating the common folk. Well, trying to do so -- there was a woman at a computer treating it like her own personal office, taking cell phone calls ("Yeah, I'm in the library...": scintillating) and another young woman chasing a toddler all over the building.
Anytime you look for a trolley, there's none to be found, so I left plenty of time. Naturally, one showed up immediately, making me a bit early for my appointment. Fortunately, Heather was ready for me and oh, how relaxing it was! I told her they should call this the writer's special, as it gets to those tense muscles in the neck and shoulders, and the repetetive stress in the hands and arms. I think I may have to go back for the foot massage next week. And of course, small town that it is, Heather turns out to have worked some time ago for Crescent, one of the founders of the Writers' Colony.
Of course this adventure means no work done yet (except for the edits to the book review that Gene helpfully suggested), but the recharge was worth it. Mmmmm.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Memorial Day
I saw a white squirrel. Well, partly white; he had a regular squirrel colored head and the rest of his body was mostly white with some spots, as if he were wearing a cloak. Can one be a semi-albino? I suspect not. Cross bred with a possum? Naaah. Who knows--but a (even semi-) white squirrel definitely stands out.
It's memorial day, so a bit quieter this morning. Except at the top of the hill; I was surprised when I walked past the apartment buildings up at Pivot Rock to hear the loud roar of a vaccuum cleaner. Who would be vaccuuming in a (no doubt) thin-walled apartment building, eightish on a holiday morning? When I walked back past a TV was blaring--perhaps it is an on-going war of annoying sounds. Makes me appreciate the quiet here at the farmhouse even more. Rebecca asked me whether next time I would request one of the suites in the main building, but I don't think so. The first few days, facing the daily climb up the hill, I would have said yes in a minute. But now that I have got back a little wind--so the walk isn't quite so hard--I don't think I would. We're more isolated here, the sounds of town muted somewhat. The main bldg is right on the busy road to the Crescent Hotel. Besides, the deer, the fox, the groundhog and the turtle are all here.
I'm dragging my feet on the book review I need to finish. Not sure why--maybe because it's not as "creative" as the other things I have been doing, that I'm here to do. But it will be an academic publication, and that's a good thing. Perhaps I'll bribe myself with a visit to one of the local spas for a massage and facial when I finish. I'll just put those brochures over here on my desk to motivate me. What could be more motivational than a chocolate lover's massage?
It's memorial day, so a bit quieter this morning. Except at the top of the hill; I was surprised when I walked past the apartment buildings up at Pivot Rock to hear the loud roar of a vaccuum cleaner. Who would be vaccuuming in a (no doubt) thin-walled apartment building, eightish on a holiday morning? When I walked back past a TV was blaring--perhaps it is an on-going war of annoying sounds. Makes me appreciate the quiet here at the farmhouse even more. Rebecca asked me whether next time I would request one of the suites in the main building, but I don't think so. The first few days, facing the daily climb up the hill, I would have said yes in a minute. But now that I have got back a little wind--so the walk isn't quite so hard--I don't think I would. We're more isolated here, the sounds of town muted somewhat. The main bldg is right on the busy road to the Crescent Hotel. Besides, the deer, the fox, the groundhog and the turtle are all here.
I'm dragging my feet on the book review I need to finish. Not sure why--maybe because it's not as "creative" as the other things I have been doing, that I'm here to do. But it will be an academic publication, and that's a good thing. Perhaps I'll bribe myself with a visit to one of the local spas for a massage and facial when I finish. I'll just put those brochures over here on my desk to motivate me. What could be more motivational than a chocolate lover's massage?
Sunday, May 29, 2005
A Murder of Crows
I passed the murder of crows just now, while they were at their confab in Harmon Park. The meeting broke up as I walked past; perhaps they were discussing the alleged GSHS irregularities. I'll probably never know.
Last night we did the writerly thing and had a few drinks. Mostly we used the opportunity to tease Rebecca because she thinks Agymah and I do not talk nearly enough. I told her we chatter like anything the rest of the time, we're just quiet around her. But it did lead to a discussion about performance and just how bad many academics are at it. Funny, you'd think that people who have to be in front of an audience daily would become wonderful performers. Despite all arguments about pedagogy, the bottom line is we need to have a little ham to coax our students into learning. I told the story of my first Kalamazoo (the first image, of course, was stopping at the entrance to Valley III because there was a stretcher coming out with a collapsed medievalist on it; "wow," I thought, "must be a brutal conference") where I went to my very first medieval panel: humor in the Old Norse sagas. I thought it was going to be wonderful--after all, the sagas are filled with that mordant humor, a biting line usually followed by "and then he fell down dead." I figured the panel was going to be great.
Wrong!
It was the most tedious 90 minutes I think I may have ever spent. Not only were the papers long and lacking insight, but the readers droned on and on in buzzing monotones. How difficult is it to be a little animated? It's one thing when you're new to the work and nervous, but these were senior scholars.
So last night we all talked about how much fun it is to do a reading, to respond to an audience, to feel that electricity (or not! even a bad reading experience is interesting). Why wouldn't you want to shine? But I do remember my first day in a class room, feeling sweat ooze from every pore--why oh why did I wear that silk shirt that quickly became stuck to my dripping back. They all could tell, surely, that I had no idea what I was doing! But I went back the second day and kept struggling, until that wonderful day that I got stuck at the DMV. I rushed into class with bare minutes to spare, a hasty lesson plan concocted on the winding road from Willimantic slapped down on a sheet of paper -- and I had the best class ever. In retrospect I realize why: it was the first class where I made the students do most of the work. I had over-prepared every day before that, terrified that I wouldn't be ready for some picky, probing question that never came.
All I needed to do was help them figure it out for themselves--and we all had fun because of it.
Sometimes doing less yields more. I have to rely on the muses to be there, but I have found that they are generally hovering nearby. If I listen closely and pay attention, really be in the present moment, the words flow, the thoughts arise, and everything goes fine.
I think I'm going to go do less now--it's a beautiful day.
Last night we did the writerly thing and had a few drinks. Mostly we used the opportunity to tease Rebecca because she thinks Agymah and I do not talk nearly enough. I told her we chatter like anything the rest of the time, we're just quiet around her. But it did lead to a discussion about performance and just how bad many academics are at it. Funny, you'd think that people who have to be in front of an audience daily would become wonderful performers. Despite all arguments about pedagogy, the bottom line is we need to have a little ham to coax our students into learning. I told the story of my first Kalamazoo (the first image, of course, was stopping at the entrance to Valley III because there was a stretcher coming out with a collapsed medievalist on it; "wow," I thought, "must be a brutal conference") where I went to my very first medieval panel: humor in the Old Norse sagas. I thought it was going to be wonderful--after all, the sagas are filled with that mordant humor, a biting line usually followed by "and then he fell down dead." I figured the panel was going to be great.
Wrong!
It was the most tedious 90 minutes I think I may have ever spent. Not only were the papers long and lacking insight, but the readers droned on and on in buzzing monotones. How difficult is it to be a little animated? It's one thing when you're new to the work and nervous, but these were senior scholars.
So last night we all talked about how much fun it is to do a reading, to respond to an audience, to feel that electricity (or not! even a bad reading experience is interesting). Why wouldn't you want to shine? But I do remember my first day in a class room, feeling sweat ooze from every pore--why oh why did I wear that silk shirt that quickly became stuck to my dripping back. They all could tell, surely, that I had no idea what I was doing! But I went back the second day and kept struggling, until that wonderful day that I got stuck at the DMV. I rushed into class with bare minutes to spare, a hasty lesson plan concocted on the winding road from Willimantic slapped down on a sheet of paper -- and I had the best class ever. In retrospect I realize why: it was the first class where I made the students do most of the work. I had over-prepared every day before that, terrified that I wouldn't be ready for some picky, probing question that never came.
All I needed to do was help them figure it out for themselves--and we all had fun because of it.
Sometimes doing less yields more. I have to rely on the muses to be there, but I have found that they are generally hovering nearby. If I listen closely and pay attention, really be in the present moment, the words flow, the thoughts arise, and everything goes fine.
I think I'm going to go do less now--it's a beautiful day.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Dumptruck
I realize I have been using this online journal as a kind of dumptruck, to steal from Dylan, to unload my head. It gets all the stray buzzing thoughts out before I sit down to write. Bizarre things: like noticing there's one bird whose call sounds like "chee'burgie, chee'burgie" like that old skit on Saturday Night Live; or trying to decide whether this guy is brilliant or crazy or just needs to get out of Iowa City (thanks, Gene); or wondering where the squirrel's body went--did it wash away down the gully with the rain, or -- as Robert would no doubt suggest -- did someone take it home for dinner?
Inquiring minds and all that.
I think today will be a non-fiction writing day, 1) because I have a due date and 2) because I feel fairly bereft of ideas at the moment. Sometimes it's worth just toughing it out, staring at the same page until, grudgingly, the words start to come as if they slept late and don't want to come to work (cue Humpty Dumpty and his portmanteaux). And other days, you just do something else.
I do need to do laundry...
Inquiring minds and all that.
I think today will be a non-fiction writing day, 1) because I have a due date and 2) because I feel fairly bereft of ideas at the moment. Sometimes it's worth just toughing it out, staring at the same page until, grudgingly, the words start to come as if they slept late and don't want to come to work (cue Humpty Dumpty and his portmanteaux). And other days, you just do something else.
I do need to do laundry...
Friday, May 27, 2005
Speed
I must have looked like a I was laboring hard going up the hill, because a woman stopped and offered me a ride today. I had left a little later, it was a little warmer, and the hill doesn't get any flatter. "Or are you exercising?" I said I was, laughed and thanked her. It was almost tempting.
Agymah and I were talking over dinner last night and I mentioned how I had the illusion that while here at the writers' colony I would be able to write so much faster (cue Rosalind Russell typing madly in His Girl Friday). We both laughed, and he said "It never gets any faster, does it?" But I guess in the back of my mind was the picture of me, freed at last from all my other responsibilities, fingers flying, muses chattering--I realize just how much this is fantasy when I notice that it also pictures the sheets of paper piling up beside me. Without a printer, no pages are piling up! There was at least that tangible proof of effort back in the days of typewriters. Too often now I don't want to waste paper, so I seldom see things I've written in physical form until they appear in print.
So I resign myself to being no faster, but then speed is a relative thing (cue the "Speed 3" episode of Father Ted). And if I write no faster, I do have more time, so as Gene keeps reminding me, I should be glad for what I am getting done, not lamenting what I have not yet done.
The workshop yesterday seemed to go well. A small group, which was probably best for the format, and very eager. I played a little kantele, even sang a song ("Mieleni minun tekevi") and we talked about sound and rhythm in writing, the power of myth and the ways creativity gets crushed or dismissed. I had them do a writing exercise describing their own personal muse, which had surprising resonance for many of them. Their writings had that vividness that calling into being a needed supporter gives. One woman said she tried to shape her muse, but finally had to give in to the real vision that came through. Another woman described with lively detail her little Chihuahua. We chuckled, but she made a convincing argument for the loving support and encouragement she gets daily. Unconditional love is a wonderful thing. By the end everyone seemed to have had a good time. A few said it should have been much longer.
CONGRATULATIONS on ten years invoking the punk muse at WECS, Marko! (Argh, the signal keeps cutting out--but I heard that :-)
Agymah and I were talking over dinner last night and I mentioned how I had the illusion that while here at the writers' colony I would be able to write so much faster (cue Rosalind Russell typing madly in His Girl Friday). We both laughed, and he said "It never gets any faster, does it?" But I guess in the back of my mind was the picture of me, freed at last from all my other responsibilities, fingers flying, muses chattering--I realize just how much this is fantasy when I notice that it also pictures the sheets of paper piling up beside me. Without a printer, no pages are piling up! There was at least that tangible proof of effort back in the days of typewriters. Too often now I don't want to waste paper, so I seldom see things I've written in physical form until they appear in print.
So I resign myself to being no faster, but then speed is a relative thing (cue the "Speed 3" episode of Father Ted). And if I write no faster, I do have more time, so as Gene keeps reminding me, I should be glad for what I am getting done, not lamenting what I have not yet done.
The workshop yesterday seemed to go well. A small group, which was probably best for the format, and very eager. I played a little kantele, even sang a song ("Mieleni minun tekevi") and we talked about sound and rhythm in writing, the power of myth and the ways creativity gets crushed or dismissed. I had them do a writing exercise describing their own personal muse, which had surprising resonance for many of them. Their writings had that vividness that calling into being a needed supporter gives. One woman said she tried to shape her muse, but finally had to give in to the real vision that came through. Another woman described with lively detail her little Chihuahua. We chuckled, but she made a convincing argument for the loving support and encouragement she gets daily. Unconditional love is a wonderful thing. By the end everyone seemed to have had a good time. A few said it should have been much longer.
CONGRATULATIONS on ten years invoking the punk muse at WECS, Marko! (Argh, the signal keeps cutting out--but I heard that :-)
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Time and Idleness
It's been overcast the last couple days, so I'm never really sure when I wake up what time it is. This morning I lay in bed, initially just being lazy, assuring myself it was early yet, then just mulling over my dreams. After that I was thinking ahead to today's workshop (eek) and of course, rehearsing things I might say. The workshop title is "Calling on the Mythic Muse" and I hope to draw on my own experiences with the Kalevala stories, and the power of that kind of storytelling freedom. I remembered back to when I was a kid and would make up long, elaborate (and immediately forgotten) story songs as I walked back and forth to school. That's the kind of creativity that I believe is innate in us all, but usually gets drummed out by the relentless practicality of life and peer pressure. "Stop daydreaming": how often do we hear that? We're a nation of Puritans--idle hands are the devil's workshop!--and seemingly pointless reverie gets equated with wasted time.
In the last few years, I have been trying to recover that easy creativity. I guess it was never gone completely--I never did stop daydreaming--but it becomes a kind of frightened critter, cowering from the daylight. We don't trust our muse, we don't trust the pleasure of spinning an ephemeral story, one that need not last a lifetime or several, but entertains for a short while, makes us feel united in our separateness.
It's taken me a while to quiet the Puritans in my head, and I'm not sure it's done yet. But this time in Dairy Hollow is helping immensely, and while I am hungry to write and write more, I am feeling mostly content. Or trying to do so.
Last night when I walked back after dinner, a couple of deer were eating right in front of the farmhouse. The doe ran off at once, but the young buck (three pointer) stared at me for quite a while. He ran off about ten yards and stared some more. How will we know anything if we don't take a look once in a while? He eventually ran off, white tail bobbing, but he seemed satisfied.
In the last few years, I have been trying to recover that easy creativity. I guess it was never gone completely--I never did stop daydreaming--but it becomes a kind of frightened critter, cowering from the daylight. We don't trust our muse, we don't trust the pleasure of spinning an ephemeral story, one that need not last a lifetime or several, but entertains for a short while, makes us feel united in our separateness.
It's taken me a while to quiet the Puritans in my head, and I'm not sure it's done yet. But this time in Dairy Hollow is helping immensely, and while I am hungry to write and write more, I am feeling mostly content. Or trying to do so.
Last night when I walked back after dinner, a couple of deer were eating right in front of the farmhouse. The doe ran off at once, but the young buck (three pointer) stared at me for quite a while. He ran off about ten yards and stared some more. How will we know anything if we don't take a look once in a while? He eventually ran off, white tail bobbing, but he seemed satisfied.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Another Story Completed!
Well, when I say "complete" I really only mean a first draft. I like to get some feedback or at the very least, set them aside for a while and see how they look with a little distance. At least this time it is one of the Unikirja stories, so I feel like I am finally doing what I am supposed to be here to do at Dairy Hollow. The story is called "Vipunen" and is based oh so loosely on Runo 17. It's a light-hearted story and--how odd for me--has only male characters. I have started another story based on one of the Kanteletar ballads and it seems to be moving along, though not as fast as the first day of inspiration. I have two other Unikirja stories begun but languishing over the last few months. Much to do--not to mention tomorrow's workshop!
Those who control their passions do so because their passions are weak enough to be controlled.
— William Blake (1757-1827)
Those who control their passions do so because their passions are weak enough to be controlled.
— William Blake (1757-1827)
Termites!
So it wasn't entirely my fault; there are/have been termites in the floorboards here at the farmhouse. Sean showed up to start repairs on the broken board--broken since yesterday when I sat on the corner of the bed to watch the amazing thunderstorm. Extra amazement came when the bed suddenly fell through the broken floorboard! I moved the bed but I couldn't get the wheel back on the frame and hold the bed up at the same time, so I finally went down and knocked on Agymah's door to get another pair of hands. And yes, my shoulder does hurt today!
While Sean and Wynn went to work on the floor, I went off on my morning walk. It was still early enough to be cool and the dew was still shining on the grass. My little schnauzer pal was waiting for a good patting. The school was hopping with drop-offs of late-comers. I made it all the way up to Pivot Rock Drive finally--top of the hill. Gave me some sense of progress--as long as I go a little further each day, it's okay, but visual markers help.
Speaking of visual markers: the squirrel is down in the gulley beside the road. Deterioration will take its due course.
Speaking of deterioration: the Queen of Everything passed along notice of a newly proposed bill that would make censorship law (terrifying, ain't it):
American Library Association against proposed bill to federally mandate school library purchases
(WASHINGTON) The following is a statement from American Library Association (ALA) President Carol Brey-Casiano: "The American Library Association is deeply concerned about H.R. 2295, which would deprive schools of much-needed funding unless the community adopts a federally mandated review panel to judge books purchased for classrooms and school libraries..."
You can read the rest on the link: the bill's sponsor is Rep. Walter Jones (R-NC). Feel free to express your ire to him and any opinions on the dangerousness of this kind of thinking.
While Sean and Wynn went to work on the floor, I went off on my morning walk. It was still early enough to be cool and the dew was still shining on the grass. My little schnauzer pal was waiting for a good patting. The school was hopping with drop-offs of late-comers. I made it all the way up to Pivot Rock Drive finally--top of the hill. Gave me some sense of progress--as long as I go a little further each day, it's okay, but visual markers help.
Speaking of visual markers: the squirrel is down in the gulley beside the road. Deterioration will take its due course.
Speaking of deterioration: the Queen of Everything passed along notice of a newly proposed bill that would make censorship law (terrifying, ain't it):
American Library Association against proposed bill to federally mandate school library purchases
(WASHINGTON) The following is a statement from American Library Association (ALA) President Carol Brey-Casiano: "The American Library Association is deeply concerned about H.R. 2295, which would deprive schools of much-needed funding unless the community adopts a federally mandated review panel to judge books purchased for classrooms and school libraries..."
You can read the rest on the link: the bill's sponsor is Rep. Walter Jones (R-NC). Feel free to express your ire to him and any opinions on the dangerousness of this kind of thinking.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
All Kinds of Time Wasters
Saw this on someone else's blog and had to try while I am lamenting things I will not be able to see in London:
You are William Blake! Wow. I'm impressed. Not
only are you a self-made artist and poet, but
you've suddenly become a very trendy guy to
like. It's not that we doubt that you have all
your marbles, it's just that we're not quite
sure what you did with them to come up with
those terrifying theological visions. The
people of your time were nowhere near as
forgiving as that, and all your neighbors
thought you were a grade-A nut job. But we
love you, so rest happy.
Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
brought to you by Quizilla
You are William Blake! Wow. I'm impressed. Not
only are you a self-made artist and poet, but
you've suddenly become a very trendy guy to
like. It's not that we doubt that you have all
your marbles, it's just that we're not quite
sure what you did with them to come up with
those terrifying theological visions. The
people of your time were nowhere near as
forgiving as that, and all your neighbors
thought you were a grade-A nut job. But we
love you, so rest happy.
Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
brought to you by Quizilla
All Kinds o' Critters
I'm pals now with the little schnauzer down the street. Sure enough, as his owner promised, he's a real sweetheart once he gets to know you. I gave him some good back scratching and he didn't want me to leave. But I had a ways yet to walk, so I was on my way. The crows were squawking up in the pine trees as I went up the hill. I fancied they were keeping me company until I saw the newly dead squirrel by the side of the road. What a terrible tolls cars take on these little ones. I guess entropy will be part of my daily walk--unless the crows drag the body off. On the good side, the little turtle was gone, so I am hoping it had a full recovery.
Speaking of critters, my friend Susan just forwarded this item about a raccoon at Duke.
And congratulations to Perilous Cheryl -- graduating CUM LAUDE! from Eastern Connecticut University with a degree in history: all hail fabulous women!
Speaking of critters, my friend Susan just forwarded this item about a raccoon at Duke.
And congratulations to Perilous Cheryl -- graduating CUM LAUDE! from Eastern Connecticut University with a degree in history: all hail fabulous women!
Monday, May 23, 2005
Such a night --
What a thunderstorm last night! It woke me a little before three, lightning flashing like strobe lights and thunder almost constant. The sound was moving all around, sometimes to the east, sometimes to the west. It was quite wonderful. I sat and watched it for a while, but I had to keep blinking--the strikes were so bright.
This morning everything is drenched (including a spot of wallpaper near the fireplace). It felt great when I went out for my walk this morning. It is really humid, but it's still cool enough to feel good (although my glasses fogged up). A lot of birds and critters out shaking off the rainwater. Saw the groundhog down the road, trying not to be seen, probably breathing a sigh of relief when I passed on by. Up near the crest of the hill, I found a little tiny box turtle upended. Maybe hit by a car, not sure, but it seemed intact--though probably a little scrambled. I set her upright, but by the time I passed back that way she was still pulled inside her shell, blinking. So I moved her further off the road into the bushes, in hopes that she will eventually recover.
Last night I finally saw deer. Everyone else has seen them--at dawn or at dusk--but not me. I guess not being up at dawn or busy writing at dusk has some influence on that. Yesterday after our onerous journey to the grocery store (trolleys only run one way, so you have to loop around the entire town--this is how I finally saw the back of one local attraction, the gigantic Christ of the Ozarks near the Passion Play headquarters), I spent a leisurely hour or two chatting with Terri on her porch. We both marveled at the luxury of just sitting, watching the cars (and carriages) go by. No time for that in real life.
Walking back to the farmhouse, just about dusk, there they were--up on the side of the hill, below the farmhouse, three does. They were staring at me as I walked to the bottom of the hollow, ready to flee. As I turned and walked on toward the road up the hill, they went back to eating. Maybe like everyone else around here, they recognized me as one of that bunch--"those writers." "You're one of those writers": we hear that a lot.
This morning everything is drenched (including a spot of wallpaper near the fireplace). It felt great when I went out for my walk this morning. It is really humid, but it's still cool enough to feel good (although my glasses fogged up). A lot of birds and critters out shaking off the rainwater. Saw the groundhog down the road, trying not to be seen, probably breathing a sigh of relief when I passed on by. Up near the crest of the hill, I found a little tiny box turtle upended. Maybe hit by a car, not sure, but it seemed intact--though probably a little scrambled. I set her upright, but by the time I passed back that way she was still pulled inside her shell, blinking. So I moved her further off the road into the bushes, in hopes that she will eventually recover.
Last night I finally saw deer. Everyone else has seen them--at dawn or at dusk--but not me. I guess not being up at dawn or busy writing at dusk has some influence on that. Yesterday after our onerous journey to the grocery store (trolleys only run one way, so you have to loop around the entire town--this is how I finally saw the back of one local attraction, the gigantic Christ of the Ozarks near the Passion Play headquarters), I spent a leisurely hour or two chatting with Terri on her porch. We both marveled at the luxury of just sitting, watching the cars (and carriages) go by. No time for that in real life.
Walking back to the farmhouse, just about dusk, there they were--up on the side of the hill, below the farmhouse, three does. They were staring at me as I walked to the bottom of the hollow, ready to flee. As I turned and walked on toward the road up the hill, they went back to eating. Maybe like everyone else around here, they recognized me as one of that bunch--"those writers." "You're one of those writers": we hear that a lot.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Rarebit Fiends
After talking on the phone with my sweetie yesterday, I was persuaded to go out to lunch with fellow writers Terri and Rebecca. After some meandering around, we decided to lunch at Chelsea's -- a good choice! I had a great char-broiled mushroom and swiss burger, decadent onion rings, and a nice cold Bass. After walked back to the colony we decided to meet for dinner later (weekends we're on our own without Cindy's fine cooking). At least I remembered my flashlight when I walked back up. It's a dark walk back to the farmhouse.
Rebecca had brought some vodka so we had a couple of screwdrivers each, then decided we should just order in (funny how seldom alcohol and ambition go together). Of course then we found out that delivery service has yet to catch on in Eureka Springs. We finally found a pizza place that delivered, but after hemming and hawing for a while, we decided just to eat the tortilla chips we had. After all, those burgers were still very much with us.
We sat on Terri's terrace (her accommodations are not quite as spartan as mine--she's working on a cookbook in the culinary suite) and talked away for some time. At one point a bat flew down and swooped around us. Terri had never seen a bat and was a bit ruffled, but I hastened to explain how they eat moquitos. I had seen many overhead in the darkening sky, but this one had become adventurous and went round and round the table, looking like it was just having fun--a hot-rodding teenager maybe. It eventually flew off.
After a good deal of talk, I made the dark walk back to the farmhouse. Quiet as it is and comfortable as I have been at the house, somehow walking back in the dark is still a little spooky. Maybe it was the walk and the rich burger (after a week of very healthy food), but I woke up about 2.30 from a dream about zombies--relentless, mindless, swarming zombies. Ugh. Took a while to get back to sleep. I woke up a few hours later from a dream about taking a German test! Worse, it wasn't a language test, but a sort of pop culture exam. Wish I could remember what sort of questions were on it.
About 7.30 though, the rain came down, and as always I found that very soothing. I fell back asleep and didn't get up until 9, which made this morning's walk a little hot and humid. The little schnauzer still barks, but now I know he's all bark and no bite, though he won't yet be coaxed over to me. I finally saw the woodpecker we've been hearing for days, and he's the honest-to-goodness Woody Woodpecker kind, very big with the pointy red top.
I forgot to take some breakfast with me when I left the main bldg, so I only had an apple this morning with my tea. But now that I've cleared my brain, it's time to get to the real writing.
Rebecca had brought some vodka so we had a couple of screwdrivers each, then decided we should just order in (funny how seldom alcohol and ambition go together). Of course then we found out that delivery service has yet to catch on in Eureka Springs. We finally found a pizza place that delivered, but after hemming and hawing for a while, we decided just to eat the tortilla chips we had. After all, those burgers were still very much with us.
We sat on Terri's terrace (her accommodations are not quite as spartan as mine--she's working on a cookbook in the culinary suite) and talked away for some time. At one point a bat flew down and swooped around us. Terri had never seen a bat and was a bit ruffled, but I hastened to explain how they eat moquitos. I had seen many overhead in the darkening sky, but this one had become adventurous and went round and round the table, looking like it was just having fun--a hot-rodding teenager maybe. It eventually flew off.
After a good deal of talk, I made the dark walk back to the farmhouse. Quiet as it is and comfortable as I have been at the house, somehow walking back in the dark is still a little spooky. Maybe it was the walk and the rich burger (after a week of very healthy food), but I woke up about 2.30 from a dream about zombies--relentless, mindless, swarming zombies. Ugh. Took a while to get back to sleep. I woke up a few hours later from a dream about taking a German test! Worse, it wasn't a language test, but a sort of pop culture exam. Wish I could remember what sort of questions were on it.
About 7.30 though, the rain came down, and as always I found that very soothing. I fell back asleep and didn't get up until 9, which made this morning's walk a little hot and humid. The little schnauzer still barks, but now I know he's all bark and no bite, though he won't yet be coaxed over to me. I finally saw the woodpecker we've been hearing for days, and he's the honest-to-goodness Woody Woodpecker kind, very big with the pointy red top.
I forgot to take some breakfast with me when I left the main bldg, so I only had an apple this morning with my tea. But now that I've cleared my brain, it's time to get to the real writing.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Book Review @ Matrifocus
Wow! Thanks to my good friend and fellow writer Diane Saarinen (hmmm, when is she going to get a website?) I find that there is a review of Pelzmantel at Matrifocus, the Cross-Quarterly for Goddess Women. It's a fairly glowing review -- I blushed to read it. It even quotes from the novel in a couple places and says wonderful things like, "Laity's storytelling is magic in itself. The language is beautiful and weaves vivid pictures for the reader's imagination." Thanks Dahti Blanchard for a kind and generously complimentary review!
Friday, May 20, 2005
All Kinds of Nature!
The groundhog was back today, munching right outside my window. But I got up too quickly and my haste betrayed me; she quickly scooted away and I was disappointed. A little while later I heard some rustling and thought, "A ha! She's back." Surprise -- it was a turtle. I looked it up: apparently it's a Three-Toed Box Turtle. Very colorful.
All right, back to work --
All right, back to work --
Twa Corbies
There are a pair of crows that live in the Hollow and I often see them when I'm out on my morning walk or going up the hill for dinner at 6 (our only regularly scheduled event). I hear them calling back and forth, or see them hopping around in Harmon Park. They left a feather for me, so I took a picture of it on the beautiful blue and white quilt on my bed with the stone I found that has a fossil shaped like the rune tyr.
Somehow, walking along and thinking about the crows (and all the other birds--I've seen flickers, which I haven't seen since I lived in Michigan, jays, robins, cardinals, finches, a few others I'll have to look up) led me to Flash Girls' songs. So now I have "Twa Bonny Maids" in my head (at least it finally got the Dictators out of my brain, thanks Marko). But I was also thinking about being apart from Gene so long, which put Donne's "Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" in my head. I always have an uphill battle teaching Donne to my students. The first stumbling block for that poem is that they don't know there's another kind of compass than the one that points directions (my desk here faces east, home of inspiration, by the way). But Donne uses that wonderful image to assure his wife that though he travels to the ends of the earth, like the two legs of the compass they can never be parted, and the perfect circle they draw assures they will always come together again. Beautiful.
Donne, Blake and Marlowe -- somehow that triumvirate have been much in my imagination for the last couple years. A weighty trio of singular individuals who all seemed to swim against the prevailing tides; I guess I have something to learn from them.
Somehow, walking along and thinking about the crows (and all the other birds--I've seen flickers, which I haven't seen since I lived in Michigan, jays, robins, cardinals, finches, a few others I'll have to look up) led me to Flash Girls' songs. So now I have "Twa Bonny Maids" in my head (at least it finally got the Dictators out of my brain, thanks Marko). But I was also thinking about being apart from Gene so long, which put Donne's "Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" in my head. I always have an uphill battle teaching Donne to my students. The first stumbling block for that poem is that they don't know there's another kind of compass than the one that points directions (my desk here faces east, home of inspiration, by the way). But Donne uses that wonderful image to assure his wife that though he travels to the ends of the earth, like the two legs of the compass they can never be parted, and the perfect circle they draw assures they will always come together again. Beautiful.
Donne, Blake and Marlowe -- somehow that triumvirate have been much in my imagination for the last couple years. A weighty trio of singular individuals who all seemed to swim against the prevailing tides; I guess I have something to learn from them.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Poetluck Reading
It was good -- but was it Branson good?
I overheard some people talking on the shuttle who said we were less than 50 miles from Branson, so they were going to drive up. If you don't know, Branson is sort of like the Las Vegas of Missouri, except without the gambling, hookers and celebrities. What does that leave? Andy Williams doing cabaret. Or so I've heard.
I was the featured reader for the "poetluck" dinner and I did actually start with a poem. Not mine of course, but the poetic chant from Æcerbot, the Anglo-Saxon charm to return fruitfulness to a field. I recited it in Old English then translated it into modern English, and explained what it was for, then used that to connect to the idea of linking to the past and its stories, as did the Kalevala and as I am trying to do with Unikirja.
I talked about the disparagement of fantasy in this country, contrasting it with magical realism--a much respected genre if you're South American. If you're Garcia Marquez, magic is wonderful; the rest of us are relegated to paperback. I mentioned the Finnish writers whose "realism" seems much more elastic, like Niemi and Sinisalo. I explained the idea behind Lönnrot's collecting of the poems for the Kalevala, that attempt to capture a swiftly disappearing heritage, and linked it to my attempt to imagine a heritage often lost even among his collections--the stories of women [those of you who have read "Kerttu" can see what I mean].
Perversely perhaps, I read from the incomplete story "Vipunen" which has only male characters, because it deals with the clash between rationality (in the person of the narrator, an MBA student) trapped in a mythological struggle between the rune singer Väinämöinen and the giant Vipunen. Well, I'm not sure how well it went over with the mostly memoirist crowd, but people did say I read very well, and at least a couple people told me they were very interested in the workshop I'm doing next week.
There were a wide variety of readers after me, including a couple of the other residents--Rebecca had some wild sexy poems that really got the crowd going, while Terri related a memory of her Cajun grandmother teaching her to cook. Other folks offered an equally diverse array: one woman's memory of being an 8 year old fleeing Germany with her mother and brother, in fear for their lives; some lively poems about the memorable little moments of life; a travelogue of Vicksburg and the caves employed during the Civil War; and the despairing thoughts of a longtime activist facing the relentless cruelty of the current administration.
A good night!
I overheard some people talking on the shuttle who said we were less than 50 miles from Branson, so they were going to drive up. If you don't know, Branson is sort of like the Las Vegas of Missouri, except without the gambling, hookers and celebrities. What does that leave? Andy Williams doing cabaret. Or so I've heard.
I was the featured reader for the "poetluck" dinner and I did actually start with a poem. Not mine of course, but the poetic chant from Æcerbot, the Anglo-Saxon charm to return fruitfulness to a field. I recited it in Old English then translated it into modern English, and explained what it was for, then used that to connect to the idea of linking to the past and its stories, as did the Kalevala and as I am trying to do with Unikirja.
I talked about the disparagement of fantasy in this country, contrasting it with magical realism--a much respected genre if you're South American. If you're Garcia Marquez, magic is wonderful; the rest of us are relegated to paperback. I mentioned the Finnish writers whose "realism" seems much more elastic, like Niemi and Sinisalo. I explained the idea behind Lönnrot's collecting of the poems for the Kalevala, that attempt to capture a swiftly disappearing heritage, and linked it to my attempt to imagine a heritage often lost even among his collections--the stories of women [those of you who have read "Kerttu" can see what I mean].
Perversely perhaps, I read from the incomplete story "Vipunen" which has only male characters, because it deals with the clash between rationality (in the person of the narrator, an MBA student) trapped in a mythological struggle between the rune singer Väinämöinen and the giant Vipunen. Well, I'm not sure how well it went over with the mostly memoirist crowd, but people did say I read very well, and at least a couple people told me they were very interested in the workshop I'm doing next week.
There were a wide variety of readers after me, including a couple of the other residents--Rebecca had some wild sexy poems that really got the crowd going, while Terri related a memory of her Cajun grandmother teaching her to cook. Other folks offered an equally diverse array: one woman's memory of being an 8 year old fleeing Germany with her mother and brother, in fear for their lives; some lively poems about the memorable little moments of life; a travelogue of Vicksburg and the caves employed during the Civil War; and the despairing thoughts of a longtime activist facing the relentless cruelty of the current administration.
A good night!
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Hard to Reach Spots
By the way folks, I will be even harder to reach than usual because I have only dial-up access (the horror, the horror!) and my phone is telling me it's roaming, so I will not be using it except in emergencies. With luck, there won't be any. Perhaps it is just fate making sure I do what I'm supposed to do here at the writer's colony, but I have to admit the email is especially hard. I feel like saying, "Hi, my name is Kate and I'm an email-oholic!" I finally realise just how much emailing I do. No wonder I have those repetetive stress pains.
On the plus side, I finished one story today (yay!) and have tried to decide what to work on next. I may be reading an incomplete story tomorrow in addition to a couple short things. Haven't decided for sure, but that's me.
On the plus side, I finished one story today (yay!) and have tried to decide what to work on next. I may be reading an incomplete story tomorrow in addition to a couple short things. Haven't decided for sure, but that's me.
On the Arts Calendar
Gene actually found it first; I just found out yesterday, but I will be the featured writer at the Poetluck Literary Salon this month. Guess I better figure out what I'll be reading!
Last night I got ambitious and laid a fire in the fireplace. How wonderful to sit before a crackling fire and read Lord Dunsany. It's the perfect setting. I get up in the morning and go for a walk, looking for birds and other critters along the way, getting barked at by the little schnauzer down the street. Everything is so lush and green, and the weather has been wonderful -- of course anything less humid than Houston feels like heaven!
Well, back to writing --
Last night I got ambitious and laid a fire in the fireplace. How wonderful to sit before a crackling fire and read Lord Dunsany. It's the perfect setting. I get up in the morning and go for a walk, looking for birds and other critters along the way, getting barked at by the little schnauzer down the street. Everything is so lush and green, and the weather has been wonderful -- of course anything less humid than Houston feels like heaven!
Well, back to writing --
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Out my window
A little ground hog (cousin to the wombat!) just ambled down the path outside my window as I sit here writing. She's poking through the grass across the dirt road, near what will be the composer's cottage but is at present a shack awaiting repair. She digs a little, puts her nose up to the wind, then shifts around to another spot. Ah, nature!
Monday, May 16, 2005
Down in Dairy Hollow
Actually I'm on the side of a hill, but I'm here! Pictures forthcoming, but I am in the Iris studio in the farm house. It's halfway up a hill, surrounded by trees. I have a working fireplace! Oooh.
Friday, May 13, 2005
At the 'Zoo
This past week I made the annual pilgrimage to the International Medieval Congress held, incongruously enough, in Kalamazoo MI. This year I flew into Detroit to meet gal pal Wendy. We picked up the rental car and met my high school friend, Susan, for dinner. The only thing better than knowing witty and intelligent women is being able to introduce them to one another. We had a great conversation, then Wendy and I got on the road to Kazoo.
For once, I had to give my paper on Thursday. It was great to get it out of the way at the beginning of the conference and relax. (FYI: my paper was on the Corrector of Burchard of Worms and I got good feedback.) At the wine hour I wasn't able to locate someone I had been trying to meet up with--it gets more crowded every year! But Wendy and I met up with my co-editor Scott and off we went for a fine seafood dinner.
I played hookey Friday to finish writing an article, but still managed to run into a bunch of people the rest of the day. I had dinner with my older brother, Steve, and Wendy. It was a momentous day--the last car rolled off the line in Lansing's Oldsmobile plant where Steve works, but as a carpenter, he's not too worried about keeping busy.
Saturday was a busy time: attending panels, meeting with a publisher, running into lots of folks (including Meredith, whom I'd been searching for since Thursday). Wendy and I met up with another grad school pal, Carolyn and her husband Brian, and had a lively dinner discussion. Of course, the big Saturday night dance is the cap of the week--nothing like a bunch of medievalists dancing to disco hits and classic rock. Naturally I took the opportunity to demand my advisor buy me a beer (fortunately he complied). As always we left late, sweaty and tired.
The drive back to Detroit was pleasant, especially after we stopped for a big breakfast. It's always good to share a long car ride with a good friend, and Wendy and I had a lot to catch up on. Of course, the end of the journey proved less fun--my flight was rerouted to Dallas without notice to avoid the storms around Houston. Ugh. Four and a half hours late, we finally arrived in Houston. The Kalamazoo curse strikes again!
For once, I had to give my paper on Thursday. It was great to get it out of the way at the beginning of the conference and relax. (FYI: my paper was on the Corrector of Burchard of Worms and I got good feedback.) At the wine hour I wasn't able to locate someone I had been trying to meet up with--it gets more crowded every year! But Wendy and I met up with my co-editor Scott and off we went for a fine seafood dinner.
I played hookey Friday to finish writing an article, but still managed to run into a bunch of people the rest of the day. I had dinner with my older brother, Steve, and Wendy. It was a momentous day--the last car rolled off the line in Lansing's Oldsmobile plant where Steve works, but as a carpenter, he's not too worried about keeping busy.
Saturday was a busy time: attending panels, meeting with a publisher, running into lots of folks (including Meredith, whom I'd been searching for since Thursday). Wendy and I met up with another grad school pal, Carolyn and her husband Brian, and had a lively dinner discussion. Of course, the big Saturday night dance is the cap of the week--nothing like a bunch of medievalists dancing to disco hits and classic rock. Naturally I took the opportunity to demand my advisor buy me a beer (fortunately he complied). As always we left late, sweaty and tired.
The drive back to Detroit was pleasant, especially after we stopped for a big breakfast. It's always good to share a long car ride with a good friend, and Wendy and I had a lot to catch up on. Of course, the end of the journey proved less fun--my flight was rerouted to Dallas without notice to avoid the storms around Houston. Ugh. Four and a half hours late, we finally arrived in Houston. The Kalamazoo curse strikes again!
Friday, May 06, 2005
For this you get a medal?
I am very pleased to announce that I won the University of Houston-Downtown's Award for Faculty Achievement in Scholarly and Creative Activities (I think that's the correct name). This is quite prestigious; indeed, one of my colleagues said he didn't think an Assistant Professor had ever won it before. Wow! Better yet, our department swept the awards. My colleagues Jane Creighton and Nell Sullivan won the Teaching and Service Awards (respectively) for their work. Proud department chair, Bill Gilbert, took us out for a celebratory round of drinks at a nearby restaurant (whose service was so atrocious, I won't bother mentioning them).
I never got to make a thank-you speech before. I thanked the supportive members of my department for creating a welcoming, nurturing atmosphere; my dept chair for supporting most of my requests for travel (I even tried to capture his laconic phrasing "well, I don't see why not"); my two colleagues who have helped so much, Sandi Dahlberg, who's been a real mentor to me, and Pat Golemon, who from the very first day on campus has been a friend; of course, I also thanked Gene, as my cheerleader and reality-check, my editor and inspiration.
And I did get a medal -- and a plaque for my wall and a tidy little sum that makes the trip to England this summer (and to MKI this August) much easier!
Here's me with fellow English Babes Nell and Jane.
I never got to make a thank-you speech before. I thanked the supportive members of my department for creating a welcoming, nurturing atmosphere; my dept chair for supporting most of my requests for travel (I even tried to capture his laconic phrasing "well, I don't see why not"); my two colleagues who have helped so much, Sandi Dahlberg, who's been a real mentor to me, and Pat Golemon, who from the very first day on campus has been a friend; of course, I also thanked Gene, as my cheerleader and reality-check, my editor and inspiration.
And I did get a medal -- and a plaque for my wall and a tidy little sum that makes the trip to England this summer (and to MKI this August) much easier!
Here's me with fellow English Babes Nell and Jane.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Another Publication Forthcoming!
I have a piece in here on discovering medieval magic texts, like the Anglo-Saxon charms and the Leechbook.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Women and the Divine
Another conference acceptance: best of all, it's in England! It was about time I had an excuse to go back. The conference is Women and the Divine. It's sponsored by the Institute of Feminist Theory and Research, co-hosted by Liverpool University and Liverpool Hope University College, and features heavy hitters like Luce Irigaray. Wow! And they're looking for non-traditional presentations, so I am really excited (and terrified!). My mini-workshop is entitled "Casting the Circle: Ritual and The Body of the Goddess" and will be interactive. Now all I have to do is write it...
Friday, April 15, 2005
Sin City: Brutal
Robert Rodgriguez continues his outlaw ways and we all benefit. It seems cruel to say I enjoyed Sin City; it's a brutal film with no winners and a whole lot of losers, but that's part of the ride. You don't tend to look for heroes among hookers and hoods. Like the best movies, though, it's true to the source -- in this case, Frank Miller's cruel and unflinching ride through the underbelly of a vaguely noirish hell drawn in jagged black and white, punctuated elliptically with splashes of garish color when that world is ripped open with bullets or blades.
The gore and grimness are lightened only by the black humor; sometimes when it's coming down so heavy you gotta wear a hat, what can you do but laugh? Fleeting moments of recognizable "good" -- like Bruce Willis' grizzled cop struggling against the odds to save one innocent girl -- get ground under the relentless heel of this corrupt dead-end town. Everyone in Basin City is suspect, from the top to the bottom, and that's a bottom that seems to keep receding farther and farther into the murkiness. So you take sides, latch onto the merest glimmer of "right" whether it's the tough crook out for revenge on behalf of the hooker who was kind to him once, or the stripper who realizes the fragile power she's carved out among the worst of the worst is about to collapse.
Willis is good, Rourke (!), too. Owen -- yeah. Rosario Dawson -- awesome. Miller's own cameo is cool.
There are grisly (and inventive) beheadings, flying bullets, lots of pointy knives and the tawdriest behavior imaginable. Images that will float up to the top of your mind in the wee hours like bloated corpses quickly become the norm. It's a travelogue of the perverse and cruel, and not for everyone -- but artistry in blood, and black and white. Go, throw back a quick scotch first if you need it, but go.
The gore and grimness are lightened only by the black humor; sometimes when it's coming down so heavy you gotta wear a hat, what can you do but laugh? Fleeting moments of recognizable "good" -- like Bruce Willis' grizzled cop struggling against the odds to save one innocent girl -- get ground under the relentless heel of this corrupt dead-end town. Everyone in Basin City is suspect, from the top to the bottom, and that's a bottom that seems to keep receding farther and farther into the murkiness. So you take sides, latch onto the merest glimmer of "right" whether it's the tough crook out for revenge on behalf of the hooker who was kind to him once, or the stripper who realizes the fragile power she's carved out among the worst of the worst is about to collapse.
Willis is good, Rourke (!), too. Owen -- yeah. Rosario Dawson -- awesome. Miller's own cameo is cool.
There are grisly (and inventive) beheadings, flying bullets, lots of pointy knives and the tawdriest behavior imaginable. Images that will float up to the top of your mind in the wee hours like bloated corpses quickly become the norm. It's a travelogue of the perverse and cruel, and not for everyone -- but artistry in blood, and black and white. Go, throw back a quick scotch first if you need it, but go.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Two (Very Different) Acceptances
Two bits of good news in my email box yesterday: first, the big academic coup -- an acceptance for a paper at MLA. The Modern Language Association holds the premier conference in literature and language studies (that's why all the job interviews are done there). An acceptance there is a ticket to the big leagues! Better yet, my paper on gendering the conversion narrative in medieval Iceland was selected for the one and only panel on Old Norse Literature at MLA. Tough competition, so I am thrilled to have been selected.
The other acceptance, while less prestigious, could be even more fun: The Witching Hour is a multifaceted conference that sprang up around the Harry Potter books. I'll be talking about real medieval magic but aiming it toward a more general audience, trying to convince them that medieval studies is as fun as the HP books. We'll see if I can pull that off! Better yet, it also features people like Charles de Lint and MaryAnn Harris, who are so wonderful and were so much fun at Mythic Journeys last June. Other guests so far include editor Ellen Datlow, writers Holly Black and Nancy Farmer. Best of all -- it will be held in Salem, MA in October. Ahhhhh. I can't wait!
The other acceptance, while less prestigious, could be even more fun: The Witching Hour is a multifaceted conference that sprang up around the Harry Potter books. I'll be talking about real medieval magic but aiming it toward a more general audience, trying to convince them that medieval studies is as fun as the HP books. We'll see if I can pull that off! Better yet, it also features people like Charles de Lint and MaryAnn Harris, who are so wonderful and were so much fun at Mythic Journeys last June. Other guests so far include editor Ellen Datlow, writers Holly Black and Nancy Farmer. Best of all -- it will be held in Salem, MA in October. Ahhhhh. I can't wait!
Beantown Rendezvous
I always leap at the chance to return to Boston, so I ended up giving a paper at the NEMLA conference (on Clive Barker and queer theory) this past weekend. I was smiling before I got out of Logan because it felt like home, as always. Riding on the T--not the most exciting thing, I know, but I really miss public transportation. And changing to the red line at Park St, I went downstairs to find a busker playing "Brown Eyed Girl" and everybody singing along. Ah, Boston.
After getting settled into the hotel, I set out for Cambridge and Somerville. My main target was McIntyre and Moore, still the best bookstore in the greater Boston area. Some interesting finds: medieval theatre of cruelty, early percussion, and a collection of Carnival plays by Hans Sachs. Of course as good as the shopping is the eavesdropping on the way there--riding the T provides a lot of interesting and hilarious conversations. I forgot what it was like to be surrounded by BU students nattering on about dorm hijinks. I have not missed backwards baseball caps!
My CT pals arrived amidst the terrible downpour (that I later found out had flooded the house my brother lives in on the banks of the Hudson), soaked to the skin and a little cranky -- who could blame them. But I was so cheered to see them all that I couldn't let my spirits be dampened: The Queen of Everything and Johnny 10X, and the Boojums: Perilous Cheryl and the Joey Zone. A great lunch at India Quality in Kenmore and soon everybody was in a much better frame of mind. A stop by Nuggets helped too--even though, for once, I didn't actually buy anything. We headed out to Simmons, where Cheryl will be starting her MLS soon, then back to the hotel for me to deliver my paper (seemed to go well, people asked for copies). Then off to Cambridge to rummage through the Coop before the cocktail hour beckoned. Not as much shopping as we could have done, but the conversations over lunch, drinks and dinner were the best part for me (even if two conferences in the space of a week left me exhausted rather earlier than usual).
I could have taken the shuttle Sunday morning, but that would mean giving up one more walk along the Charles, It's sad when the idea of being able to walk outside without collapsing from heat and humidity is so precious (still not adjusting to Houston weather). I had an early lunch at Legal Seafoods (lobster and crab ravioli and a big pot of Earl Grey) and bid Boston a wistful goodbye. Much too short a visit! Especially with friends--and I really thank them for making their way up to MA in that horrible rain to see me. Really. Thanks.
After getting settled into the hotel, I set out for Cambridge and Somerville. My main target was McIntyre and Moore, still the best bookstore in the greater Boston area. Some interesting finds: medieval theatre of cruelty, early percussion, and a collection of Carnival plays by Hans Sachs. Of course as good as the shopping is the eavesdropping on the way there--riding the T provides a lot of interesting and hilarious conversations. I forgot what it was like to be surrounded by BU students nattering on about dorm hijinks. I have not missed backwards baseball caps!
My CT pals arrived amidst the terrible downpour (that I later found out had flooded the house my brother lives in on the banks of the Hudson), soaked to the skin and a little cranky -- who could blame them. But I was so cheered to see them all that I couldn't let my spirits be dampened: The Queen of Everything and Johnny 10X, and the Boojums: Perilous Cheryl and the Joey Zone. A great lunch at India Quality in Kenmore and soon everybody was in a much better frame of mind. A stop by Nuggets helped too--even though, for once, I didn't actually buy anything. We headed out to Simmons, where Cheryl will be starting her MLS soon, then back to the hotel for me to deliver my paper (seemed to go well, people asked for copies). Then off to Cambridge to rummage through the Coop before the cocktail hour beckoned. Not as much shopping as we could have done, but the conversations over lunch, drinks and dinner were the best part for me (even if two conferences in the space of a week left me exhausted rather earlier than usual).
I could have taken the shuttle Sunday morning, but that would mean giving up one more walk along the Charles, It's sad when the idea of being able to walk outside without collapsing from heat and humidity is so precious (still not adjusting to Houston weather). I had an early lunch at Legal Seafoods (lobster and crab ravioli and a big pot of Earl Grey) and bid Boston a wistful goodbye. Much too short a visit! Especially with friends--and I really thank them for making their way up to MA in that horrible rain to see me. Really. Thanks.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Best. Compliment. Ever.
We made our annual pilgrimage to the Popular Culture Association Conference last weekend. This year it was in San Diego, sometimes mistaken for a suburb of Los Angeles; but after Houston's first stifling signs of spring, it proved a welcome respite. Of course the best part of PCA is seeing lots of friends and we spent a lot of time talking, arguing and chasing flights of imagination in or around DW's Pub. I gave a paper this year in the comics area (yeah, even though I chair the medieval area--call me perverse). Well, not so much a paper, as a performance; I had said last year, when some one suggested an Alan Moore panel, that I would give a ritual performance in the style of Moore's workings. People thought I was kidding. I never kid (it's like that Somerset Maugham story where a woman is known as a great wit, simply because she always tells the truth, but I digress).So I gave my presentation, "The City as the Body of the Poet: William Blake's London in Alan Moore & Tim Perkins' Angel Passage." I worked on the text, to get the rhythm right, not only of the words but of the PP slides with images of arcane diagrams, an unexpected non sequitur, and of course Blake's art. It was about ritual (one of my obsessions) but it also was ritual. I had said I would invoke the spirit of Moore and of course, eveyone thought I was joking. I wasn't. I savor the picture of Moore's body slumped in a chair somewhere in Northampton Friday afternoon.
I was a bit nervous that day. Not only was I trying something new, something the audience at an academic conference might be resistant to experiencing; but I was also on the panel with our VIP guest, Danny Fingeroth, author of Superman on the Couch and I had to go first.I plunged into the piece, catching the rhythm and finding the right voice. People laughed in the right places, looked puzzled at the right times, and the room seemed to hum with electricity--or maybe it was just me. The last half of the performance was half Moore and half me, and I felt I had matched his eloquence reasonably well and more importantly, that the piece was rising to its climax, the final words of Moore's narration, "William Blake, amazed and unafraid." For that moment, I felt akin to the image flashed up on
the screen, Blake's Red Dragon, wings spread, shoulders thrown back as he towers over the woman clothed in sun. The audience seemed to share the feeling and their applause seemed genuine. I felt the glow of success, raising an academic paper from a piacular rite to -- dare I say it -- art.You don't get that kind of feedback writing prose alone in the wee hours, or even from one careful reader. It's the spectacle, the crowd, the feeling of response, give and take: performance, drama, ritual. And then it got even better: We turned to Danny who said (and this is burned on my brain) "it's going to be like following Frank Sinatra with 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.'" :-) What can I say? I was lifted far above the fourth floor and had to wait for my feet to again touch solid ground sometime later.
Thanks, Danny (who turns out to be the kind of guy who shares his fries, so you know he's all right).
Monday, March 21, 2005
UHD Dateline: Hunter S. Thompson Remembered
[This appeared in the March 4-24 2005 edition of the Dateline Downtown]
Hunter S. Thompson, R.I.P.
K. A. Laity
This past weekend, gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson shot himself in his Colorado home, which he often referred to as his “well-armed compound,” although he also claimed that his reputation was enough to keep people away. We may never know if it was terminal disgust with the direction of this country or the simple attrition of age. After all, he was 67, had a hip replacement and recently broke a leg. Pain might be the one drug he decided to do without. But as an outspoken critic of the “W” vision of America and the precipitous decline of civil rights, he may at last have given into despair.
Thompson will be remembered best for his self-proclaimed "gonzo" journalism, the notion that not only was objectivity not possible, but it was probably not all that desirable. To inhabit the world you studied—whether it was the Kentucky Derby, the Nixon presidential campaign, or the Hell's Angels—came with risks as well as rewards.
In a culture where paid mouthpieces help push the current administration's agenda in secret, Thompson has long been admired for being up front about his own beliefs and prejudices. While he was lionized by the 60s counterculture for the drug-fueled odyssey of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, his own views were distinctly libertarian. A lifetime member of the NRA, he was unabashedly proud of his guns as well as his notorious drug habits. Thompson has said, "I do not advocate the use of dangerous drugs, wild amounts of alcohol and violence and weirdness... but they've always worked for me."
Thompson understood the inevitability of remaining the outsider if you want to tell the truth. Yet it was this outsider status that made many celebrate him. He was immortalized as Uncle Duke in Gary Trudeau's comic strip Doonesbury. His thinly veiled alter-ego Raoul Duke has inspired two cinematic portraits; first, in the lamentable Where the Buffalo Roam (1980), a toothless party piece that had a lot more to do with Animal House than with the man himself, starring Bill Murray before he really became an actor. More successfully, the spirit of Fear and Loathing (1998) was captured in the film by Terry Gilliam, himself no slouch in the gonzo approach to creation. Ably supported by a stellar supporting cast including Benicio Del Toro and Christina Ricci, Johnny Depp eerily conjured the spirit of Thompson down to his bow-legged walk, a mimicry that the man himself admired. Gilliam’s film proved successful not just because he captured the drug-fueled chaos, but because he also caught Thompson’s despair at the death of the American Dream.
In more recent times, Thompson spoke out against what he saw as the descent toward fascism taken by the current administration since 9/11. Two years ago, in an interview with Salon, he characterized the Bush government caustically: “I believe the Republicans have seen what they've believed all along, which is that this democracy stuff is bull, and that people don't want to be burdened by political affairs. That people would rather just be taken care of. The oligarchy doesn't need an educated public. And maybe the nation does prefer tyranny. I think that's what worries me. It goes back to Fourth Amendment issues. How much do you value your freedom? Would you trade your freedom for some illusion of security? Freedom is something that dies unless it's used.”
Thompson always sought that freedom, even from his own caricatured fame, refusing to be a hero to those who sought to idolize him. A journalist to the end, information was always the key. "I've found you can deal with the system a lot easier if you use their rules—by understanding their rules, by using their rules against them." He never underestimated the brutality of the system, but he may have finally grown tired of the fight.
See the entire 2003 Salon interview at: http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2003/02/03/thompson/index1.html
Hunter S. Thompson, R.I.P.
K. A. Laity
This past weekend, gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson shot himself in his Colorado home, which he often referred to as his “well-armed compound,” although he also claimed that his reputation was enough to keep people away. We may never know if it was terminal disgust with the direction of this country or the simple attrition of age. After all, he was 67, had a hip replacement and recently broke a leg. Pain might be the one drug he decided to do without. But as an outspoken critic of the “W” vision of America and the precipitous decline of civil rights, he may at last have given into despair.
Thompson will be remembered best for his self-proclaimed "gonzo" journalism, the notion that not only was objectivity not possible, but it was probably not all that desirable. To inhabit the world you studied—whether it was the Kentucky Derby, the Nixon presidential campaign, or the Hell's Angels—came with risks as well as rewards.
In a culture where paid mouthpieces help push the current administration's agenda in secret, Thompson has long been admired for being up front about his own beliefs and prejudices. While he was lionized by the 60s counterculture for the drug-fueled odyssey of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, his own views were distinctly libertarian. A lifetime member of the NRA, he was unabashedly proud of his guns as well as his notorious drug habits. Thompson has said, "I do not advocate the use of dangerous drugs, wild amounts of alcohol and violence and weirdness... but they've always worked for me."
Thompson understood the inevitability of remaining the outsider if you want to tell the truth. Yet it was this outsider status that made many celebrate him. He was immortalized as Uncle Duke in Gary Trudeau's comic strip Doonesbury. His thinly veiled alter-ego Raoul Duke has inspired two cinematic portraits; first, in the lamentable Where the Buffalo Roam (1980), a toothless party piece that had a lot more to do with Animal House than with the man himself, starring Bill Murray before he really became an actor. More successfully, the spirit of Fear and Loathing (1998) was captured in the film by Terry Gilliam, himself no slouch in the gonzo approach to creation. Ably supported by a stellar supporting cast including Benicio Del Toro and Christina Ricci, Johnny Depp eerily conjured the spirit of Thompson down to his bow-legged walk, a mimicry that the man himself admired. Gilliam’s film proved successful not just because he captured the drug-fueled chaos, but because he also caught Thompson’s despair at the death of the American Dream.
In more recent times, Thompson spoke out against what he saw as the descent toward fascism taken by the current administration since 9/11. Two years ago, in an interview with Salon, he characterized the Bush government caustically: “I believe the Republicans have seen what they've believed all along, which is that this democracy stuff is bull, and that people don't want to be burdened by political affairs. That people would rather just be taken care of. The oligarchy doesn't need an educated public. And maybe the nation does prefer tyranny. I think that's what worries me. It goes back to Fourth Amendment issues. How much do you value your freedom? Would you trade your freedom for some illusion of security? Freedom is something that dies unless it's used.”
Thompson always sought that freedom, even from his own caricatured fame, refusing to be a hero to those who sought to idolize him. A journalist to the end, information was always the key. "I've found you can deal with the system a lot easier if you use their rules—by understanding their rules, by using their rules against them." He never underestimated the brutality of the system, but he may have finally grown tired of the fight.
See the entire 2003 Salon interview at: http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2003/02/03/thompson/index1.html
Friday, March 18, 2005
Reviews
When you first get pubished, you feel euphoric -- until you realize the work has just begun. Getting the word out! In this information-bombarding culture, how do you get the word out without getting it lost in the shuffle? Well, blogs are one way. Reviews are another. Here's a review site that has already begun collecting reviews on Sword and Sorceress XXI. Feel free to add yours!
http://www.allfantasyreviews.com/books/bookdetail.php?bid=768
http://www.allfantasyreviews.com/books/bookdetail.php?bid=768
Monday, March 07, 2005
A Tale of the Bodhisattva
An ancient tale (or is it new?) of the Bodhisattva* relates how students once gathered to question the enlightened one. They all wanted to reach enlightenment too, and asked how to do so. The bodhisattva said "Enlightenment is like a thousand petal lotus. It is easy to get caught in one of the petals and dwell forever, but one should seek the center of the bud." Upon hearing this analogy, one student achieved enlightenment.
Another asked "How can one achieve enlightenment?" and the bodhisattva answered, "Enlightenment is like a lamp that always burns, yet ever must we re-light it." That student instantly received enlightenment.
A third student remained stubbornly silent. The bodhisattva picked up a tree limb and whacked the student on the head. The student fell face down in the mud and at once achieved enlightenment.
What is the aim of this story? That some must be hit over the head to achieve enlightenment? Or that a teacher must use all tools available?
*Bodhisattva--an enlightened being who has put off transcendence the better to help others reach enlightenment.
Another asked "How can one achieve enlightenment?" and the bodhisattva answered, "Enlightenment is like a lamp that always burns, yet ever must we re-light it." That student instantly received enlightenment.
A third student remained stubbornly silent. The bodhisattva picked up a tree limb and whacked the student on the head. The student fell face down in the mud and at once achieved enlightenment.
What is the aim of this story? That some must be hit over the head to achieve enlightenment? Or that a teacher must use all tools available?
*Bodhisattva--an enlightened being who has put off transcendence the better to help others reach enlightenment.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Hunter S. Thompson, R.I.P.
From an interview at Salon.com:
"I've found you can deal with the system a lot easier if you use their rules -- by understanding their rules, by using their rules against them."
Of course, he also said: ""I do not advocate the use of dangerous drugs, wild amounts of alcohol and violence and weirdness... but they've always worked for me."
He changed the idea of what reporting could mean and he took responsibility for his actions: "I consider myself a road man for the lords of karma." He understood the inevitability of remaining the outsider if you want to tell the truth.
"I've found you can deal with the system a lot easier if you use their rules -- by understanding their rules, by using their rules against them."
Of course, he also said: ""I do not advocate the use of dangerous drugs, wild amounts of alcohol and violence and weirdness... but they've always worked for me."
He changed the idea of what reporting could mean and he took responsibility for his actions: "I consider myself a road man for the lords of karma." He understood the inevitability of remaining the outsider if you want to tell the truth.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
An Acceptance
Today I got word that my story "On Buffalo Bayou" has been accepted by New Texas, a literary magazine at West Texas A&M Univerisity. A literary magazine is the kind of prestige that matters more to my academic collagues (of course, that means no money, like most academic publishing).
The story is the first (and so far only) of mine to be set in Texas. Of course, it's a horror story -- just kidding! It's a tribute to Ray Bradbury's "The Jar" as well as a mythic fantasy. It's wonderful to pay homage to Bradbury and that fantastic collection The October Country, the place I really live. I'll never forget reading those stories. It was like finally finding that low door in the wall...
The story is the first (and so far only) of mine to be set in Texas. Of course, it's a horror story -- just kidding! It's a tribute to Ray Bradbury's "The Jar" as well as a mythic fantasy. It's wonderful to pay homage to Bradbury and that fantastic collection The October Country, the place I really live. I'll never forget reading those stories. It was like finally finding that low door in the wall...
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