Synchronicity

In between trying to get actual work done, we slipped off to check out the 20% off sale at Half Price Books, as all good bibliophiles must. As usual we found a few things too good to pass up -- especially at that price. As some of you know, I've been on a British comedy kick for some months now -- or should I say a more pronounced kick. I suppose I have been on a British comedy kick since I first saw Monty Python in my early teens (or did hearing the Goon show come first? I cannot remember anymore; maybe Robert does). Anyhow, this summer I have been immersed in reading things like Sunshine on Putty and A Great Silly Grin as well as the scripts in Peter Cook's Tragically I was an Only Twin. Thanks to a certain online auction service, I have also found some terrific (and cheap!) DVDs as well.

On Friday, we watched a recent Ebay purchase, Not Only But Always, the film based on one of the biographies of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. It was pretty good as these things go (condensing anyone's life into 100 minutes is going to leave out a lot). But what a surprise to be looking through the drama section at Half Price the next day, and find a UK edition of Dud and Pete: The Dagenham Dialogues. I just stared at it for a minute -- it just seemed a little too much like a thought made manifest, but it's real enough. How odd, though, that it should make its way to a suburban Texas bookstore at just this time.

I think one the funniest things I heard recently was when Alan Moore was interviewing Brian Eno for Chain Reaction, a Radio 4 show, that Eno said when he and Bowie get together they slip almost unconsciously into Pete and Dud voices. I've found my own inspiration from all this by writing a very silly play. I'll be sure to pass it around when it's done.

"I've got a viper in this box. It's not an asp..."

Two in One Day

My copies of two different publications arrived today! First up is my short story "On Buffalo Bayou," dedicated to Ray Bradbury, which appears in the latest edition of the literary journal New Texas. It is my only story set in Texas, but I guess my attraction to water was just too strong -- after all the UHD campus is at the confluence of the Buffalo and White Oak Bayous. All kinds of things dwell on the bayou...

My other piece is the account of the Conference on Women and the Divine this June in Liverpool. It appears as "Coming Together from Many Nations" in the new issue (36) of The Beltane Papers. As usual it has a gorgeous cover, this one by Maria Snedecor. And I'm right "next door" to my pal, intrepid Finnish-American reporter Diane Saarinen. Of course, TPB is full of great essays and lots of reviews, too.

Gene got an amazing publication in the mail, too; perhaps he'll write about it on his blog.

Publication: Circle

I have a short piece in the latest issue of Circle magazine, pp 19-20. It's an account of the presentation I made at the conference on Women and the Divine in Liverpool this summer. A longer account of the conference itself will be coming out in the latest issue of The Beltane Papers, but this short piece allowed me to talk about my "ritual about ritual."

My first priority right now is my medieval academic work, but I don't want to let my work on ritual studies get too far behind. It's hard to have so many interests sometimes. There simply aren't enough hours in the day...

Beowulf Bouncing Back At You!

All of the sudden, Beowulf is once more in the news and in the imaginations of folks around the world. Up today, the musical in Ireland. Coming soon, the Icelandic film which seems to have only the most tangential relation to the poem. And going into productiom (perhaps)is Neil Gaiman's take on the story which has been attached to rumors like Angelina Jolie playing the "Queen of Darkness" (FYI: there is no such character in the poem).

I'll see 'em all if I can. After all, I survived Lambert's Beowulf, so I am hardy enough for any of these -- however silly they may end up. Yet I await most eagerly Benjamin Bagby's full-length production slated for the Met next year. I have seen him twice perform the first portion of the poem. He performs much like an Anglo-Saxon scop in Old English with a reconstruction of a Saxon lyre. It's quite amazing.

Review: Meet the Beatles

No, not the album, but Steven Stark's new book about the cultural influence of the group. He argues that they helped create a feminising influence on culture in both their music and lives. I would write at greater length, but I sent off a query to the Journal of Popular Culture and they may be able to use my review (completed tonight). I would recommend it for anyone who is interested in reading about the group's influence as well as what they said and did. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but I did learn a couple of things I did not know about the Beatles (really!) including tour manager Neil Aspinall's affair with Mona Best (!) which resulted in, among other things, a son. Stark loses steam by the end, but it was a fun and interesting read throughout. A little too Paul-reliant for my tastes, particularly considering how Mr. McCartney has tried to ret-con the past now that there are fewer folks to disagree with his "memory" of what happened, but on the whole Stark's narrative proves entertaining.

Tori in Houston

We made the long journey downtown (5 minutes!) to catch Tori's show at the Hobby Center, AKA the ripoff joint that adds a $9.50 service charge to each ticket. Nonetheless, it was worth it all, even if the Hobby Center staff seemed a bit nonplussed by the young tattooed and hair-challenged crowd. Like the couple sitting behind us, they had no idea what they were in for. The Chronicle had made jokes about the "Tori's Piano Bar" section of the concert (where she plays audience requests sent over the internet), saying she wouldn't be playing "Freebird." "So, what's this Freebird she won't be playing?" asked the annoyingly loud clueless woman of her neighbor. The kids explained it was a song by Lynyrd Skynyrd, who no doubt was similarly unknown to her. She not-so-surreptitiously complained about not being able to see over my hair, as if I had Texas hair. Hey, at least she wasn't sitting behind Gene! Being at the front of a section, we also had voluminous leg room -- hurrah!

The opening acts were both good. Gone were the whiny boys of the past couple tours. First up was The Like, a trio from SoCal who play stripped down rock. The bassist looked about 14 and the drummer like Cousin Itt, but they played straighforward music despite the vocalist being a bit muffled. After that the Ditty Bops came on. They were fun and playful, a sort of jazzy bluegrass style like a stripped down Squirrel Nut Zippers meets Dame Darcy.

Tori came out in a pink chiffon dress and played "Original Sinsuality" against a backdrop of a big apple tree with a snake curled around it. As usual, the audience was screaming for her. She segued into a rather long journey through "Beauty Queen" and "Horses." So it was a surprise when she dipped further back and produced "Caught a Lite Sneeze" which sounds quite different with only her own accompaniment; although, as usual she was doing a lot of the dual keyboard playing -- one hand on a piano, the other on an organ, and her swaying between. Also as usual, it was a treat to see her intereact with fans, complementing them on being "such great comrades" and happily complying with shouted demands to "show your shoes!" (she's well known for her shoe fetish).

A note on the merchandise table (where Gene bought me the cool pirate bag and an iron-on patch!) said some of the money would be going to the Red Cross for victims of Katrina. Thoughts of New Orleans seemed to guide her choice for the piano bar section. After a long intro about "her survival" she segued into a cover of the Animal's "House of the Rising Sun," although most of audience didn't seem to realize it was a song about New Orleans and that's who "she" was talking about. Tori then tried to figure out a song her make-up assistant requested, which she had never played, but then finally decided it wasn't going to happen and sang her way out of it, "maybe in the encore..." Instead she did Elton John's "Daniel."

There's not so much story telling as in the past -- one of the things I particularly loved -- but she does tend to do longer intros to songs, sometimes incorporating stories, or explaining the genesis of songs, such as the sung introduction to "Taxi Ride," the tribute to her friend, the late Kevyn Aucoin. There was a mood of wistfulness throughout the show, broken by a rare appearance of the sprightly "Happy Phantom." I don't think I have had a chance to hear her play it live before, and the easy joy of its bouncy melody and positive lyrics provided a respite before diving into the depths of "The Beekeeper," a song about the pain of loss and dealing with death.

She came back for two encores, finally ending with a slow rendition of "Baker Baker" before giving her last waves to the adoring crowd. We all trailed out to the parking garage. Since we were on the fifth floor, Gene and I enjoyed the not-completely sweltering night (a rarity!) by leaning over the edge of the wall gazing at downtown (well, you can't see the stars with allt he light pollution). The bayou was an oily black and the gaudy ferris wheel drew the eye. There's not much to see in Houston at night. I remember Ulla saying it looked more like an Eastern European nation. But traffic wasn't moving for a bit, so we spent the time thinking about other concerts -- like running down to NYC from UConn to see Cibo Matto at the Bowery Ballroom when they debuted Stereotype A. A long night, but worth it.

See the whole set list from The Dent.

Wee Publication

A short essay I wrote will be appearing the October issue of Quiet Mountain, a journal of women's writing. You may remember them as the place where I was interviewed by Diane Saarinen (August issue). Yay! My essay is about the ambivalence many teachers feel at the end of the summer; however much you love teaching, the freedom of summer is an illusion we have a hard time giving up.

Rogues and Pirates

There was an ad in the Sunday NY Times for a new YA book, Capt. Hook by J. V. Hart and illustrated by Brett Helquist. The letter from the author (screenwriter of Hook) says:

"Growing up in Texas, my gang of neighborhood kids would gather on Saturdays to act out movies like ROBIN HOOD, THE WOLF MAN, and CAPTAIN BLOOD. I discovered then that playing the bad guy was a lot more fun than being the hero. The villain always had the best lines and the big death scenes... "

Even better, the website also says:

"In the spirit of the Peter Pan charitable legacy, a portion of the author’s royalties will go to the Peter Pan Children’s Fund, an organization that supports children’s hospitals through philanthropy programs."

Rogues with good hearts, what could be better? I'm going to keep my eye out for the book. Speaking of rogues, I am trying to find out whether the ever-fabulous Vic Reeves' Discovery series Rogues Gallery will ever come to the States. Vic looks into the lives of famous rogues like Dick Turpin and Black Bart.

Return of the Pikebone Kantele

At last, it has returned! Earlier this summer, Gerry Henkel sent me the pikebone kantele he had made, but it arrived at the writer's colony broken. Over the summer he repaired it and, after dealing with some problems caused by the US Postal Service, it has arrived. It looks beautiful, even in this hazy PDA picture of it sitting on one of my drums:



You can see a better picture here. I mentioned its return on the Kantele Players Guild list and Jane Ilmola of 3 Rivers Kanteles mentioned that she had a link to a real pikebone kantele. From their website, click on the link for instruments, then click on the Martti Pokela collection. You can scroll down and see the boney kantele.

The pikebone is traditionally the source of the first kantele. According to the Kalevala, the runesinger Väinämöinen made the first instrument from the jawbone of a giant pike he and his cohorts had wrestled from the sea. Its strings came from the tail of Hiisi's mare. You can find a version of the tale here, and more about real pikes here.

Thanks, Gerry! I am so lucky.

Publishing News

Two new items this week:

Grimma Gaest: I wrote this short essay on Beowulf for a collection on cannibalism and eating "the other" [terminology from literary theory, defining the one who is not "us" the assumed narrator -- it can mean women to a male point of view or indigenous people to a colonialist POV, etc.]. My piece focuses on Grendel as the horrific "other" to the warriors of the story. He turns their world upside down and breaks the most fundamental taboo by eating them.

The Sorcerer: Thanks to S. T. Joshi I may have another piece to write for Greenwood Press. The collection is Icons of Horror and the Supernatural and I would be writing the section on the figure of the Sorcerer from antiquity to the present, in literature and popular culture. I'm just awaiting official word (and a contract) from Greenwood.

I was going to write a review of Weird Tales of the Ramones, but Gene beat me to it!

Stumbling

No, the title doesn't actually have to do with the first day of classes today, although there were stumbles aplenty. Funny how a summer with a lot of contemplation makes you forget what it's like to speak through three classes in a row. So I just finished a mug of Throat Coat tea.

As it happened, while trying to find something else, I ran across this short review (at Gothic Press) by Gary Wiliam Crawford of my encyclopedia entry on Ramsey Campbell:

Laity, K.A.  "Ramsey Campbell, 1946-    )."  Supernatural Fiction Writers:  Contemporary Fantasy and Horror.  2nd ed.  Ed. Richard Bleiler.  New York: Scribner's, 2003.

A good biographical and critical survey with a selective bibliography.  Discusses Campbell's subtlety and his use of urban settings that make Campbell's work more immediate and gripping.

It's also right below the review of the previous volume's entry on Campbell (an accident of alphabetizing), and I'm relieved that it shows me in a favorable light. It's also a mark of the desperate writer who is cheered by such a small thing.

Campbell is not only a wonderful writer, he's also a savvy film reviewer. See his film reviews at BBC Liverpool.

What is it about me and that seaside town? I'm currently reading Steven D. Stark's Meet the Beatles, which I will review as soon as I finish it. So far, I'm enjoying it and -- can you believe it? -- finding out a couple things I did not know about the Beatles.

Sandman Papers

I recently received and signed my contract for the essay "Illusory Adversaries?: Images of Female Power in Sandman: The Kindly Ones," which will be a part of The Sandman Papers, a collection of essays on Neil Gaiman's comix series edited by Joe Sanders. It will be forthcoming "between April and September" of next year from Fantagraphics. I originally gave a version of this paper a few years ago at the comics area of the Popular Culture Association Conference. It's great to see it heading toward published form.

Encyclopedia coming soon

I heard from editor S. T. Joshi that World Supernatural Literature: An Encyclopedia will be out from Greenwood Press this September. I wrote two entries, one on Clive Barker and another on The Books of Blood. It also features a lot of folks I know like Faye Ringel, Richard Bleiler, Stefan Dziemianowicz and many others. Greenwood lists a slightly different title. Who can say which will be the one that ends up on the cover?

Review: Grizzly Man

We got free passes from the Brazos Bookstore to see Werner Herzog's new film, Grizzly Man. It's the story of Tim Treadwell, amateur grizzly observer who, with his girlfriend Amie Huguenard, was eventually killed by a grizzly. They gave us "Grizzly Man" water bottles when we came in. Very odd -- celebrate the horrendous death of this man with a refillable water bottle! It had measurements on the side, but it also contained a piece of paper which disavowed any attempts to use it to measure anything. Ah, the weird world of film promotion.

If you're familiar with Herzog's work, you know to expect no easy answers. Herzog lets Treadwell's remarkable footage speak for itself most of the time. Treadwell becomes an intimate part of the grizzly world in Alaska, maintaining a foothold on the dangerous periphery of the bears' lives. Through his lens, we see them: powerful, individuals, enormous! The up-close view of grizzly life will perhaps be Treadwell's greatest contribution.

But there's also the unravelling of a deeply damaged person. In the months of solitude, Treadwell turns to his camera as to a confessional. His disgust with the human world emerges clearly, as do his erratic mood swings. The childlike delight in the beauty of the remote paradise clashes with his increasingly antagonistic anger toward perceived enemies of his sanctuary. Companion interviews with Treadwell's friend and family fill out the portrait of a deeply troubled man. The grizzlies provide an initial rescue from substance abuse, but seem to become another destructive obsession. It's hard not to see Treadwell's choice to remain longer and longer among the bears as a kind of intricately orchestrated suicide.

In the end, Herzog cannot resist imposing his own view of nature as chaotic and cruel. Over footage of the bear that most likely killed Treadwell and Huguenard, Herzog expresses his view of the grizzly's "blank stare" and sees him as a cold killer, without acknowledging that his reaction is just as shaped by his expectations as Treadwell's was. Neither can see nature without romanticizing or demonizing it. But Herzog chooses from the hours of footage sequences that show the amazing lives of these animals, their beauty and their power; the footage itself inspires awe in the simplest form for these magnificent creatures who live in a harsh and alien world.

There are some extremely horrific moments, though not the deaths themselves. There is an audio tape of the event, taken by Treadwell's video camera with the lens cap still on. In a overly self-conscious moment, Herzog listens to it in front of Jewel Palovak, Treadwell's former girlfriend and co-creator of Grizzly People. Herzog asks her to turn it off, declares she should burn it and never listen to it, which makes the scene feel much too exploitive. Similarly, the scene where uber-creepy coronor, Franc Fallico, hands Treadwell's (still functioning) watch to Palovak while explaining that it was found on his severed arm, is both awkward and, well, creepy. Likewise, Fallico's singular dramatic recreation of the death scene adds new resonance to the bizarre coroner, now a seeming staple of television.

The film is fascinating. I'm not sure how I feel about Treadwell in the end. He was deeply troubled, no doubt, and perhaps misguided. What really stays with me is the ironic difficulty people have dealing with nature. Living in the midst of a mostly unnatural city which seems at times paved end to end, I can see how the separation from the natural world leads to both Treadwell's and Herzog's viewpoints, either romanticizing it as a lost paradise or demonizing it as dispassionate killer. That separation is the real tragedy.

Gender & Ecstasy

I received another acceptance to a conference today; better yet, it's in England. Hurrah! It's for the 2006 Gender and Medieval Studies Conference at Emmanuel College, University of Cambridge. Here's the topic:

Joy of Warriors: Juliana’s Masculine Ecstasies

The Cynewulfian poem Juliana features a harsh connection between physical pain and spiritual ecstasy. The young virgin saint’s very body becomes the alchemical cauldron that converts the sadistic torture of her fiancé into a public spectacle of pious triumph. While the events take place in ancient Rome, Cynewulf’s singular vision replays the drama in the realm of Anglo-Saxon warrior poetics. Juliana’s power derives not just from her divine connection to the god who is the wigena wyn (joy of warriors), but also from her embrace of hegemonic masculinity. Because heroic behavior to the Anglo-Saxon audience was equivalent to the strict warrior code, even female saints like Juliana (although this can apply as well to Judith and Elene) could become heroic by performing masculine behavior. Her appropriation of masculine vocabulary and action has immediate effects on those around her, including the demon she holds and tortures while herself in prison. The demon recognizes her as wigþrist ofer eall wifa cyn (most battle-ready of all woman kind) and the warriors gathered in the city respond to her courage with the clashing of weapons. In her final ecstatic speech of triumph before her martyrdom, Juliana employs martial language, reminding her audience to keep on their guard and watch for the clamor of battles. In Cynewulf’s heroic poem, the virgin saint transforms from a passive canvas for divine presence to an active warrior for ecstasy.

Even more fun, one of my colleagues also submitted an abstract, so it's quite possible we'll both be going (ahem, assuming our department can afford to send us).

Ten Seconds of Fame

As my friends all know, I am never keen to have my picture taken. Video is worse, so it is with great ambivalence that I learn I am to be featured in the 30th Anniversary promo video for UHD. I'll be in it for about ten seconds. Of course, it will take about two hours to film that ten seconds -- or even less than ten, come to think of it. They're going to use some footage from the awards ceremony from May.

Adding to the ambivalence: I only got this opporunity due to the recent death of poet Lorenzo Thomas. Lorenzo was our big name in the English Department, well known in the world and respected by so many people. He was a big part of the Houston Poetry Fest; I saw a number of the Poetry Fest folks at Lorenzo's funeral.

The wheel of life, always turning...

Clive's Bible

I'm working on editing my essay on Clive Barker for an anthology on sexuality and the gothic Other, and came across this excellent interview with Barker in the L. A. Weekly. Dennis Cooper is the interviewer. All right, back to work --

Interview

I am interviewed by intrepid Finnish-American reporter Diane Saarinen (international woman of mystery!) at Quiet Mountain Essays, a journal of women's writing. Quite an honor to be the featured interview.

There are some other interesting reads there, too. I really enjoyed Kat Mead's "Authoress Despair," about the vagaries of film versions of writers. I admit it -- I love those films even when they're awful. Even if they're not awful, they are usually nothing at all like reality. But the reality of writing could not be more dull to watch, so I understand why filmmakers dwell on the angst and crumpled papers. On the more serious side, there's an essay on "Advertising and the Exploitation of Female Sexuality" by Chineze J. Onyejekwe, which not only highlights the phenomena but also discusses efforts to address the problem. There are also a number of related links that provide fascinating reading.

Dandelion Zen

Among other things, I have been reading Ray Bradbury's Zen in the Art of Writing. It's a great inspiring kick in the pants. Bradbury writes with such enthusiasm about writing, it's hard not to catch it too. His descriptions are lively and engaging. He describes stories like this:

"They run up and bite me on the leg -- I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go, and runs off."

Bradbury conveys well the excitement of creative work. He also tells great stories: meeting sideshowman Mr. Electrico who claimed to know him in another life or, feeding dimes into a pay typewriter to furiously type Farenheit 451. He also gets to the heart of what makes the struggle worthwhile:

"What is the greatest reward a writer can have? Isn't it that day when someone rushes up to you, his face bursting with honesty, his eyes afire with admiration and cries, 'That new story of yours was fine, really wonderful!' Then and only then is writing worthwhile."

Of course he's also distressingly sexist. It's always "he," always. I remember why I lost patience with him in later books. The Halloween Tree was terribly misogynistic. But I could not do without The October Country, or Dandelion Wine or Something Wicked This Way Comes. It's a pity though that he could never see the little girls who ran through the fields just as wildly as his beloved young boys.

In the end, it's the work that matters. As Bradbury writes, "Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together. Now, it's your turn. Jump!"

Tori Tori Tori!

I got tickets to the Tori show in Houston September 3rd. Hurrah! There was a fan club sale yesterday but I only found out about it last minute and the tickets I came up with were near the back of the Hobby Center so I decided to take my chances with the real sale. I found out there was a special Ticketmaster pre-sale today (tickets go on sale tomorrow at noon) but it requires a password.

Hmmm. Let's see -- her latest single and video is "Sweet the Sting." Let's try "sting" -- bingo! Two orchestra seats. I just wonder why it wasn't on any of the BBS...

Thank you, Ticketmaster, for the $9.10 service charge per ticket!

Good thing her shows are always worth it. Always surprising, always intense -- you never know quite what she'll do, or sing, or what story she might tell. This tour even includes the "Piano Bar" where she will play cover songs the fans have requested, just like in the old days when she played in a bar and took requests. Fun! Hmm, what request shall I send?

Charlie & The Chocolate Factory (SPOILERS!)

Memo to Tim Burton: Find a competent therapist and deal with your issues, so you can stop making movies about how much your daddy did not love you.

Three disappointments in a row from Burton: the less said about Planet of the Apes, the better; Big Fish could just as easily have been a "fine Lifetime movie" as we refer to them; and then, Charlie. Sigh. I wanted to like it so much. I do love the original, but this seemed an ideal remake, one that would -- according to Burton -- stick closer to the book. Well, hmmm -- except for the ENDING.

Here's where I talk about a lot of things that SPOIL both movies, so if you haven't seen either yet, avoid this!


The overall problem are those changes -- creating a backstory of a mean dentist dad who won't let the elborately braced Charlie eat any candy who, like an evil Sauroman, throws his Halloween cache (yes, supposedly in England -- I know, I know) on the fire. Even Christopher Lee cannot keep the maudlin sentimentality from dripping off the screen. Burton's Wonka is damaged goods, a germophobic man-child. Yes, comparisons to Michael Jackson are inevitable, but despite Depp's gamest efforts, the film falls flat. His Wonka seems on the brink of collapse.

While Wilder's Wonka -- as Gene never fails to point out -- acts as a kind of YHWH in his little candy land, Depp's Wonka is apparently powerless. Things just happen and he is helpless to stop them. While the earlier film allowed all good children to vicariously enjoy bad children (for once!) getting punished, the new film barely fleshes out the bad kids. Rather than revelling in their just punishments, we feel (if not sorry for them) very little at all. Burton's Wonka seems more like a serial killer than a man who loves candy, one who has surreptitiously planned the "accidents" occurring to the children. He's terrified by that grey hair, not realizing an inevitability of passing the baton. The ridiculous assertion that Charlie must choose between his family and the factory betrays Burton's own ambivalence, not Dahl's.

The squirrels are a hoot; but think of all the weeks Burton spent trying to train them. What a waste of time, when he could have been developing the roles of his fine supporting cast. Pity. And what is with Helena Bonham-Carter's teeth? Like most films of late, more attention has been spent on appearance than on content. And let's face it; however much you tart them up, the Oompah Loompahs will always be colonialist baggage.

The one shining light is Freddie Highmore, who continues to show the wonderful qualities he brought to Finding Neverland. He infuses Charlie with spirit and thoughtfulness as well as wonder. He was one of the reaons I had high hopes for this film, because the glaring error of the first film was Peter Ostrum as Charlie. Never mind that he wasn't English; he was unbearably homely and a poor actor. He had to be the emotional center of the film, but he created a vaccuum. Wisely, he became a veterinarian rather than continue acting.

The grandparents are wonderful from David Kelly on down. James Fox is totally wasted as Veruca's stuffy father, and it's a crime to give so little rein to the often hilarious Missi Pyle. Way too much effort was spent on the musical numbers which already look dated ("word!") rather than clever. The only song that works is the Wonka theme (one of those catchy Elfman bits that sticks in your head like taffy) sung by robotic dolls that spark then catch fire, melting horribly, even losing an eyeball.

It's the best moment of the film.

Like the running subtext of cannibalism, which is enough to disturb but never gets developed in a meaningful way, there are all kinds of potential themes. If only Burton realised that subtext is where the power lies. Psychological issues need not lead to bad filmmaking. Look at Hitchcock. His unresolved issues created some of the finest films of the last century. He even turned loveable Jimmy Stewart into one of the most disturbingly repulsive characters ever in Vertigo. Dahl's book is full of themes both wonderful and troubling. Burton should have read it more closely -- and he should have relegated his own problems to the subtext.

Trinoc*con

Back from Trinoc*con where we had a chance to laugh with Joe R. Lansdale hisownself (who's got a damn spiffy website). I'm happy because I even got to be on a panel with him (and Lee Martindale, my "neighbor" in MZB's Sword and Sorceress XXI and always a hoot) and I didn't get too tongue-tied. We had a lot of fun at Joe's reading too, and ended up with his copy of Bumper Crop from which he read such fun stories as "Billie Sue," "Chompers," "Bar Talk," and "Fire Dog."

Of course the best part of the con is staying with Susan, and hanging out with Mildred and Birdie. And of course, Gene managed to add to the fun by making both me and Birdie spew things out our noses laughing (or across the kitchen floor in my case -- at least it was the tile floor). Laura rounded out the crew once again, although she managed not to spew liquids out her nose, she did share her uncanny ability to mimic a cat purr. That's got to fit in a story somewhere...

I had a lot of fun serving on panels, giving a talk on weird facts from the middle ages and of course, doing a reading myself, something I always enjoy. I performed a version of "Raven Sister, Cuckoo Sister" with my kantele, then read one of the new short stories "Eating the Dream" to a small but appreciative audience. We all had fun with films like Lost Skeleton of Cadavra, the dubious Evil Alien Conquerors, Terminator (which Gene had never seen), and Peter "Lord of the Rings" Jackson's tastelessly tacky Meet the Feebles. We also nearly fainted to see a picture of Jackson in a recent entertainment mag -- he's lost 70lbs and had lasik surgery.

Always hard to return to reality after so much fun -- thanks again to Susan for being the hostess with the mostess (food, fun and beer!) and to Mildred and Birdie for...everything!

Goin' to Alaska (er -- no, North Carolina)

We're off to Trinoc*con in the morning. It will be fun seeing our pals Susan, Mildred and Birdie (and all the cats!). And of course, we're also guests at the con. Lit GOH is Joe Lansdale his own self, so that will be
fun too. With luck, I will have time to send updates from NC, so we'll see whether the Horror curse gets invoked (either that yet another chuckle-filled showing of The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra.

Whoohooo!

Words Do Have Meanings!

I received a message from one of the (too many) email groups I am on publicizing an event entitled "Dancing with Dionysus." After describing the camping getaway, a note at the end clarified that it was a "drug and alcohol free event."

Named after Dionysus?

I realise that learning Greek and Roman culture, history and literature has become a thing of the past, but surely people look up names before they use them? Or is there some kind of irony at work?

Our campus has a local chapter of BACCHUS, an organization which says it is "an international association of college and university based peer education programs focusing on alcohol abuse prevention and other related student health and safety issues." Nothing wrong with that -- but why call it Bacchus? Yes, it stands for "Boost Alcohol Consciousness Concerning the Health of University Students," but is there an intentional irony? Or an attempt at an elaborate bait-and-switch? Maybe they hope that students in search of a bacchanalia will stay for a sobriety talk -- yeah, that's likely.

Beyond the Fringe

Recently we went out with friends to see a local production of Beyond the Fringe at the Main Street Theater. Yes, it was an American cast performing the quintessentially British show; yes, they were doing accents. Okay? We'll just let that lie ("but you wouldn't let it lie..!"). It's amazing how well most of the bits stand up even with an American cast and setting. They offered a couple of updates -- substituting Blair for Macmillan, changing a line referring to African-Americans to Latinos to make better use of regional racism -- but for the most part the pieces work with little change. Perhaps, as in the case of the Civil Defence sequence, one can never overestimate the callous disregard politicians and bureaucrats will show the public. In many cases though, it is simply the loopy acknowledgement of just how foolish people are. Although I tended to hear the original voices of Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Jonathan Miller and Alan Bennett in my head, the cast -- which unlike the original, actually included a (pregnant) woman -- did a credible job of handling the humor, although sometimes cultural differences were a detriment. For exmaple in "Take a Pew," Bennett's send up of a clueless Anglican minister's sermon on the apparently randomly chosen verse ("But my brother Esau is an hairy man, but I am a smooth man"), much of the humor is wrung out of the lines by Bennett's very dry and understated delivery. The MST version went more for the Joel Osteen-type bombast (not surprisingly). But some bits are just so funny, it doesn't matter who's reading the lines (well, provided they have some sense of timing), like Cook & Moore's "Frog and Peach" and "One Leg Too Few." Oh, and "The Great Train Robbery" remains one of the funniest wordplay bits ever.

I just finished Sunshine on Putty which I enjoyed despite a lot of reservations about the style (and the accuracy -- if he got things wrong that I knew like mistaking Smokey Robinson for Otis Redding (!) and calling Tod Browning's Freaks "the great silent classic," how many more things did he get wrong that I wouldn't know?). But as an overview of the 90s comedy in Britain, it hasn't much competition yet. Someday more people will realize the genius that is Vic. In the meantime, I've started Humphrey Carpenter's (much more competently written) A Great Silly Grin and, as usual, am always amazed at what a small country England is.

Speaking of amazing: in a theater we saw the trailer for Rob Zombie's new film which appeared to be entitled The Devils Rejects. Saw TV ads too. Finally, this weekend, it was changed at last to The Devil's Rejects. In all the many months of creating, marketing and exploiting the film, no one noticed the missing apostrophe? Wow. It's still incorrect on his website, which is needlessly Flash enhanced. How many posters did they print then fix?

Vipunen

My short story "Vipunen" has just come out in the summer issue of New World Finn (v6 n3). It's another of the Unikirja stories and is based -- oh, so loosely -- on Runo 17 of the Kalevala. That runo has been interpreted in various ways, including musically by Estonian composer Veljo Tormis. My version is a comic one; a hiker falls into the mythic realm (i.e. into Vipunen's belly with Väinämöinen, the ancient rune singer) and is unprepared to deal with what transpires.

Thanks go out to Gerry Henkel, editor of New World Finn, who has been enthusiastically supportive of my work and who illustrated the story with the mythically elemental paintings of Joyce Koskenmaki. Thanks also are due to the Writers' Colony at Dairy Hollow where I completed the story earlier this summer.

Recent Film Reviews

Star Wars Episode III: Padme has developed a serious case of agoraphobia and is unable to leave the house, although she suspects the universe is falling apart outside her doors. Instead she obsessively dresses and redresses herself like a human Barbie® doll, her compulsions leading her to seek ever more intricately ridiculous hair styles and shiny accouterments. My god, she's sleeping on pearls with a tiara on her head! Someone help this woman -- she is obviously in deep pain. Her (secret) husband comes and goes (though not talking of Michaelangelo) and seems to be in some kind of trouble, but she is unable to determine what sort of difficulty due to Hayden Christensen's inability to convey emotions. Ewan MacGregor stops by briefly and, being a real actor, manages to convey the fact that her husband is really, no fooling in trouble, and she finally rallies, accompanied by her best gay friend, to jump on board her girly ship (shiny, no rough edges, meant only for running out to shop, so no security of any kind) to confront her abusive husband despite being nine lunar months pregnant with twins. He of course abuses her and leaves her for dead, pursued by a Jedi with a restraining order. Although she recovers from his assault, she expires having given birth to plot points, realizing at last there is nothing else for a woman to do in a George Lucas film except die on cue -- with ludicrous hair and uncomfortable clothes.

Howl's Moving Castle: Not Miyazaki's best film, but a lesser film by him is light years better than the multi-million dollar extravaganza assembled by Lucas from CGI and rejected soap opera dialogue. Which is to say it is magically beautiful, a wonder to look at, touching in emotions and a delight for the eyes and heart. Even in the dubbed American version -- very nearly capsized by Billy Crystal's hamming (why do American actors have the notion that if they cannot be seen then they must work doubly hard to be heard? Christian Bale, Jean Simmons and Lauren Bacall are all wonderful and understated in their delivery, and consequently, a delight) -- it is a wonder to behold.

Batman Begins: Better than the other Batman movies.

Land of the Dead: Mr. Punch will never die. He is indeed too old to die. The zombies could learn much from him. Big Daddy is cool -- I laughed out loud at the band. The emotions and morality may be a tad heavy handed, and -- as Gene put it -- Hopper pretty much phones it in (again). But Simon Baker was a credible leading man, Leguizamo was in rare form (wild but not over the top), and it was great to see Robert Joy (if a little sugar coated). I hoped Asia would have more to do, but alas, I ought to have known better (but as Pat says, I'm just a girl). It was fun, I enjoyed it -- yes, including the Bush bashing. It was not as visceral as Romero's earlier efforts; let's say, a kinder, gentler zombie flick. Go. Have something meaty afterward.

Patti Smith's Meltdown (featuring Alan Moore)

Our first night in London, we hied ourselves to the Royal Festival Hall, where a couple of years back we saw a wonderful Halloween show of Dracula accompanied by by Philip Glass with the Kronos Quartet. This time we were in the smaller Queen Elizabeth Hall, for Patti Smith's Meltdown, a brilliant series of events exploring the arts and the state of the world today. I was really sad to be missing Yoko the following night, but well, we were there to see Patti and of course, Alan Moore (whoo hoo!) celebrate the life and writings of William S. Burroughs, the man who once wrote that language is a virus. We were all infected that night.



We entered the hall and were delighted to see how close to the stage we were (thanks Liz!). They were projecting Gumby cartoons on a screen up over the stage. A little before the starting time, Patti drifted out to check on the audience (I guess) and to watch Gumby for a few minutes before disappearing again. A guy came out shortly thereafter to announce the show and Gumby was replaced by images of Burroughs. Almost at once, out strode Marc Ribot, Ian Sinclair and Alan Moore.



Ribot began playing a twanging, industrial guitar sound, sometimes hitting the strings with a small hand fan, pressing upon a wild profusion of pedals, while Moore and Sinclair seated themselves at the table center stage and waited for the opportune moment to begin reading. Moore began, a wild narrative of Burroughs and the atom bomb, a tale of place and time from Los Alamos and St. Louis to Morocco, Paris and finally Kansas. He swayed to his own rhythm as he spun a tale of explosions waiting to happen. It was hypnotic to actually see Moore perform, rather than just hear him on a CD. Ian Sinclair dove in too, telling about developing a literary magazine at his university, sending out letters to ask for pieces from famous writers and receiving only one -- scrawled letters on pages from Burroughs in Tangiers and putting them in the magazine with Batman on its cover, and later meeting Burroughs in London.



Patti came out and declared the evening was devoted to celebrating two great American voices: Burroughs and Gumby. She talked about meeting Burroughs when she lived at the Chelsea Hotel with Robert Mapplethorpe. She had a crush on Burroughs, for whom she would call cabs at the end of his night in the bar next door. She said he had told her she could be one of The Wild Boys because she had survived scarlet fever as a child. She read from Wild Boys, then played clarinet while Tilda Swinton (who stepped out looking brilliantly, slouchily elegant in black and white) read more. Then we took a break.

Returning to the stage, Moore and Sinclair were now accompanied by J. Spaceman and pianist Matthew Shipp. Moore read from Junky and made the words wriggle and squirm off the page. Sinclair remembered seeing Burroughs near the end in Kansas, surrounded by giant cats, guns and paint. Patti came out again, planning to read a poem she had written, but lamenting that she had lost it. She began by recalling her last vision of Burroughs at his New York bunker, at the end of the party, walking her down the long steps and hailing her a cab -- a return for all her similar duties many years before. Her voice cracked and the tears tracked down her cheeks. She read the poem, found by someone then thrust at her by a backstage technician, and she read from the introduction to Queer where Burroughs talks about his accidentally shooting his wife Joan in a William Tell stunt and how it turned him toward writing to deal with the guilt and horror.

Patti talked about wanting to use this night as a chance to "open the third eye." She played her clarinet while Swinton read more and Sinclair and Moore continued, jumping off the stage to stroll around the audience, wailing away. Sinclair seemed a bit irked but read a bit more, as did Moore. Clearly Patti could have gone on for hours -- she invited anyone from the audience to join them onstage, but when she returned to the stage and brought a kind of denoument, Sinclair shuffled his papers together and got up. Moore seemed half inclined to stay, but Patti gave an enthusiastic wave to Burroughs' image, and Moore saluted him too, then stepped back stage.



It was quite a night. The audience left buzzing after enthusiastic applause. We overheard one group of guys departing, one loudly pontificating that while Moore was a magician, Sinclair "refused to admit" he was one too. Whatever: but it was indeed a magical night.

On meltdown: we just ended the driest June on record down here. Despite that, the humidity still hovers over 90% and the temperatures are creeping up to 100 (with heat indexes over 100). It's dispiriting. May the virus take me far from here, at least for a little while.

[Many thanks to Gene for supplying the Treo-snapped pictures, alt versions here, here, and here.]

Women & the Divine

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!

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!

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

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!

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.

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!

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!

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).

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...

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:

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!

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).

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.

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 --

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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!