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!

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.

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?

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.

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...

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 :-)

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.

Guess who I just saw?

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)

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.

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

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!

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.

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.

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!

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 --

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.