It's time again for our annual poetry competition, and I'm trying to get my entries ready for this year. I think I'm going to take T.'s advice and enter one of my essays from here as well, but I'm having a hard time trying to decide what to do about the poems. I have a couple that I've been polishing although I haven't produced anything new in awhile.
There is one that I feel may be better than anything I've done in a very long time, and I really want to try it in a bigger pool than our local competition, but I don't know how to do that. I wish I had a mentor or an editor that I could ask for advice on this. I think back to my teacher at college, a published and publishing poet, and I long for his guidance.
The first experiences I had in his class were a little traumatic, to be sure. He would mercilessly remove everything that was not good from a poem and help to reshape it. It was like passing metals through a refining fire to remove the dross. After the first shock of not hearing, "Oh, that's so goooood," anymore, though, I came to crave that kind of red pen slashing. If it isn't good, I don't want it in my work. He never tried to make me sound like anyone but myself; he just wanted me to grow into the best version of myself possible. I wish I were in a place now where I could take my stuff back to him again.
I also hope, as I think about it, that I am giving that sort of feedback to my own students. I try to keep his model in mind when I grade. My students, especially my upper-level students, are already so good at writing that they don't need head-patting any more than I did. They need someone to help cut away all that is not gold, to put facets on those rough diamonds. I hope that they can go away from the experience with some new idea about how to be the best writer they can be.
Maybe I will be able to find someone else who can help me. In the meantime, I will make some decisions and try to figure it out on my own.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
A Brush with the Past
Yesterday as a part of the Welty Conference, we went to the Medgar Evers house museum, maintained by Tougaloo College. Even though we were there less than an hour, I cannot get the place out of my mind. The image of the little house in its small lot persists with a tenacity that will not let go.
To get there, one turns off a four-lane strip of badly-kept highway labeled with black and silver signs that proclaim that particular stretch of road to be Medgar Evers Boulevard. It's down an unassuming side street in a neighborhood of modest, fading ranch homes. The lot seems too small to hold so much history or sadness, and even now, so many years later, there is an emptiness to this place that cannot be explained by the fact the mere absence of constant habitation.
The house itself has been restored to its original cheerful 60's aqua paint, something that clashes sharply with the huge historical society dominating the space between the living room and bedroom windows. The black and bronze surface reminds even the most casual eye that this is a place where history turned, where blood was shed, and where a life was taken in hatred.
Our guide for the tour, the archivist at Tougaloo, took us through those last troubled days of Evers' life as we stood crowded together in what had been his living room. Our feet shuffled across the wooden floors he'd been so proud to provide for his family; light filtered weakly through the windows set just a little higher than normal in the safehaven he'd tried to make. We heard the story of how he'd come home from a war to fight others here, a war to make a home for his family in this middle-class black subdivision nestled among the white ones, a war to bring an end to the artificial divisions in his home state based on the color of skin, a war to be accepted when even those he was trying to help saw him as a threat to safety and security.
When the archivist related to us Mrs. Evers' remembrances of the night her husband was assassinated, standing there inside that small room with the 1960's furniture and the piano in the corner, a feeling I cannot describe came over me. The story, so well-known, of the shot from the dark, the bullet that ended a man's life, came into the house, tore through the kitchen, and ultimately landed in the sink, was no abstract history lesson. It was no dusty fact to be cataloged or checked off. It was the stuff of real people's real lives, and I was standing there on the parlor rug, looking at the knickknacks on the shelves and the china breakfront, inserted into those lives, at least in some way. It was all too horrible to tell, too horrible to hear, too horrible to stand in that place, crowded as we were, and not be able to run away from. In that place, not ten feet even from where I stood, a man whose only "crime" had been to try to destroy evil had been slain in the most craven of ways right on his very doorstep with his wife and his children in the back of the house.
We toured through the rooms, looking into the reconstructed image of the Evers family's life. In the tiny kitchen, aqua blue appliances sit quietly, the refrigerator with the hole in the door from the shooting long since gone. In Mr. and Mrs. Evers' room, a cheerful pink chenille spread covers the bed, and a wedding photo sits on top of the dresser. In the children's room, the curtains were a bright colorful 60's animal print, dolls and sock monkeys sat in small rocking chairs, and the mattresses of the beds were on the floor to prevent a stray bullet from killing the occupants of that room in their innocent slumber.
When I got back on the bus, as others were finishing up their tours and comments, I spent time just staring at the outside of the little turquoise dwelling there hidden in the middle of Jackson. It seemed as if were too fragile, somehow, to bear up under the weight of that much sadness. I think a fortress of solid steel would have been more appropriate than plastered interior walls and a black shingled-roof. Those two small steps, one slightly larger than the other, that lead into the entrance from the carport were also much too small a stage for such a momentous event to have occurred upon them. Then again, history rarely happens in places where the setting is suitably grandiose.
I came away from the Evers House Museum with a new sense of urgency about knowing about my state's and my nation's troubled past. I have lived here, barring trips away, all my life, and until yesterday, I had never seen that place. It is a chunk of history as profound in its way as Plymouth Rock, yet it sits hidden, quiet, unassuming in the soft shadows of Mississippi's capital city. What else am I missing? I think I'd better find out, even though it may not be comfortable to know.
To get there, one turns off a four-lane strip of badly-kept highway labeled with black and silver signs that proclaim that particular stretch of road to be Medgar Evers Boulevard. It's down an unassuming side street in a neighborhood of modest, fading ranch homes. The lot seems too small to hold so much history or sadness, and even now, so many years later, there is an emptiness to this place that cannot be explained by the fact the mere absence of constant habitation.
The house itself has been restored to its original cheerful 60's aqua paint, something that clashes sharply with the huge historical society dominating the space between the living room and bedroom windows. The black and bronze surface reminds even the most casual eye that this is a place where history turned, where blood was shed, and where a life was taken in hatred.
Our guide for the tour, the archivist at Tougaloo, took us through those last troubled days of Evers' life as we stood crowded together in what had been his living room. Our feet shuffled across the wooden floors he'd been so proud to provide for his family; light filtered weakly through the windows set just a little higher than normal in the safehaven he'd tried to make. We heard the story of how he'd come home from a war to fight others here, a war to make a home for his family in this middle-class black subdivision nestled among the white ones, a war to bring an end to the artificial divisions in his home state based on the color of skin, a war to be accepted when even those he was trying to help saw him as a threat to safety and security.
When the archivist related to us Mrs. Evers' remembrances of the night her husband was assassinated, standing there inside that small room with the 1960's furniture and the piano in the corner, a feeling I cannot describe came over me. The story, so well-known, of the shot from the dark, the bullet that ended a man's life, came into the house, tore through the kitchen, and ultimately landed in the sink, was no abstract history lesson. It was no dusty fact to be cataloged or checked off. It was the stuff of real people's real lives, and I was standing there on the parlor rug, looking at the knickknacks on the shelves and the china breakfront, inserted into those lives, at least in some way. It was all too horrible to tell, too horrible to hear, too horrible to stand in that place, crowded as we were, and not be able to run away from. In that place, not ten feet even from where I stood, a man whose only "crime" had been to try to destroy evil had been slain in the most craven of ways right on his very doorstep with his wife and his children in the back of the house.
We toured through the rooms, looking into the reconstructed image of the Evers family's life. In the tiny kitchen, aqua blue appliances sit quietly, the refrigerator with the hole in the door from the shooting long since gone. In Mr. and Mrs. Evers' room, a cheerful pink chenille spread covers the bed, and a wedding photo sits on top of the dresser. In the children's room, the curtains were a bright colorful 60's animal print, dolls and sock monkeys sat in small rocking chairs, and the mattresses of the beds were on the floor to prevent a stray bullet from killing the occupants of that room in their innocent slumber.
When I got back on the bus, as others were finishing up their tours and comments, I spent time just staring at the outside of the little turquoise dwelling there hidden in the middle of Jackson. It seemed as if were too fragile, somehow, to bear up under the weight of that much sadness. I think a fortress of solid steel would have been more appropriate than plastered interior walls and a black shingled-roof. Those two small steps, one slightly larger than the other, that lead into the entrance from the carport were also much too small a stage for such a momentous event to have occurred upon them. Then again, history rarely happens in places where the setting is suitably grandiose.
I came away from the Evers House Museum with a new sense of urgency about knowing about my state's and my nation's troubled past. I have lived here, barring trips away, all my life, and until yesterday, I had never seen that place. It is a chunk of history as profound in its way as Plymouth Rock, yet it sits hidden, quiet, unassuming in the soft shadows of Mississippi's capital city. What else am I missing? I think I'd better find out, even though it may not be comfortable to know.
My Birthday
It's 12:09 am, so technically, my birthday is over. I haven't gone to bed yet, though, so it's still rolling as far as I'm concerned. It's just been a wonderful day.
I started planning this birthday informally last year. Last year, I got so sad over my birthday that it took a minor miracle to pull me out of the funk and depression of it. Once I got my head on right again, I promised that this year wouldn't be allowed to do that to me again. Therefore, I started looking for little ways to make sure this year turned into a celebration rather than some sort of wake.
When the program of events for our local theater arrived, I had my first idea. I would make a week of it. Thus was born the idea for the Week of Senseless Indulgences. I went to see Punch Brothers. I got a new yoga mat. I took myself out for meals I like. I bought lots of books and took the time to read them even if other things didn't get done. I left school at a reasonable hour. I made a concentrated effort to analyze why I was getting so stressed out over silly little things I had no control over and that don't matter in the long run anyway. It's been fabulous.
The cornerstones of the entire week, though, were today's Eudora Welty Conference at Millsaps and tonight's frolic with my best friend. The Welty Conference took us to the Medgar Evers home and to Eudora's house before returning to Millsaps to discuss the Welty short story "Where Is the Voice Coming From?" I will blog about the Evers house probably tomorrow. It was more moving than I can tell you, and I want time to get the words and the feelings together before I dive in to that subject. Right now, it's late, I'm tired, and my poor befuddled brain has had too much sugar and too little sleep to handle that subject with the care it deserves.
The dinner with my best friend was wonderful. We talked for hours, about the present and the past. Just getting to be myself again and not having to be someone else's responsible party or teacher was like shedding a heavy winter coat being worn in a hot room. I felt like dancing on tables. It was liberating, renewing, reviving, a cup of water on a wilting plant. I laughed like I haven't laughed in months. Even now, I feel my lips curving into a smile at the memory of some of our conversations. It was healing and good, and in many ways, it was the best birthday present I could have gotten.
I probably could say more, and later I may come back and talk about it again, about this new contentment with everything that has descended with 33, but right now, there is soft rain on the roof, a warm cat at the foot of my bed, and I am weary with laughing. I cannot think of a more enticing inducement to bed than that.
I started planning this birthday informally last year. Last year, I got so sad over my birthday that it took a minor miracle to pull me out of the funk and depression of it. Once I got my head on right again, I promised that this year wouldn't be allowed to do that to me again. Therefore, I started looking for little ways to make sure this year turned into a celebration rather than some sort of wake.
When the program of events for our local theater arrived, I had my first idea. I would make a week of it. Thus was born the idea for the Week of Senseless Indulgences. I went to see Punch Brothers. I got a new yoga mat. I took myself out for meals I like. I bought lots of books and took the time to read them even if other things didn't get done. I left school at a reasonable hour. I made a concentrated effort to analyze why I was getting so stressed out over silly little things I had no control over and that don't matter in the long run anyway. It's been fabulous.
The cornerstones of the entire week, though, were today's Eudora Welty Conference at Millsaps and tonight's frolic with my best friend. The Welty Conference took us to the Medgar Evers home and to Eudora's house before returning to Millsaps to discuss the Welty short story "Where Is the Voice Coming From?" I will blog about the Evers house probably tomorrow. It was more moving than I can tell you, and I want time to get the words and the feelings together before I dive in to that subject. Right now, it's late, I'm tired, and my poor befuddled brain has had too much sugar and too little sleep to handle that subject with the care it deserves.
The dinner with my best friend was wonderful. We talked for hours, about the present and the past. Just getting to be myself again and not having to be someone else's responsible party or teacher was like shedding a heavy winter coat being worn in a hot room. I felt like dancing on tables. It was liberating, renewing, reviving, a cup of water on a wilting plant. I laughed like I haven't laughed in months. Even now, I feel my lips curving into a smile at the memory of some of our conversations. It was healing and good, and in many ways, it was the best birthday present I could have gotten.
I probably could say more, and later I may come back and talk about it again, about this new contentment with everything that has descended with 33, but right now, there is soft rain on the roof, a warm cat at the foot of my bed, and I am weary with laughing. I cannot think of a more enticing inducement to bed than that.
Monday, February 09, 2009
The Way I Wish I Could Resolve to Live
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. -- Mark Twain
Sunday, February 08, 2009
The Good Ones
As I'm listening to these two discs, Punch and How to Grow a Woman from the Ground, I find myself snared by the clever lyrics. Snared, in some cases, moved, and, in that place where I try to be honest with myself, a little jealous.
Being a person who is in every way fascinated by words, I enjoy good songwriters. Don't get me wrong; you will also find me blazing down the highway at lightspeed singing along with stuff that has almost no depth at all to it other than "loud" or "happy." Sometimes, I don't want to think or listen intently. Other times, though, I need the wall of sound to resolve itself into meaning, maybe because so much that goes on around me is so frequently meaningless.
There's a danger to the good ones, though. It's the same allure that's always there with my favorite print poets. Where there is genuine craft, there is something generating it, there is a magic shimmering just under a seemingly-calm surface that might pull you in before you even know you've been grabbed, take you on a journey that might be pleasant or painful, but will leave fingerprints on you either way.
Dickinson said, amongst other quotes of hers related to what poetry feels like, "If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry." I have felt that way once or twice in the presence of really good songs or poems. There have been poems that have left me jawdropped, either saying or thinking, "Yes, oh yes. Just so. This is what I've always wanted to say. Now that it has been written, nothing more needs ever to be said about this topic again." Some of them have been so right and keen that the reading or hearing of them was like being struck with a thin, razor-sharp blade in the heart, a moment of perfect pain. What I said on reading those probably isn't fit to print. Still others writhe through the veins like an intoxicant, bringing to the mind a slow, slow smile and memories.
A couple of these songs have this kind of evocative, almost physical, power, too. Track 13 on How to Grow a Woman from the Ground, "I'm Yours If You Want Me," is the auditory equivalent of being pinned to a wall and slowly, lusciously, voluptuously kissed senseless. There is such a raw honesty, self-doubt, and need in the lyrics and that is mirrored in the stripped-down nature of the music that by the time Thile gets the promise at the end, one wonders who ever could walk away? The string quintet on Punch has the same power but with different emotions and to different ends. The music is lovely, but it's the lyrics that are captivating me. These are the words of somebody who had the heart ripped right out of his chest and destroyed but is living on at least to tell the tale.
If these are the genuine article he's showing, if he's doling out little bits of his soul into what he is singing, then I admire what he's able to do more than I can say. My own personal "muse" has been largely silent now for about a year. I don't know if it is because of my schedule (teach, grade, come home, fall down, teach grade, come home, fall down...), because I am not pursuing those things that make the words and the blood flow (for me, love and travel), or because the migraine medicine I'm taking is suffocating said source of inspiration along with keeping me from being able to name common everyday things and focus properly. (Sometimes I feel like a whole team of engineers rewired my brain and did it badly. Maybe it was badly wired to start with, and that was the problem all the time....) Regardless, Thile's lyrics as much as the glorious riot of the group's music are going to keep me coming back to these discs and looking at whatever they come out with in the future. Maybe if I surround myself with that kind of power, some of it might awaken the spark in me, if it still burns at all.
Being a person who is in every way fascinated by words, I enjoy good songwriters. Don't get me wrong; you will also find me blazing down the highway at lightspeed singing along with stuff that has almost no depth at all to it other than "loud" or "happy." Sometimes, I don't want to think or listen intently. Other times, though, I need the wall of sound to resolve itself into meaning, maybe because so much that goes on around me is so frequently meaningless.
There's a danger to the good ones, though. It's the same allure that's always there with my favorite print poets. Where there is genuine craft, there is something generating it, there is a magic shimmering just under a seemingly-calm surface that might pull you in before you even know you've been grabbed, take you on a journey that might be pleasant or painful, but will leave fingerprints on you either way.
Dickinson said, amongst other quotes of hers related to what poetry feels like, "If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry." I have felt that way once or twice in the presence of really good songs or poems. There have been poems that have left me jawdropped, either saying or thinking, "Yes, oh yes. Just so. This is what I've always wanted to say. Now that it has been written, nothing more needs ever to be said about this topic again." Some of them have been so right and keen that the reading or hearing of them was like being struck with a thin, razor-sharp blade in the heart, a moment of perfect pain. What I said on reading those probably isn't fit to print. Still others writhe through the veins like an intoxicant, bringing to the mind a slow, slow smile and memories.
A couple of these songs have this kind of evocative, almost physical, power, too. Track 13 on How to Grow a Woman from the Ground, "I'm Yours If You Want Me," is the auditory equivalent of being pinned to a wall and slowly, lusciously, voluptuously kissed senseless. There is such a raw honesty, self-doubt, and need in the lyrics and that is mirrored in the stripped-down nature of the music that by the time Thile gets the promise at the end, one wonders who ever could walk away? The string quintet on Punch has the same power but with different emotions and to different ends. The music is lovely, but it's the lyrics that are captivating me. These are the words of somebody who had the heart ripped right out of his chest and destroyed but is living on at least to tell the tale.
If these are the genuine article he's showing, if he's doling out little bits of his soul into what he is singing, then I admire what he's able to do more than I can say. My own personal "muse" has been largely silent now for about a year. I don't know if it is because of my schedule (teach, grade, come home, fall down, teach grade, come home, fall down...), because I am not pursuing those things that make the words and the blood flow (for me, love and travel), or because the migraine medicine I'm taking is suffocating said source of inspiration along with keeping me from being able to name common everyday things and focus properly. (Sometimes I feel like a whole team of engineers rewired my brain and did it badly. Maybe it was badly wired to start with, and that was the problem all the time....) Regardless, Thile's lyrics as much as the glorious riot of the group's music are going to keep me coming back to these discs and looking at whatever they come out with in the future. Maybe if I surround myself with that kind of power, some of it might awaken the spark in me, if it still burns at all.
Friday, February 06, 2009
A Poem I Found and Love
I found this in an anthology recently, and I am putting it out here to share with you my gentle readers. I loved this imagery. It makes my soul sing to think about it. Enjoy.
Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven
They call each other `E.' Elvis picks
wildflowers near the river and brings
them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.
In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports
Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.
Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers
and T-shirts, a letterman's jacket from Tupelo High.
They take long walks and often hold hands.
She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.
Emily's poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,
Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard
Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.
Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon
he will play guitar and sing 'I Taste A Liquor
Never Brewed' to the tune of 'Love Me Tender.'
Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone
in their cabins later, they'll listen to the river
and nap. They will not think of Amherst
or Las Vegas. They know why God made them
roommates. It's because America
was their hometown. It's because
God is a thing without
feathers. It's because
God wears blue suede shoes.
Hans Ostrom
Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven
They call each other `E.' Elvis picks
wildflowers near the river and brings
them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.
In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports
Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.
Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers
and T-shirts, a letterman's jacket from Tupelo High.
They take long walks and often hold hands.
She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.
Emily's poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,
Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard
Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.
Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon
he will play guitar and sing 'I Taste A Liquor
Never Brewed' to the tune of 'Love Me Tender.'
Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone
in their cabins later, they'll listen to the river
and nap. They will not think of Amherst
or Las Vegas. They know why God made them
roommates. It's because America
was their hometown. It's because
God is a thing without
feathers. It's because
God wears blue suede shoes.
Hans Ostrom
Punch Brothers
I just got home from the Punch Brothers concert, the treat with which I kicked off my birthday week Secret Celebration of Senseless Indulgence. I came home from school, actually sat on my couch long enough to eat a meal, got up and put on clothing that wasn't "teacher person" clothing, and went back to our beautiful restored theater for the show.
It felt a bit like making a prison break to get to go back to town at night for anything, much less not be wearing my standard issue "uniform," but it just kept getting better. I somehow managed to get my trusty seat next to the support pole again. Don't ask me how, but every single time I get tickets for this theater, I always wind up in either the seat I had tonight or the one on the other side of this same pole. I'm not complaining; there is more leg room and you don't have to fight anyone for an armrest. I just find it highly amusing. The place seats about 1000. How is it the computer just "knows" it's me? I'm pretty sure I didn't carve my name in the arm or anything....
Anyway, I got to the theater early enough to sit and enjoy the quiet and the beauty of it. For reasons recorded in earlier blogs, I feel a deep affection and almost a proprietary pride in this theater. I have known about it almost my whole life and longed to see it like it is now, so every time I go to see a performance in it and see it so full of life and beauty and hear performers pleased with it, I feel, for no good reason at all, as if someone complemented me on something I had a part in. As I walked up the staircase, I remembered tonight as I always do what it used to look like, and as I looked up into the repainted and gilded ceiling, I had no trouble recalling the strips of paint and paper that once hung there. Just being in that little jewelbox of a place fills me with satisfaction every time.
Once the music began, though, it was more than enough to take me out of contemplation of the furnishings. I had bought a CD of Punch Brothers when I first saw their program blurb in this year's concert listings for our theater. The description of their musical style intrigued me, and after listening to a couple of online clips, I had trusty Amazon send me their latest offering. I have been enjoying it for some time now. Nothing, though, can compare to seeing this group live. I love to watch the interplay between musicians, how they cue each other and sync together, and this group works together so well.
The style of their music pleases me, too. I love it when people take the time to master traditional styles and then innovate. I heard both tonight, and all of it was done well. I heard harmonies dissolve into pools of seeming dissonance only to resolve themselves sweetly at the right moment. I saw a string quintet wonderfully done with instruments more commonly found in other sorts of arrangements. You really have to know what you're doing to pull things like this off, and you really have to love it, too. This group tonight had both qualities.
I only hope we were a good audience for them. I sort of think, as usual, we weren't. We clapped in the wrong places, something I know is irritating from my experiences with my musician friends. I don't think the audience really got how good the banjo player really was, either, because playing the banjo doesn't require or even really allow the same sort of showy hand motions that guitar and mandolin will provide to cue an uninformed audience as to exertion. Our hearts were in the right place, though, so maybe that counts.
All in all, I had a good night. I got their other CD, came away from it feeling better and more like a person as opposed to the dreaded "dead teacher" than I have in weeks, developed a new musical line of inquiry, and, if I'm honest, got to look at a really cute guy (the banjo player) for a couple of hours. Pretty good start to the old birthday week.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Yoga
I have long been interested in yoga classes in a theoretical way. Taking one has been one of those things that looks pretty from a distance, one of those things that I keep saying that I should really check out more thoroughly some time but that I never quite get around to doing. I used to practice on my own in a tiny way through a Gaiam DVD recommended to me by a very yoga-chic friend, and I always found even that small routine very relaxing.
Rifling through the electronic version of our local paper, I came across an add for our branch of one of our state universities. They have decided to offer a yoga class, and it turned out that one of my all-time favorite professors was teaching it. I had to sign up.
The resulting flurry of emails back and forth yielded the information that there should be "space left," something of an understatement since I think there were fewer than 20 of us in the class, but I was still pretty happy to have been included. The class itself was just exactly what I was looking for. I didn't have to feel afraid since my professor was the one teaching, and since many of the people there were beginners, I didn't have to feel self-conscious (any more than I usually do, anyway) or intimidated.
It felt good to use my body again. I am stiff and tight as I knew I would be. I don't know how long it will take all the old rags and bones to limber up again, but since one of my main goals for this is flexibility (along with stress relief), I'm willing to be patient and work on it. Just the doing of it, no matter whether or not I am ever any good at it or not, is a victory for me.
Monday, January 19, 2009
George Orwell Quote
"When one reads any strongly individual piece of writing, one has the impression of seeing a face somewhere behind the page. It is not necessarily the actual face of the writer. I feel this very strongly with Swift, with Defoe, with Fielding, Stendhal, Thackeray, Flaubert, though in several cases I do not know what these people looked like and do not want to know. What one sees is the face that the writer ought to have. Well, in the case of Dickens I see a face that is not quite the face of Dickens's photographs, though it resembles it. It is the face of a man of about forty, with a small beard and a high colour. He is laughing, with a touch of anger in his laughter, but no triumph, no malignity. It is the face of a man who is always fighting against something, but who fights in the open and is not frightened, the face of a man who is generously angry — in other words, of a nineteenth-century liberal, a free intelligence, a type hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little orthodoxies which are now contending for our souls."
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Silver Anniversary
This year marks 25 years of playing a keyboard instrument for me. I had that odd realization recently. It's hard to believe that much time has gone by since I was a small child struggling with my Brownie book and getting shaped erasers for a weekly lesson well-played.
Music is such an ingrained part of my life that I can hardly remember a time when I wasn't playing. I began taking lessons in first grade, and I can still recall walking down the cracked sidewalks carrying my music books to the tiny room in the gym that housed the piano. Later on, I started taking lessons from the lady who was the organist at our church, and she taught me to play the organ as well. Now, I play the organ much more than the piano as the night organist for my church.
The playing gives me so much pleasure, but I don't really have any gift for it. It sounds okay when I play, but the sort of dedication and art necessary to take the playing from performance to power have always been beyond me. I have a friend who has that power, and to hear him play (on the rare occasions our two spheres cross anymore) is to hear what is possible, what should be.
As I look forward toward the future, I will continue to enjoy what I can do in my small way and continue to appreciate the greater gifts of those who have been blessed with them. I am grateful for the richness music has added to these 25 years.
Music is such an ingrained part of my life that I can hardly remember a time when I wasn't playing. I began taking lessons in first grade, and I can still recall walking down the cracked sidewalks carrying my music books to the tiny room in the gym that housed the piano. Later on, I started taking lessons from the lady who was the organist at our church, and she taught me to play the organ as well. Now, I play the organ much more than the piano as the night organist for my church.
The playing gives me so much pleasure, but I don't really have any gift for it. It sounds okay when I play, but the sort of dedication and art necessary to take the playing from performance to power have always been beyond me. I have a friend who has that power, and to hear him play (on the rare occasions our two spheres cross anymore) is to hear what is possible, what should be.
As I look forward toward the future, I will continue to enjoy what I can do in my small way and continue to appreciate the greater gifts of those who have been blessed with them. I am grateful for the richness music has added to these 25 years.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
No Cancer
I got the results from my biopsy, and I'm free of cancer. The telling of it was simple. The aftermath of it was odd. Once the results were told, my doctor started talking to me about options for my future. Most of them were serious, intense, and life-changing. Since I'm not ready to have a baby right now and by myself, the most extreme changes are not going to happen. I can't say I didn't think about it. I just don't feel that's what I'm supposed to do right now.
It's a relief to know that I'm, well, I don't guess I can say healthy, but at least not fighting cancer. Everything else I can fight and endure. It was a good feeling, disturbing conversations about motherhood aside.
It's a relief to know that I'm, well, I don't guess I can say healthy, but at least not fighting cancer. Everything else I can fight and endure. It was a good feeling, disturbing conversations about motherhood aside.
LOST Season 4
I finished season 4 of LOST on DVD last week. I am still pondering where they plan to take the plot arc in season 5 and grinding my teeth in frustration that it is going to take a year for me to get it on DVD. I wish they converted TV as quickly as movies!
In the meantime, I think I'm in love with not only Desmond now, but also with Sayid, too. I know that Sawyer and Jack are the "fan favorites," but Desmond has the whole Odysseus thing going on, and since I've always found Sayid intriguing, seeing him in a tux during season 4 put the frosting on that. So many pretty men on that one tiny island....
Even the villains are good. I have grown to find Benjamin Linus one of my favorite villains ever. He is menacing and dangerous, capable of screwing with anybody's mind, a truly ruthless killer, but also urbane, cultured, and a man with a bone-dry, ironic sense of humor. He gets some of the best lines in the show. Even when he's getting beaten by someone, one always knows that he is going to turn the tables somehow. It's scary.
I'll have to assuage the gnawing curiosity of how they're going to resolve the issue of Locke in a Box (I won't say more in case you're a person who hasn't seen season 4) by rewatching it from the beginning. I haven't done that yet, and I think that knowing all that I do will let me catch a lot of interesting details that I probably missed the first time through. At least I will be ready for the new season when it arrives.
In the meantime, I think I'm in love with not only Desmond now, but also with Sayid, too. I know that Sawyer and Jack are the "fan favorites," but Desmond has the whole Odysseus thing going on, and since I've always found Sayid intriguing, seeing him in a tux during season 4 put the frosting on that. So many pretty men on that one tiny island....
Even the villains are good. I have grown to find Benjamin Linus one of my favorite villains ever. He is menacing and dangerous, capable of screwing with anybody's mind, a truly ruthless killer, but also urbane, cultured, and a man with a bone-dry, ironic sense of humor. He gets some of the best lines in the show. Even when he's getting beaten by someone, one always knows that he is going to turn the tables somehow. It's scary.
I'll have to assuage the gnawing curiosity of how they're going to resolve the issue of Locke in a Box (I won't say more in case you're a person who hasn't seen season 4) by rewatching it from the beginning. I haven't done that yet, and I think that knowing all that I do will let me catch a lot of interesting details that I probably missed the first time through. At least I will be ready for the new season when it arrives.
Playing on Twitter
I love Twitter. I love the concept of people flinging bits and pieces of their lives, everyday trivia and important things, too, into space. I love the concept of people reading these pieces and enjoying them, like picking up shiny copper pennies from the dark sidewalks of cyberspace.
I love the fact that there are people on Twitter who pretend to be Darth Vader, celebrities, politicians, and other fictional entities, that everyone knows that it's fake, and that we all follow them anyway to see what they're going to say. (I personally LOVE Darth Vader's posts.) I love that yesterday was 70's day and everyone changed his/her photo to something appropriate (alas, I missed it because I didn't tune in until too late to get that put together).
It's just fun and fascinating. I don't get on it every day, but when I do, there is always something interesting out there, some bit of someone waiting to be appreciated. It's a lovely idea someone had.
I love the fact that there are people on Twitter who pretend to be Darth Vader, celebrities, politicians, and other fictional entities, that everyone knows that it's fake, and that we all follow them anyway to see what they're going to say. (I personally LOVE Darth Vader's posts.) I love that yesterday was 70's day and everyone changed his/her photo to something appropriate (alas, I missed it because I didn't tune in until too late to get that put together).
It's just fun and fascinating. I don't get on it every day, but when I do, there is always something interesting out there, some bit of someone waiting to be appreciated. It's a lovely idea someone had.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Muninn
Muninn is the name of one of Odin's two ravens, Hugin being the other. Muninn is Memory and Hugin is Thought. Every morning, he would send them to fly across Midgard to gather information for him.
As a part of my continuing love of ravens, I named my new 500 G external hard drive Muninn. I thought it appropriate. I found the Seagate Freeagent I've been looking for on such a sale today at OfficeMax that I bought it early. I wasn't planning on getting the 500 G size, and I wasn't going to get one until next month, but the price cut was tremendous and it came with a free dock. I wound up saving about $80 on the whole deal.
The drive is sleek and lovely. It's currently in its docking cradle in the back devouring the memories contained in my desktop. It has an arc of LEDs on it that softly glows while it works, a gentle pulse of light. I love it when something functional is made beautiful as well. There's really no reason why things can't be both.
I am hoping Muninn is going to be a good solution to the problem of two computers, one at work, one at home, that I've been having. Despite my best efforts to the contrary and frequent emailings, there have been many occasions that the document I need has been the place I'm not. Since Muninn will fit neatly into my pocket and travel with me, maybe there will be less of that now. It won't be quite as amazing as having a raven on the shoulder, but I think it's as close as I'm going to get.
New Look for the Blog
What do you think? I found this new template for my blog, and yes, I know it's a bit ostentatious. However, I like it. It's how I want 2009 to feel. There's something a little old-fashioned mixed in with a great deal of exuberance, and I love the color palette, as well. I took down my Shelfari shelf. I may or may not put it back up. I think everyone who follows me on Shelfari knows my user name there, anyway. If you miss the shelf, you can let me know. If you're interested in looking for a new blog template of your own, try this website.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Bugs Bunny Marathon
I've been worthless the past couple of days as I've been recovering from Monday. It's been delightful. Today, I watched a marathon of Looney Tunes on Cartoon Network. It's still on, in fact, and I'm getting to see "What's Opera, Doc?" I haven't seen this one in years, and it's absolutely one of my favorites. This is the one with the "spear and magic helmet."
Every time I sit down to watch these cartoons, I marvel at how detailed the backgrounds are and how lovely the art in them is. There is such attention to detail in them. Even the crowd scenes where the doesn't need to be a lot of differentiation in the backdrop is lovingly done. They please the eye in a way that most of the digital stuff I see today just doesn't.
I also love the use of classical music in them. I'll never forget going to see either The Marriage of Figaro or The Barber of Seville at IU and hearing the music that Bugs is using when he's giving Elmer a haircut in "The Rabbit of Seville." The friend I went with and I were cracking up over it, and as I looked around the auditorium, the vast majority of the crowd was making the hand motions like Bugs massaging Elmer's bald pate. It was surreal. Uh-oh...it just came on, speak of the devil... Here comes the very scene....
Maybe it's just the loving nostalgia that comes to all things cherished in one's childhood, but these old cartoons never fail to bring a smile to my face. I have some of them in the big DVD collections Warner Brothers released a few years ago, and whenever I come home and feel crummy, they can always be relied upon to give me a good lift. I'm certainly glad I got to see all of these again today. It's been a great way to relax and recharge.
Every time I sit down to watch these cartoons, I marvel at how detailed the backgrounds are and how lovely the art in them is. There is such attention to detail in them. Even the crowd scenes where the doesn't need to be a lot of differentiation in the backdrop is lovingly done. They please the eye in a way that most of the digital stuff I see today just doesn't.
I also love the use of classical music in them. I'll never forget going to see either The Marriage of Figaro or The Barber of Seville at IU and hearing the music that Bugs is using when he's giving Elmer a haircut in "The Rabbit of Seville." The friend I went with and I were cracking up over it, and as I looked around the auditorium, the vast majority of the crowd was making the hand motions like Bugs massaging Elmer's bald pate. It was surreal. Uh-oh...it just came on, speak of the devil... Here comes the very scene....
Maybe it's just the loving nostalgia that comes to all things cherished in one's childhood, but these old cartoons never fail to bring a smile to my face. I have some of them in the big DVD collections Warner Brothers released a few years ago, and whenever I come home and feel crummy, they can always be relied upon to give me a good lift. I'm certainly glad I got to see all of these again today. It's been a great way to relax and recharge.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Black and White
I've been glutting myself on black and white film today. I got hooked into an all-day I Love Lucy marathon on TV Land early on, and as I carefully repacked all my Santas and Nativities for another year, I enjoyed episode after episode of that show. I thought I had seen a lot of Lucy, but apparently, I had only sort of hit and missed at it. Today, I saw the famous one where she is stomping grapes amongst others, and I laughed until I had to sit down. It was great.
My second favorite episode was the one where John Wayne was a guest. They were trying to get his footprints and signature in cement to replace a square from Graumann's Chinese Theater that Lucy and Ethel had destroyed somehow. John Wayne fit into the screwball world so easily, and he seemed to be having a great deal of fun. Every time I see him in anything, I always think of my beloved Nana. She loved John Wayne. He was her favorite movie star. Seeing him young and handsome and in his prime on that comedy, I can see why.
I'm now watching Sunset Boulevard again. I've lost track of how many times I've seen this film. I love it. Something about the fact that this is New Year's Eve seemed to demand Norma and her sad delusions. Even though I know this movie inside and out, I'm already enjoying it ten times as much as the other film I watched tonight, Music and Lyrics.
I wonder why the old stuff is always so much better to me. Just the camera angle where Max is playing the organ and his hands are in the foreground with Gillis' angry face in the back is better than any scene in the entire other film I watched. As I look at my collection of DVDs, most of my permanent collection is vintage. Is it that they just made them better then?
Well, Norma just stood up in the flickering projector light, and I think it's time for me to get back to my viewing more in earnest. I hope everyone has a good New Year's Eve.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Survival
I made it. Yesterday's surgery is finally over, and today I can think again at last. Even going through the process of getting ready for the procedure wasn't as bad as I was afraid it would be except for putting in the IV. I never do well with that. I think I do much better than I used to, but I still get so irrationally afraid. I don't know why such a tiny thing should be such a source of uncontrollable fear, but there you go. I won't know the results until Jan. 13th, but just getting through this part that I've been waiting for and worrying over for months now is a tremendous relief.
Today I joined Twitter. I am going to try it out. I think it won't be one of those things I tinker with much, especially if I can't get some of my friends involved with it, but it looks interesting. I like the idea of it. If you haven't seen it, go to Twitter.com.
I'm going to De-Christmas the house today. Now that the looming cloud of doom has lifted, I feel like going and doing again. I wish I had more of my break left to go and do in, but I'll have to make the most of what's left to me.
Today I joined Twitter. I am going to try it out. I think it won't be one of those things I tinker with much, especially if I can't get some of my friends involved with it, but it looks interesting. I like the idea of it. If you haven't seen it, go to Twitter.com.
I'm going to De-Christmas the house today. Now that the looming cloud of doom has lifted, I feel like going and doing again. I wish I had more of my break left to go and do in, but I'll have to make the most of what's left to me.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Laughing in the Face of Disaster
I had to play last night for our annual Carol Request Night service. My friend and fellow accompanist who handles the piano end of things came in while I was playing prelude pieces and offered me a hit of Pepto Bismol. There's nothing quite like request night when you're at best an amateur musician. I laughed and declined, but I can't say it wasn't a good idea.
Once we got started, no one wanted to make a request. My friend and I, who can just barely see each other across the top of the various instruments, just gave each other one of our long, speaking looks. Once people stopped being puzzled by the ability to choose, the requests came in fast and thick. There were at least two that I didn't know at all, and judging from the bemused gaze that my friend gave me in the few seconds that we had while rustling hymnal pages, she wasn't too familiar with them, either. We did a quick bit of sight reading and chord-fudging and got through it, though.
By the time it was over, I felt like I'd been wrung out and left to dry. That's when it was time for me to sing my solo. At least all the nerves I had been saving all day had already been expended. I didn't have much left to get nervous with, and I think "What Child Is This?" came out okay.
Despite all the nerves, it was a good service. It was lovely to hear all the carols sung, and it was wonderful as well to play all of them at once. When it was done, I felt better than I have in a long time. Some of the Christmas spirit I've been missing as I wait for my upcoming surgery flickered into life, and I am working hard to nurture that fragile spark.
Once we got started, no one wanted to make a request. My friend and I, who can just barely see each other across the top of the various instruments, just gave each other one of our long, speaking looks. Once people stopped being puzzled by the ability to choose, the requests came in fast and thick. There were at least two that I didn't know at all, and judging from the bemused gaze that my friend gave me in the few seconds that we had while rustling hymnal pages, she wasn't too familiar with them, either. We did a quick bit of sight reading and chord-fudging and got through it, though.
By the time it was over, I felt like I'd been wrung out and left to dry. That's when it was time for me to sing my solo. At least all the nerves I had been saving all day had already been expended. I didn't have much left to get nervous with, and I think "What Child Is This?" came out okay.
Despite all the nerves, it was a good service. It was lovely to hear all the carols sung, and it was wonderful as well to play all of them at once. When it was done, I felt better than I have in a long time. Some of the Christmas spirit I've been missing as I wait for my upcoming surgery flickered into life, and I am working hard to nurture that fragile spark.
Friday, November 28, 2008
After a Long Silence
I haven't written in a long time, and truth be told, I have been debating abandoning this blog. Ever since last year's incident, it's felt spoiled, and although the one responsible for all that trouble is now in the process of drinking himself into a coma at one of our state institutions of higher learning, I still feel the taint of his having been here like sand stirred up in a clear pool. I have to write somewhere, though, and I don't feel like ending this.
Life lately has been wretched. It seems a pity to come back here after a two-month absence to say that, but I can't lie. Pain and other problems I've been having lately have led my doctor to start running increasingly invasive tests to find out just how desperate my situation is, and so far, things aren't good. The radiologist told me I had "an interesting uterus", my OB/GYN told me that the fibroids have returned and that one of them is the size of a large lemon (why are these things always frickin' fruit?), and now I am in a holding pattern waiting to have a surgical procedure to find out whether the big scary C word will come into play or not.
After I left the radiology with the results of the ultrasounds, I was sure that I was about to face a hysterectomy. Even though I have been trying to steel myself for that possibility since 2001 when I first found out that I had fibroids, I just could not control the waves of grief. My doctor, who is truly wonderful, talked with me about things, and he said there is not a reason, unless cancer is indicated by the biopsy, to take drastic steps right now. However, in his estimate, I probably only have about two more years left if I want to have a family and then the situation will have deteriorated to a point where more drastic measures will have to be taken.
What am I going to do? Two years might as well be fifteen minutes. There's nobody on the horizon. I don't even know where to look. I feel like I'm just sailing through time at warp speed watching minutes of my life tick away with supernatural speed. Everywhere I look, all my friends have found someone, have children, have what they need. Why is it that I'm still alone?
My doctor talked to me about having a baby on my own. I can't say that I've never thought about it, but after a long time of praying and soul-searching, I don't think that's the right path for me. I will need someone along side me. I want someone along side me, too.
I believe that God has a plan for me. Right now, though, it's so excruciatingly hard to see how any of this is "working for my good" or where it's leading me. I lay in the doctor's office drugged and draped on a table for more than two hours two days ago for a procedure that didn't work. Now, I have to go into the hospital during my Christmas holidays to have outpatient surgery to find out whether or not I have cancer. Merry Christmas, ho-ho-ho. It just doesn't seem to end.
Now my mother is on a mission to get me married off, and she's only thinly veiling it in kidding when she starts talking to me about perfect strangers while desert is being served during a church social. I feel like one of those spinster relatives in a Jane Austen novel who the whole family is just a little bit embarrassed by. More than I have in a long time, I feel the need to pack up suitcases and move away, to a place where I don't speak the language, to a place where nobody knows me or my family, to a place where nobody knows or cares that I am a ticking time bomb.
I am trying just to take it one day at a time. If I do that, maybe I can keep this thin clay vessel from shattering into a million tiny pieces.
Life lately has been wretched. It seems a pity to come back here after a two-month absence to say that, but I can't lie. Pain and other problems I've been having lately have led my doctor to start running increasingly invasive tests to find out just how desperate my situation is, and so far, things aren't good. The radiologist told me I had "an interesting uterus", my OB/GYN told me that the fibroids have returned and that one of them is the size of a large lemon (why are these things always frickin' fruit?), and now I am in a holding pattern waiting to have a surgical procedure to find out whether the big scary C word will come into play or not.
After I left the radiology with the results of the ultrasounds, I was sure that I was about to face a hysterectomy. Even though I have been trying to steel myself for that possibility since 2001 when I first found out that I had fibroids, I just could not control the waves of grief. My doctor, who is truly wonderful, talked with me about things, and he said there is not a reason, unless cancer is indicated by the biopsy, to take drastic steps right now. However, in his estimate, I probably only have about two more years left if I want to have a family and then the situation will have deteriorated to a point where more drastic measures will have to be taken.
What am I going to do? Two years might as well be fifteen minutes. There's nobody on the horizon. I don't even know where to look. I feel like I'm just sailing through time at warp speed watching minutes of my life tick away with supernatural speed. Everywhere I look, all my friends have found someone, have children, have what they need. Why is it that I'm still alone?
My doctor talked to me about having a baby on my own. I can't say that I've never thought about it, but after a long time of praying and soul-searching, I don't think that's the right path for me. I will need someone along side me. I want someone along side me, too.
I believe that God has a plan for me. Right now, though, it's so excruciatingly hard to see how any of this is "working for my good" or where it's leading me. I lay in the doctor's office drugged and draped on a table for more than two hours two days ago for a procedure that didn't work. Now, I have to go into the hospital during my Christmas holidays to have outpatient surgery to find out whether or not I have cancer. Merry Christmas, ho-ho-ho. It just doesn't seem to end.
Now my mother is on a mission to get me married off, and she's only thinly veiling it in kidding when she starts talking to me about perfect strangers while desert is being served during a church social. I feel like one of those spinster relatives in a Jane Austen novel who the whole family is just a little bit embarrassed by. More than I have in a long time, I feel the need to pack up suitcases and move away, to a place where I don't speak the language, to a place where nobody knows me or my family, to a place where nobody knows or cares that I am a ticking time bomb.
I am trying just to take it one day at a time. If I do that, maybe I can keep this thin clay vessel from shattering into a million tiny pieces.
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