holiday card 2013

The story for the front of the card:

One morning Rufus’ human (who we will call Jack, though to Rufus his name is not very important. Rufus has, however, heard other humans call Jack a hippie, which he does think is important. Rufus actually thinks his human is rather skinny. He thinks that if Jack did actually have bigger hips his lap would be more comfortable) said to Rufus:

“Time to get ready, Rufus. We’re going to go get a tree for a family who are taking care of some foster kids and who can’t afford one. I know a farmer who grows them responsibly who’s going to help us out. Then we’re going to take them the tree and visit. You have to be good around the kids and just sit calmly so they can pet you, ok?”

“Yay, kids!” thought Rufus.  “I promise, I promise, I promise!” Rufus barked and barked.

Jack sighed. “Not an auspicious beginning,” he said to Rufus.

Rufus danced while Jack got dressed. He jumped around on his hind legs and pawed the air with his front legs. He raced in circles around Jack, wriggling his butt in rhythm to his own drumbeat.  To Rufus, Jack seemed to take forever to get dressed but eventually Jack had his shoes on and had shoved his arms into his coat.

 “Your turn, Rufus,” he said. He wrapped Rufus’ purple scarf around his neck, and tugged on his Santa hat. “You’re ready to go, Rufus!”  Rufus sat and stared impatiently at the door, willing it to open.

Finally, Jack grabbed the car keys.  Rufus ran out the door to their VW van. He liked to jump into the van through the back doors and race up to the front seat. Once Rufus settled into the seat, Jack put his harness and seat belt on, climbed into the driver’s seat, and after a couple of attempts, got the van started. Rufus stood on his hind legs with his paws on the armrest, and stuck his nose out the window to catch the wind. He loved the wind. It was a long drive to the tree farm. He watched houses flash by, then fields filled with corn, grass for hay, and trees. He barked at horses and cows and parked tractors.

Then he saw the snow. By the time the van drove down the long drive leading to the tree farm and rolled to a stop, Rufus was wiggling in his seat with excitement. Once Jack took off his harness and seat belt, he jumped down and looked around in amazement. Snow banks rose higher than his head.  Snow dusted the swarms of trees, big and little, full and scraggly, all dwarfed by one enormous, towering tree that stood guard over the rest.

Jack’s boots crunched on the snow as he walked through the trees. Rufus jumped into a snow bank and disappeared into the hole he made. He kept leaping, high into the sky, to disappear into the snow on landing. He licked the snow, he ran in circles, he made snow dogs by laying on his back and squirming. He heard the bang of the ax, and when he heard the boom of the cut tree landing on the ground he ran to Jack.

Jack picked him up and said, “Did that scare you, Rufus? I’m right here.” Rufus snuggled into Jack’s arms while the tree was roped to the top of the van. When Jack put him down, Rufus stood on his hind legs, his front legs on the side of the van, and looked up at the tree on the roof.

“Just this once,” Jack said.

So he lifted Rufus up to the top of the van. Rufus wiggled down into the tree, stuck his nose into the air, and rode the wind, purple scarf flying behind him.

It was already the best day ever, and he hadn’t even met the kids yet.

 

Some disclaimers: 

*Please do not let your pets/animals ride on top of your car. This is only a story. No animals were harmed in the making of this card.

*As for whether any trees were actually cut down to make this card, the sticker on the wrapping and the back of the card state that it is fair trade and recycled. There is no reporting of the percentage of recycled content or whether it is post or pre consumer use.

*I’m sure that the VW van in the story and the card has been converted into an electric or hybrid vehicle.

*Lars doesn’t know Rufus, but he thinks he would be fun to play with.

The middle of the card:

 

 

 

 

 

And the back of the card:

 

 



Happy holidays!

D.D. and Lars






 

What? A show with the Hardy Boys AND Nancy Drew?!!?

Before Jane Austen there was Nancy Drew.


My parents would take us to a used book store where we would spend hours browsing (my father in the Westerns, which tells you how long ago this was). My mother would find a new Nancy Drew mystery for me, and then when I was old enough I would search the shelves for myself. I also devoured books from other mystery series, such as The Happy Hollisters, The Bobbsey Twins (yep!), and Trixie Belden. Trixie solved mysteries and rode horses. What more could any young girl want? And of course, there were always the Black Stallion books.

When I ran out of reading material, I would "borrow" my brother's Hardy Boys mysteries. He wasn't reading them anyway.

So imagine my surprise while shopping with a friend a couple of weeks ago, as I rounded the end of an aisle and saw, out of the corner of my eye, a boxed set of the second season of the Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries. Wowza!





Evidently, sometime in the Seventies, a miraculous TV series brought to life these childhood friends for an hour each week.




Who knew?









Although the stars of the series were supposedly teen idols at the time of the series, the only name I recognized was Shaun Cassidy. I told my shopping companion that I was pretty sure my older sister had him or the other Cassidy plastered all over her walls when she was a teenager. How could I resist a series featuring both the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew?

So I splurged. I watched the first few episodes that night. It's awesome, and cheesy, and totally Seventies. The first two episodes they all went to Transylvania for a music festival, which seemed to have an audience of about 20 people. They then proceeded to travel to places such as Las Vegas, Hawaii, Egypt, Kenya, Acapulco, New Orleans, haunted houses, and secret government bunkers at the top of mountains.

Along the way I saw a VERY young Melanie Griffith and Kim Cattrall.  It took me a while to figure out it was Kim- I kept saying to Lars that I recognized the way she was talking and finally I was all, "OMG! It's Samantha!"

 My favorite casting (maybe of all time!) was Pamela Sue Martin as Nancy Drew. I knew as soon as I

saw her that she was the definitive Nancy Drew, much like Linda Carter will always be Wonder Woman. I never bought the actor who played Nancy Drew in the movie a few years back (sorry,

 Emma Roberts). She just wasn't substantial enough. Pamela, on the other hand, was perfect. So imagine my shock and dismay when, in the last couple of episodes of this second season, Nancy was played by someone else, who was just completely wrong. I looked up the series, and turns out the Hardy Boys episodes were doing better in the ratings than the Nancy Drew episodes to the point where Pamela had to leave the show (not enough work, maybe?). She also was on Dynasty, but since I never had the misfortune to watch it, I can now think of her as Nancy Drew.

http://www.denofgeek.us/tv/20415/the-hardy-boysnancy-drew-mysteries

During the Hawaii episode, Frank Hardy falls hard for a singing windsurfer whose life is in danger. She seemed familiar, yet I was sure I hadn't seen her in anything else. When I researched the actor, Tara Buckman, I found this blog, written by someone who is a HUGE fan:

http://hillplace.blogspot.com/2013/03/fondly-remembering-tara-buckman.html

Turns out Tara was one of the last contract actors for Hollywood. Back in the day, Hollywood studios would have actors under contract for a certain number of years, and might loan them out to other studios for projects, etc.  This is obviously no longer done, and Tara was one of the last.

Anyway, for the third season Nancy was eliminated from the show altogether, and after a couple of episodes in the third season the network canceled the show completely, for mystifying network reasons. Evidently the network ratings plummeted for that night of the week after they canceled the show (refer to the denofgeek link above). Networks never learn.





So the only season I need to obtain at this point is the first season, since I'm not sure I want to buy the third season box set for a couple of episodes, no matter how good they might be. Which, I suppose, could be a hint for a Yule/Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah (did I cover everyone?) present. It might even fit in a stocking.

Since it's that time of year and everything.

A recipe to help with knot tying

Tomorrow one of my friends is getting married (this post is for you, you know who you are).

And, as a testament to our friendship, I'm actually going to the wedding.

Included in the invitation envelope was a recipe card, with a wrapper that stated:
"We would love to have one of your family's favorite recipes. Please fill out the card and bring it to the wedding."

Yeah, like I cook.

So instead I thought I would create a recipe for a successful relationship.

Oh, the irony. Jane Austen would appreciate it.

So here goes:

Recipe for a successful relationship:

A whole bunch of friendship
A handful of shared interests
3 cups love
A handful of disagreements
3 huge vats of communication
1 cup flour
3 T. butter
2 T. sugar
2 bay leaves
Salt and pepper
Favorite spices of your choice


Put chosen vessel on simmer on a back burner. Pour in friendship and shared interests, slowly add love. Stir gently. Toss in disagreements, followed quickly by communication. Add actual food ingredients whenever you want (these can be modified). Choose spices and season according to taste.

There you have it.

In honor of this particular friend, here's Amanda Palmer's Ukulele Anthem:





Good luck and happy life together, y'all. And in case you need to ever do this again, you can have my idea: running off to Vegas to get married in "Venice" at the Venetian. It's not like I'm ever going to use it.

The bus stop

A long sparkling river of cars streams from a trapdoor in the sun, a blinding metal mirage of hope and hopelessness.

The sky is a burning lake. I breathe water.

My soul is sweating. My scalp is on fire.

Time has become endless, warped into meaningless digital numbers on my cell phone. Eternity passes in a second.

Space has narrowed down to this: I will never leave this spot. I am not really where I am.

The universe has shifted.  I am stuck here on the side of the road, under the hot sun, waiting for the next crowded smelly space ship to arrive.

I don't know where I'm going.

Letter to the editors of Tin House

MEMO RE: Tin House, Volume 15, Number 1


Dear Editors,


Thank you.


Sincerely,

me.




(please see the Letter to the editors of the Paris Review post if more explanation is needed)

What shall I do tomorrow?

I have crawled inside volcanoes, immersed myself in lava, and felt heat so hot it melted my ancestors’ bones. I have napped atop fluffy clouds high in the sky. I have worn red to pet bulls named Willard. I have discussed politics with ogres over coffee and beignets. I have surfed lakes with frogs on lily pads.

I spent today riding a butterfly’s wing. I perched cross-legged on a black dot on an azure blue wing that glowed in the sun, a speck so tiny the butterfly didn’t even know I was there. I managed to hang on through the movement of the butterfly’s wings.

A dog snapped at us. We narrowly avoided getting smashed under a human’s shoe.

We swooped through the air, riding the wind, soaring up and down. I flung my arms up and grinned at the sun.  I looked in windows as we passed.

A couple kissed, wrapped up in each other’s arms, so that it was impossible to tell where each began.

“I love you,” the man whispered.

In the next window a couple was shouting, enraged, red in the face, their arms flailing wildly.

“I hate you,” the woman screamed.

We joined a brilliantly colored swarm of butterflies on a bus, fluttering around a woman’s head. She kept talking to us. No one else seemed to notice the butterflies. We left the bus at the next stop, gladly escaping back out into the open.

The butterfly hung in the air, seemingly motionless, and I floated on a blue wing in a crystal clear matching sky. The only sound was the flap of the butterfly’s wings and the thud of my heartbeat. Time stuttered to a standstill.

 

The butterfly is gone now. They don’t live long anyway.

What shall I do tomorrow?

 

 

 

Writer's Block

“Oh, you write?” you ask. “What do you write?” you ask.

“You’d have to read my blog, I guess,” I say.

I’ve shown you this blog. You read half of the post on rugby, and the Seeing Stars on the Inside of My Eyelids piece.

“Nice poem,” you said.

“What do you write?” you ask.

(Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but without an idea that they would be carried around to her)*

I shrug. I write snippets. I like to experiment right now. Words are fun to play with. They s-t-r-e—t---c---h. They shatter into a jumble, are picked up, and put back gthetroe in different ways.  They bounce,

fast: (rat tat tat)

and slow:

bang,

bang,

bang.

I want to create a thousand metaphors and throw them up into the sky with the stars. I want to count dust.

“What do you write?” you ask.

I don’t know.

For my words to truly travel (hey Germany, Ireland, everybody!) , to fly, to struggle through security rigmaroles at airports, to shake strangers by the hand, and see the seven wonders of the world; they will have to conform, to have a plot, to pirouette to a denouement, to walk in iambic pentameter through scenes.

Lately there’s been a wall sitting in front of me. I keep running into it face first, over and over again. It is made up of blocks of questions and self-doubts (are my ideas fresh, am I any good at this, does anybody really want to read this, isn’t this just for me anyway) and required dry, boring papers for school, stacked up and towering over me. On this wall is spray painted a Basquiat graffiti stating “WRITER’S BLOCK”. It is not signed Samo.

The grass has to be greener on the other side.

I want to just peek over, see the view over the wall. But it’s impossible to climb. At times there are footholds (another assignment’s done) but then it smooths out so that I slide back down to the ground. The ground is muddy, slippery, and turns into quicksand quickly. The ground near the wall is dangerous: I step on it, it sucks my foot in, and I struggle not to be tugged under and disappear. This ground could suck the entire world into a quagmire of environmental problems, overpopulation, inequality, and royal babies.  The world is not on my shoulders: I pick it up and hurl it back into rotation around the sun. Day comes again.

The grass has to be greener on the other side (my pony’s name was Bunny, for the record).

“What do you write?” you ask.

I write this.

 

 

 

 

*From Austen, J. (original 1818, 1984) Persuasion. USA, Canada: Bantam Books.

 

 

 

 

Seeing stars on the inside of my eyelids

Seeing stars on the inside of my eyelids,
dreaming of spinning through galaxies upside down,
discussing the meaning of words with an alien named Bob.

harsh. fear. eons.
Bob says it's their problem.

Hurtling toward sparkly space dust and debris,
light-years blinding as they speed by.

young. old. lollipop.
Bob says he's confused, as a gift.

Creating comets by twirling shiny batons,
undiscovered planets whispering secrets,
super nova exploding, wormhole beckoning.

color. black. existence.

Burnout

Volcano heat boils into the sky

flying cinders burn holes in clouds

lava runs lethargically
down mountainsides

bubbles of hot frustration
devour intestines
through restless nights

spewing ash and bile and exhaustion
 

Sports Commentary Part 3 (Really!)

People who know me are wondering right now “wait, she’s writing another post about SPORTS?”

Here are the first two:

Part 1:

http://itsgotsomethingtodowithjaneausten.blogspot.com/2013/01/sports-commentary_22.html

Part 2:

http://itsgotsomethingtodowithjaneausten.blogspot.com/2013/02/cute-boys-in-shorts-sports-commentary.html

At the end of the second part, I mentioned that since I like Australian rules football there’s a possibility that I might like rugby.

A few weeks later I was scrolling through the TV menu and noticed a Six Nations game on one of the sports channels (or BBC America, who knows), which is a little odd because I never look at the sports channels. At first I wondered if six nations referred to six different native American tribes competing against each other (Cherokee v. Iroquois, for example). Then I realized that it meant six countries outside the U.S.

 

Oh right.

It was actually a rugby match between two countries that I don’t remember, though I think one was Ireland, because I remember it being Brian O’somebody’s last match.

My comments to the dog ran something like this:

"What are they doing? Ouch- that looked like it hurt. Why are they all bunched up pushing against the group from the other team…oh my goodness does that guy know where his face is right now- oh wait where’d the ball go this time?"

And if I’m honest, there may have been a “he’s a bit hot” comment or two.

 

But I watched the entire game from when I started, which is about ¾ of the game. It’s fast and rough, the ball is constantly moving, and there’s very little downtime. 

So this past Saturday morning, I decided to avoid schoolwork and see if I could learn anything about rugby instead. I stumbled upon a BBC sports page, which had a tab for both rugby league and rugby union. Not knowing the difference, I decided to start with picking teams.  Seemed logical at the time, or at least more fun than schoolwork. And, of course, I picked them for reasons that make sense only to me.

 

 

pic from Catalan online shop

I decided to start with rugby league, just because. After looking at the team names, I picked the Dragons, mostly because I think dragons are cool. Then I realized that the Catalan Dragons are from France, where presumably my family has some heritage based on my last name. Plus I took 4 years of French in high school, not that I remember much of it nor have I encountered situations where I need to use it.  This team is the odd one out in the Super Rugby League since they are the only team in the league not from the British Isles, and I tend to like oddballs.  Also, they are relatively new to the league, and I am new to rugby. Seemed like a match to me.  I don’t really like their colors (red and yellow), but they make sense for fire-breathing dragons.Then I visited their online shop, where I found this little guy in the picture. It's out of stock, and would be expensive to ship, but I want it.



pic from Quins online shop

Then I switched to the rugby union teams. I started with the Dragons, since it would be easiest to just keep the mascots the same, but the colors/uniforms/website didn’t appeal to me. I looked at several other team websites and eventually decided to click on the Harlequins site. First, I liked the colors and the patterns of the uniforms. Then I remembered that a character dressed as a harlequin features in a Tommy and Tuppence short story by Agatha Christie, and in a Father Brown story by G.K. Chesterton. Sold. Being able to pick a sports team based on literary references? Priceless.

 

(of course, it’s also the name of a line of rather cheesy romance novels, but that’s beside the point)



pic from Quins online shop



Oh, and the difference betwen league and union seems to be the amount of players and the rules. Or something like that.

 

After I had my teams picked I then tried to find where I can actually watch rugby matches. Anything to avoid schoolwork, after all.

Turns out I picked a sport which isn’t that easy to watch in the U.S. I found some apps to download that will show the live streaming matches online, but they looked pretty sketchy.  I then found Club Rugby TV from Australia. I watched half a game, enough  to hear one of the announcers state “well, something just happened”, which is my kind of sports commentary, before I realized that all the games listed were from over a year ago.

There evidently is a specific TV channel that shows the matches here in the U.S. called Fox Soccer Plus. I found a list of British or Irish pubs that show that channel constantly. Since I have been a collector of avid non-sports fans for friends (how else can I avoid being invited to watch the Super Bowl every year?), the conversations went a little like this: “Hey you want to go hang out at a pub for a couple of hours with me while I watch a rugby game?” which met a confused look and a “say what?” from them.  I also checked the closest sports bar, which is supposedly either Scottish or Irish and mostly known for the female wait staff dressed in little shirts and short plaid skirts that are evidently supposed to resemble kilts. They only show baseball, basketball, and UFC.

So I broke down and called my cable provider, and the conversation went like this:

me- “So I don’t like sports. I just want to watch rugby and Australian rules football. I don’t want the other sports channels. Is it possible to just add Fox Soccer Plus?”

 

him- “Of course. let me check.” Hold music. Then: “it’s (insert outrageous price here) for a season.”

me (considering hyperventilating)- “How long is a season?”

 

him- “Well, there’s the premiership, and the Heineken cup…..let me check.” Hold music. then: “That price is for a whole year.”

me-“ I’ll think about it.”

 

pic from Catalan twitter feed

Once I was off the phone and calmed down, I figured out that the cost per month would not be any more than the price of the drinks/meals at the pubs if I were to watch the matches there. I would need to pay for the whole year up front though. After keeping an eye on the Fox Soccer Plus schedule, I also realized that it doesn't correlate with what's actually being played. For example, the Catalan Dragons are playing Hull KR on June 22. Fox Soccer Plus is showing a match from the previous day by different teams. The following week the channel is showing a Dragons match, but it is one from over a month ago. Plus the Australian rules football is shown in the wee hours of the morning over here, when I am sound asleep hopefully not snoring. I'm just not sure I can justify paying for this channel.



I did manage to find a legitimate website to watch the Australian National Rugby League matches, and another which posts the rugby union Aviva premiership matches 3 hours after the end of the match, so I can watch those the next time it comes around. I’ve watched a couple of Quins games from this year's premiership that way. I’m hoping the Heineken cup matches will be available on the official website (the Quins are in pool 4). I don’t mind watching them after the fact, as that means I can watch them on my own schedule (even if I had the Fox Soccer Plus channel I’d have to watch the Australian matches afterward anyway). I just want to watch them.

 

 

  

 

a ghost story

When the ghost cried, waves crashed on beaches around the world. Wolves roared, and pagans danced in circles. The ghost cried every night.

Cecilia heard the ghost crying outside her bedroom window. She would sneak downstairs in their summer cabin, spread out a sleeping bag on the floor, and snuggle into it. She could hear the ghost better from downstairs. Her parents didn’t believe her. They told her it was just the wind in the trees, fish splashing in the lake, or birds. Their explanation changed each time she reported the sound of crying.

When the ghost cried, stars shivered in the sky. Atoms split, and hearts broke. When she cried, lives altered.

When Cecilia was dating Robert, she took him out to the cabin for a romantic getaway. They paddled a canoe on the lake and held hands on longs walks in the woods. The ghost kept crying, but Robert never mentioned hearing her.  When Cecilia and Robert broke up, she went out to the cabin and sat on the back porch all night listening to the ghost.

When the ghost cried, ogres stirred beneath sleeping volcanoes. Storms gathered strength out in the Atlantic Ocean.

After Cecilia married Ted, she had a caretaker keep an eye on the cabin for several years. They spent their time working, traveling, arguing, and eventually, having two girls. Although Cecilia could not hear the ghost, when seagulls shrieked in her suburban street late at night she knew the ghost cried. When the girls were old enough, the family began visiting the cabin again. Ted hung a swing from the closest, strongest tree and the girls spent hours on it. They splashed each other in the lake, and piled into the car to drive to the closest small town and eat greasy burgers at the diner. Only Cecilia stayed up at night to listen to the ghost crying.

When the ghost cried, icecaps cracked. Fairies sang dirty ditties to each other. Rivers changed course, and fish started walking on land.

The girls eventually became teenagers who complained about spending time in the country, with spotty, slow cell phone coverage and away from an internet connection.  So after Cecilia divorced Ted, she dropped the girls off at his place for visits on the weekends and drove to the cabin. She was dismayed to see the gigantic “summer cottage” newly built nearby, clearly visible from the cabin through the now severely depleted trees. She wondered where the ghost wandered now, yet the ghost still cried every night.

When the ghost cried, planets were demoted. Trees fell, and thunder boomed. Knights kneeled in supplication before their Queen.

Cecilia became aware that the end was near, that the sickness was destroying her body.  She willed the property to a preservation society because she knew her daughters did not love it as she did, and managed to make it back out to the cabin one last time. She rocked peacefully on the back porch swing, wrapped in a shawl.

“I’ll be with you soon,” she said into the night. “We’ll cry together.”


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Oh soda, soda, wherefore are thou, soda?

As part of a required assignment this semester I have given up soda for nine weeks. I have made it through four days so far, and there are eight weeks still remaining. To put it colloquially, this sucks.

If this had been an acceptable expression in Jane Austen's time, then Elizabeth Bennet would have said it after Mr. Collins' proposal and Mr. Darcy's first proposal. Fanny Price would have said after learning that Edmund Bertram was in love with Mary Crawford. It is likely that Mary Crawford herself would have used it, since Edmund did not have the same aspirations to riches and glory that she did. Emma thought it when Harriet first told her that she was interested in Mr. Knightley. Elinor Dashwood said it to her mirror in private when she found out that Edward Ferrars was secretly engaged to Lucy Steele.

I'll repeat it:  this sucks.

Carbonated mineral water has been around for ages. Inventors started discovering and marketing ways to artificially carbonate mineral water by 1767, and shortly thereafter flavors were added. Since Jane Austen lived until 1817, she likely could have partaken of this precursor to modern day soft drinks. However, these bottled mineral waters and other types of soft drinks did not become popular (or invented) until several years after her death. She may have been the lucky one. Coca-Cola, originally developed and marketed as a patent medicine (since carbonated water was considered healthy), once contained an estimated nine milligrams of cocaine per glass, which was removed in 1903 (wikipedia.com). Nowadays, it still contains a cocaine-free version of the coca leaf (wikipedia.com).

Soda (or pop) may no longer contain cocaine, but it's still a hard habit to kick. I'm not sure if it's my current lack of all that sugar or the caffeine, but I'm tired and cranky. All I want to do is drink a can of soda, and I'm rationalizing it by thinking to myself: "It's just soda, what harm is it really doing?"

I just hope that if I make it through the next eight weeks I'll be able to stay away from it for good.

In the meantime, this sucks.




Info in this post found here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soft_drink

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coca-Cola#19th_century_historical_origins

http://www.usfirehouse.com/SodaHistory.htm

A letter to the editors of the Paris Review

Dear Editors,

Yesterday I had plans to meet a friend at a bookstore/cafe. Due to the idiosyncracies of the local bus system I was unable to attend a different meeting scheduled for earlier that morning, so I ended up at the cafe well before our planned time. I chose a few magazines to peruse while waiting, one of which was the latest edition of your publication. I was disappointed.

My purposes in choosing the Paris Review to read while waiting included:
1. To see if I wanted to buy it (if I could afford it)
2. To see if I could find the submission guidelines, and what sort of writing was included in this journal
3. To obtain more exposure to what would be considered "good" writing, as I follow the Paris Review on Twitter and understand it to be a quality literary journal. Perhaps this exposure would help in my ongoing New Year's resolution to be more creative.

I thought briefly about finding your website to see if I could find the titles of the stories and poems in your currrent issue for this letter/post, but I really can't be bothered. Call it apathy, if you like.

Upon opening this edition of the Paris Review, I immediately realized that I had already read the first story, as it is this month's Recommended Reading from the Electric Literature folks (whom I also follow on Twitter). So I moved on to the second story. A couple of pages into it I knew that I was not interested. A third story, about a character named Mr. Bruht I believe, appeared promising. Then I paused long enough to figure out that as stories go, it seemed rather long. As we were getting close to leaving the store I couldn't read the whole story, so I opted to read short excerpts to see if I wanted to pursue finishing it. Nope.

Simply put, I found these stories boring.

I read a few of the poems also. The poems by someone called Sonda or Sandra or something were choppy and downright obscure. I even showed these poems to my passionfruit-ice-tea-drinking friend, who also was flummoxed by them. Poetry presumably should not spell everything out for the reader (which is something on which I need to work if I continue to write in a format resembling poetry). Instead it should encourage the reader to become a poem detective, deciphering the poetry clues and discovering the poem's personal meaning for herself. But if the poem is too obscure, too opaque, too abstract, then the reader can not excavate any meaning for herself. The poem becomes worthless.

I did enjoy the poem Feathers by Stephen Dunn which was included in this edition. Although I didn't understand every line, I did at least get the overall feeling of the poem.

I only made it about halfway through the journal, so perhaps the content in the second half might be better than that of the first half. By the halfway mark I knew that I wasn't going to be finishing it.

This latest edition of the Paris Review ended up on top of the stack of magazines (knitting magazines, an interior decorating magazine having something to do with vintage items, and Somerset Apprentice) already gracing the table, in preparation to be returned to the magazine rack once we were done with our blueberry muffins.

What are my qualifications for reviewing your journal? None, really. My first two years of college, many years ago, were an attempt at an English degree which included various literature classes and which was ultimately unfinished. My Bachelor's degree and my current coursework are in the general area of psychology. I could be considered by some to be a voracious reader, and have been for most of my life. I obviously am a fan of Jane Austen, and another of my favorite books is 100 Years of Solitude. But I also read a plethora of mystery fiction and of the genre unfortunately referred to as "chick lit." On the bus I tend to stare aimlessly out the window instead of composing brilliant literary lines designed to amaze the world. I watch silly television. I don't listen to NPR. Perhaps my tastes are simply too plebian to allow me to enjoy your publication.

I definitely do not consider myself a writer, though I am attempting to include more creativity in my life (see previous posts). I am currently working on a story involving butterflies. Perhaps when I am finished with this story I will send it in to the Paris Review. My rejection letters so far include every single doctoral degree to which I applied. A rejection letter from the editors of the Paris Review will be an excellent addition to my collection.

Regardless of my lack of qualification to comment on the literary worthiness of your publication, I was still not compelled to pay the $14.95 purchase price. Instead, I bought a hair dryer at another store. See, I have long hair and I needed a hair dryer. Since this hair dryer was already on sale and I had an additional coupon, it cost about the same as your literary journal. It resides in my bathroom.


Thank you very much for your time. This is, after all, a rather long letter.

Lucy

Another attempt at adding more creativity to my life. A very rough (and short?) draft.

One week before the date, while they were standing in a store devoted primarily to beauty products, Lucy’s friend Cecilia cajoled her into going out with a guy named Lloyd.

“Lloyd, like the guy in Say Anything. You’ll like him,” Cecilia said.

“Maybe,” Lucy said. “But I’m perfectly happy on my own. As in not dating. At all.”

“No offense, but I’ve always thought that was a little weird,” Anna said, as she sniffed a perfume sample.  As a friend she belonged more to Cecilia than to Lucy.

Three days before the date, Lucy went shopping for a new outfit, urged on by Cecilia.  She spent the three days before the date with itching and peeling skin from a sunburn acquired during this shopping trip.

The morning of the date Lucy woke up with a feeling of dread. She took out the dog, slipped into the new dress, slapped on some makeup, and sighed. She sang loudly and off key as she drove to the date.

Lucy met Lloyd at the farmer’s market.  He carried a blanket and a picnic basket.

“Hello,” she said.

They threaded their way through stalls selling honey, homemade bread, dog treats, and vegetables. They inched around screaming children, people carrying cloth bags stuffed full of organic produce, and dogs barking incomprehensible poetry at each other. Lucy wished that she could be talking with the dogs instead.

“So, it’s Lucy, right?” said Lloyd.

“Yep,” Lucy replied.

“Ok, let’s find some food to bring to the park,” Lloyd said.

Lucy chose a smoothie, Lloyd purchased a sandwich and some fruit, and on their way out they grabbed some popcorn. They then headed across to the park where the outdoor concert was already starting.

“It’s jazz,” Lloyd said. “Do you like jazz?”

“I’ve heard some,” Lucy said. “I honestly don’t know much about it. It’ll be fine, though.”

Lloyd spread the blanket out on the grass and they both sat down. He opened up the picnic basket, removing his sandwich, the popcorn, the fruit, juice, and glasses.

“You don’t say a lot, do you?” he asked.

“I guess not,” Lucy said, while thinking to herself, “Say what?”

The sun shone, the crowd chatted, and the saxophone wailed.

“Why is it that a saxophone wails?” Lucy asked. “Does that sound like wailing to you?”

“I guess so,” Lloyd replied.

“Well, I like it.”

After the band finished, they packed the picnic basket back up and found a recycling bin for the plastic juice bottle.

“Ice cream?” Lloyd asked. “There’s a place across the street.”

There were several places across the street. They browsed the folk art store, scrutinizing polka dot dachshunds. They wandered through the fair trade store and the store filled with ecologically friendly products, pausing at the purses made with recycled seatbelts. They passed by the store displaying presumably overpriced turquoise jewelry.

Lucy’s skin itched.

They entered the ice cream shop.

“Chocolate,” Lucy told the pink haired woman behind the counter.

“Just chocolate?” Lloyd asked. “There’s a ton of flavors here.”

Lucy chose not to point out that a ton contained 2000 pounds, and therefore it was not likely that there actually was a ton of ice cream flavors in the shop.

“Chocolate,” she repeated. “With cookies, chocolate sprinkles, and peanut butter pieces mixed in.”

“Wow,” Lloyd said, “that’s quite a selection of toppings you added.”

“I like it,” Lucy said.

Toward the bottom of her bowl of ice cream, Lucy started dreading the end of the date and the potential for an awkward goodbye moment.  

Lloyd lightly kissed her cheek and said, “I’ll call you.”

Lucy heaved a sigh of relief and climbed into her car.

A few blocks later, she realized he didn’t have her number. She laughed out loud, and the sound flew out her window and rose like a balloon. She sang loudly and off key as she drove home.

Lucy climbed the stairs to her apartment, slouched on the couch, petted the dog beside her, and picked up her knitting.
 

Her skin stopped itching.



 

I am untitled, as is this post

Last month I repotted my two plants.
They don't have names, though sometimes
I call them Fred and Bob as a joke.

They desperately needed bigger pots
to let their roots continue to grow.
I chose organic potting mix
and sunk my fingers in the loose dirt.

I chopped off my own roots years ago.

I dug a deep hole and buried my family in it,
and walked away, smiling
and free

No pictures remain, though memories still exist.
 of screams and slaps and thuds
 of early mornings spent getting my hair wrapped
      in curlers in preparation for competitions
 of bicycles and hay bales and ponies
 of my grandmother crying beside her daughter's death bed.

I have Emily Dickinson'ed my life
cleaning and sterilizing it
placing my childhood memories on the back burner
smothering any gas fires that erupt
sweeping the drama under the bed
turning on the robot vacuum, watching it avoid any furniture
and dangerous emotions

I have created, increasingly and deliberately, a small life
out of dust and cobwebs

Yet I stand tall in my living room, towering over my personal space.

SCREAM!

Email: MP3 credit from "that website."

Logon: choose carefully, there's no extra money.

dead sara. lemon scent.

shimmy hips.
           (bop, bop)

fist pump: index finger and pinkie extended, thumb tucked

bang head foward, back
            (and again)

stomp.  STOMP!

throw head back, spread arms wide.
take a deep breath
           (and another)
fill belly with air.

Ready, set, let go:


SCR (still no title from the DMV) EEE (still no money from insurance) EEE (insurance trying to cancel claim) EE (dog needs his annual visit to the vet) EEA (no transportation) EEA (only a 2 week break between spring and summer term) EEE (haven't paid off summer term) EA (need textbooks) E (what's wrong with my resume?) E e (no world peace) am.


dog pokes his head through the doorway from the other room.

"It's okay, dog."

"I'm done."

dead sara.

Finding insight: A fiction exercise

It was morning.

The woman woke up, looked at the dog sprawled across her feet with his head raised, staring at her. She walked to the mirror.

“Who am I?” she asked.

She cut open her skull, regarded the pulsing mass of her brain, chose a neuron to cut. Her vision focused to a pinpoint.

 

“Not good,” she said, and sewed the neuron and her skull back up again.

Then, she cut open her chest and watched her heart pulse. She poked it, felt the pain, felt the heartache so deep it encompassed the universe: all the stars, the black holes, and the atoms in the dust visible in the ray of sunlight shining through the window.

“Ouch,” she said, and sewed up her chest.

She sat down in a chair and cut the muscle and bone in her ankle, saw her foot dangle from the rest of her leg.

“So that’s connected,” she said, and sewed the muscle and bone back up again.

As she did so, she inadvertently hit a button on the machine in front of her. Music blared out.

 

 

 

She stomped her feet, swung her hips (discovering that it worked better if she did it to the beat), flailed her arms in the air, felt joy.

“I am someone who likes to dance, evidently,” she said.

She cut the vein in her wrist, and watched the blood flow out. But then she felt faint.

“Huh,” she said, and sewed the vein back up again.

She looked down at her body, at the recent stitches and scars, at her hips she’d been swinging around, at her breasts.

“Are those supposed to hang like that?” she asked the dog who sat on the floor, staring at her.

She found clothes, put them on, propped up the breasts with a bra.

She drove to a building where she tapped on a keyboard connected to a box lighted with kaleidoscoping colors. When everyone seemed to be leaving, she followed them out. She then went to a classroom where the people engaged in lengthy discussions about themselves. She decided not to share the recent scars. Instead she recounted a vague, mostly forgotten, mostly made up story about her childhood.

She went back to the first location, sighed at the dog, slumped on the couch. The dog jumped on her lap, staring at her. The dog tapped her hand, and in reflex, she raised it and started stroking it down the dog’s back. When she stopped, the dog tapped her hand again. She kept stroking this time. She felt her bones and her muscles, her brain and her neuron, her heart and her vein, even her breasts: right themselves, smooth out, relax.

“I guess I am also someone who likes to pet dogs,” the woman said, “But that’s enough for now. I’m exhausted.”

So she slept.


 

"I deserve to be here"

For the most part, the characters in Jane Austen's books get what they deserve. Since Elizabeth Bennet is smart and witty, she gets the rich handsome mostly nice guy. Since Jane Bennet is sweet and giving, likewise. Since Mrs. Norris is a greedy b****, she gets to live out the rest of her days bickering with the disgraced, ostracized Maria. The characters who are "good" by Jane Austen's standards get good things by the end of their respective book, and vice versa. Two exceptions, in my opinion, are Mr. Collins, since I'm not sure he actually deserved Charlotte Lucas (though she seemed fine with it), and Henry Crawford from Mansfield Park, who generally behaves badly and leaves others to deal with the fallout.

This week, during a conversation with a classmate about my frustration finding funding for summer tuition, the phrase "I deserve to be here" slipped out. It pertained to family educational background, but it wasn't the last time the word "deserve" came up in the conversation.

Merriam-Webster online's definition of the word deserve:

transitive verb

: to be worthy of : merit; deserves another chance;

intransitive verb

: to be worthy, fit, or suitable for some reward or requital

 

(http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/deserve)

 

Why do I feel as if I deserve to go to graduate school when others around the world don't get to go to school at all? Or eat, some of them? What do I do differently that makes me worthy? What does anyone do that is deserving? Do good actions automatically deserve rewards, and bad deeds automatically deserve something bad, whether punishment or disaster?

 

What makes someone a good person, worthy or suitable for some reward? Do we need to be smart, donate to charity, volunteer, pray enough? Have I helped people in need, have I moved off the front seats of the bus for the people who should have them? Do I recycle enough, watch my energy usage, pet my dog enough to make him happy, try hard enough to help my friends feel better when something is bothering them?

 

What is it that we actually do to deserve anything? 

 

 

 

Invisibility

I want so badly to disappear sometimes

I’m good at it.

It’s easy to fill that disappearance: painting the sky on a teapot,

watching movies, napping, walking the dog, reading Jane Austen,

talking to the plants, the walls, the coffee table when I stub my toe on it.

It is especially easy to disappear when things feel wrong:

a car totaled after being rearended and no replacement in sight,

a “not approved” message for a loan for summer tuition,

no idea about what to do next, trying to figure out how

to ask for a huge favor.

When I am disappeared, I resent what makes me become visible:

a video assignment, a two hour bus ride surrounded by strangers,

a party I promised to go to weeks ago

(where I’m supposed to meet a guy).

I don’t mind invisibility, I relish being alone.

I’m good at it.


 

My two favorite Jane Austen movie moments

I'm pretty sure that I've referenced both of these scenes in a previous post (Colin Firth vs. Eliot Cowan) but they're worth repeating.  Over and over again.

My favorite Jane Austen movie moment. My silly little usually not that romantic heart always skips a beat when Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy says "My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth."






My second favorite Jane Austen movie moment is from Lost in Austen, an Austenesque miniseries in which Amanda travels into the book Pride and Prejudice while Lizzie Bennet travels into modern day London. Amanda has her Mr. Darcy copy the pond scene from the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, about 1:24 into the video.

Motherhood (or not)

I finally caught Sex and the City 2 on the telly the other week. I'd heard about the bad reviews, and I have to admit that the movie was hard to finish. However, the moment that lingers occurred at the wedding in the beginning of the film, when Big and Carrie meet another couple and the conversation moves to having children. The other couple expects Big and Carrie to accept their casual offer of a reference for a surrogate as if it was no big deal to have someone else pop out your kid for you, yet as soon as Carrie states that they will not be having children, the other couple starts to behave as if something dirty has happened and lose any interest in talking to Big and Carrie.

I’ve often wondered about Jane Austen’s attitude about mothers. In Persuasion, the mother was the sensible one, but died before the book began. Same with Emma, in which the mother died when Emma was very young. In Pride and Prejudice, the mother is, frankly, silly, though it could be argued that in her own way she tries to have her daughter’s best interests at heart (i.e. get them married). In Northanger Abbey, the mother is hardly seen but Mrs. Allen, who takes Catherine to Bath, is also pretty clueless. The mother situation is similar in Mansfield Park, where the mother sends Fanny to live with the Bertrams, where Lady Bertram sits around talking about and to her pug all day.  Only in Sense and Sensibility is the mother present and involved in the story.

Ms. Austen herself lived with her mother and her sister Cassandra for most of her life, yet the mother figure is not a very respected (if she’s even present) figure in her novels. It may have been her way of commenting on the expectations and attitudes toward women. She herself never married or had children, though that might not have been by choice. I myself, perhaps selfishly, am grateful for that, as she might have found it difficult to produce the works I love so much if she had the responsibilities of both a family and a household, which during that time period would have limited her ability to write.

 
I made the decision to be childfree when I was sixteen.


I made this decision based on factors such as overpopulation (yes, even way back when I was sixteen), my general suitability to be a mother, and my ability to take care of the child financially as long as needed. Some women are unable to have children. I also know women who already have children who are continually asked when they are having more. If anything is taken away from this post, it is to not ask women about their plans for having children. I've even been guilty of this a couple of times, though I do try to be accepting of whatever answer is given.

I have kept to that decision, through comments by people that "when I meet the right guy, I'll change my mind", through episodes of Rizzoli and Isles where a psychologist who writes about the same decision automatically hates children, through a TV character who was for many seasons a rare role model for being childfree, successful and single, but now has a child (Bones), and through the general societal habit of expecting motherhood from women.

 ***Here is where I will put my usual caveat that I have to trot out when I tell people I have made this decision: no, I do not hate children, and yes, I have nothing against women who truly want to be mothers. I even babysat once for a friend. I still know the (now) young woman, and remind her about the time when I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. Her answer: Barbie. My response: Well, you know how Barbie is usually something else too, like a doctor? Is there anything else you want to be while you’re Barbie? Her: No. Just Barbie. She thinks it's pretty funny now.***

A recent commercial involving either a cell phone or a cell phone company includes a young woman stating that being a mother was "what she was born to do". (She is also white, young, attractive, perfectly groomed, and the children are somewhere off camera). Born to be a mother: the concept that can cause guilt if you don't want children or find yourself struggling as a mother, can lead to young teenagers wanting a baby before they are ready (or at any age for that matter), can lead to abandoned or abused children. All because women are expected to feel as if they are born to be mothers.
 
We put motherhood on a pedestal, while at the same time martyring mothers or vilifying them if they cannot handle motherhood (as soon as a mother kills a child, there's extra level of shock that she could do it simply because she's a mother). Woe to the woman who falls off that pedestal or decides not to climb on it. Women should be mothers, and mothers should be perfect.

A woman who does not have children is still very much a woman. I can vouch for that.




http://www.nokidding.net/
http://www.childfree.net/websites.html
http://thechildfreelife.com/



 

 

that is all I have to say

listening to comments about my comments

riding in a white hot air balloon through a cloudless uniformly light blue sky,

watching a sky writing plane spell out “um…” in puffs of smoke

Diving down through layers of appearance and social expectations,

through skin and muscles, to discover the warmth of my heart

-the pulse surrounding me and supporting me-

only to find inside:

a blank white word document staring at me from the computer screen

that is all I have to say.

 

 

Cute boys in shorts (Sports Commentary part 2)

So after I wrote the last post, I decided to give those sports another try. I lasted roughly 60 seconds of a professional men's basketball game, until the first ref call which stopped the game. It may have been a good thing, though, because I was already bored with it. The college hockey game lasted a little longer, but I still got tired of not knowing what was happening, the tight knots of flailing sticks, and trying to figure out why grown men were sitting in a little plastic box.

So we move on to the two sports I have watched for more than a couple of minutes at a time: soccer and Australian rules football. It's just a coincidence that they tend to involve cute boys (or men, depending on how you look at it) in shorts.

Soccer:

This game involves kicking a ball around on a field. You can also use your head, but you cannot carry it around. The goal is to somehow get that ball past the other team into a net. This sport is becoming more socially acceptable for the female majority of the human race. I even watched  the entire game (Olympics, maybe?) that ended with Brandy Chastain taking off her shirt. Not that the sports bra underneath wasn't anything anyone hasn't seen on runners, so it wasn't a big deal. It was a great game. Most of the time, however, even though soccer is a sport that I can tolerate more than others, when I look up from the book or playing with the dog or whatever else I'm doing while the television is on, those cute boys in shorts are still just kicking the ball up and down the field. The couple of times I've tried to watch a game live, I just get fidgety.

Australian rules football:

Several years ago I was lucky enough to spend a month in Australia. I spent most of that time working in Melbourne, and was able to catch an Australian rules football (otherwise known as Aussie rules footy) match. It was a semi-final match, between the Melbourne Demons and another team that I don't remember. I went with an Australian friend who was a supporter of the other team, and I remember imploring him to take off the scarf with the other team's colors. Basically, there's one word for the crowd at an Aussie rules footy match: rabid.

The game is some sort of an amalgamation of soccer, rugby and American football. I can't even begin to explain it, although he did try to explain it to me as best he could. The idea is kick the ball from any angle that works through the goals posts at each end of the field. The coaching staff sits above the field and communicates with representatives on the field by phone. So all you see is the action. And there's plenty of it. It's incredibly fast paced, and slightly crazy. The most memorable moment of the match for me was when one cute boy in shorts ran full speed into a goal post, lay there for a couple of seconds, and then got back up and started running around at full speed again. And these boys don't wear padding or helmets: simply a shirt and shorts.

Our seats were probably not the best, since we were seated at the end of the field, by a goal. I enjoyed the view though. Really, really enjoyed the view.



I don't get any of the channels which show Australian rules football matches. So my memory of staying interested in an entire sports game remains intact. I also wonder if I would enjoy rugby, since I enjoyed watching Aussie rules footy. I may just have to explore that idea.