The Wingchair Traveller

A Tetrad: To Celebrate the End of My Treatments for Breast Cancer

2011-05-31T10:08:00.008-04:00

The following series of poems represents months of work through the most difficult time of my life as of yet. I wish to dedicate these poems to all the wonderful people involved in my care: the surgeons, medical oncologists, radiation oncologists, physician assistants, radiation therapists, nurses, and anyone else who has touched my world these last few months, both in private practice and at Roswell Park Memorial Institute. And to all of the cancer patients, both whom I have met personally and on the online support groups. Your strength never ceases to amaze me. Thank you to all. I couldn't begin to fully express my gratitude.

A TETRAD

It's Not Up to Him

Tell me that I can stay,
A little longer.
A life formed out of bits of thread and spilled blood
Is just a moment, a flash.
My creative clutter the only proof that I breathe.

Flesh plundered, compromised, sight unseen,
By one bad seed waiting,
For that slim circumstance
To strike and grow in a moment,
Interrupting a long-awaited dream.
We never know until we know,
We are not a given, even if we are forgiven.

I’d love to speak to that cell,
Lone invader of my own universe,
Travel the rivers and canyons of this divide,
Confront him and my swept-up fear.
To understand what he’s after,
Stealing my breath in order to live,
And perish with me.

I'd love to debrief that cell,
Make him squirm,
Will he have one noble reason?
Will I even comprehend why,
He means to use my body as his own,
Home Sweet Home,
For a little while?

I’d love to speak to that cell,
To tell him that I will stay,
A little longer.

It’s not up to him.

....................................

Ode to Awareness

Does tomorrow melt in your mouth,
Not in your hands,
Like Desire pulling you along by a taut, silken harness,
Only to nestle and caress you within the jaws of the famished world?

Do you tell your Prince to wake you later,
As you languishly linger within the folds
Of a sleep, unblemished by potion?
But, sooner than later, you will need those eyes open wide,
That breath strong and able,
Expanding and contracting for life.

Do you gaze across an open, fertile landscape,
Only to while away in longing,
For that noble Youth,
When all bitter Beauty has is these petals in her void?
All the while, the leaves rustle amongst us, calling out for Winter,
Awaiting to hear his step on the porch boards.

Do your dreams recall a listless longing,
Lying limp and open on the forest floor,
White flood rising from your cool gown,
A sad stream echoing your delirious sleep?
A cold wind blows, suddenly,
harsh and heavy upon your parched skin.

Shivering with eyes aflutter,
You think,
Perhaps, there is another way,
To conceive of this future,
Without falling through the cracks and chasms,
Of a life lived by another.

As you grasp the reins,
You navigate your way,
Slowly, ever so slowly,
Forward.

........................................

One Good Rain

All we need is one good rain
To wash these sins away.
Too bad it’s not so easy
To become clean again.

In the beginning,
There was sword and shield,
To keep us fully clothed.
Then we had witness protection,
To keep away all our foes.

Now it’s just a crapshoot,
We have nowhere to hide.
For me it’s just a walk on the beach,
But I am not too sure of the tide.

There really is no use,
I can duck in every doorjamb,
But I will always be looking backward,
A weapon filling each hand.

Protect both the chest and head
With armor reinforced.
Not once, but twice,
To withstand the force
An army of 100 men.
The battle cry sounds with a rush,
Of arrows emerging swiftly,
Over the cries of lonely voices
A raging fireball arcs,
And turns this armor to ashen dust,
This hope to smoke.

The fallen counted as we pass
Through these years
To days, not less dangerous.
It is not within the integrity of the body,
But in its own stealthiness.
We can disappear into thin air,
But still find invasion from within.
Crossing the crime of the organized
Will only leave you
With a neck forever cricked
a gaze directed behind those eyes,
A throat not quite nicked.

Night falls over the bustling bar,
A glow arises from the corner.
An enticing circle of fire emerges,
From the dimness
Beyond, the face slowly becoming visible
In the darkness.
A world alive at dusk,
A youth riveting and vibrant,
Confident in her ignorance.

A tinkle of ice as the whiskey
Flows, the smell wafts over me,
Like a banana freshly peeled,
It passes my lips like a fantasy.
That numb little confidence I love
Has entered my skin.
I coast down its river through days
And months
And eventually years
To where I am right now.

Here in this room
Whiskey long forgotten
Yet still a part of me.
Is it really
A mere cellular memory?

That’s it.
The deed is done.
I’ve unsheathed the sword,
Released my own ball of fire,
Submitted my body to flame and forge.
I’ve opened the gate to chaos,
I’ve started this holey war.
I’ve crossed the mafia cell at its own game,
And I will always be looking back.
With a crick in my neck,
A dislocated shoulder,
Waiting for that next attack.

And I owe it all to those whiskey years,
And that marvelous carelessness.
In my innocence of youth,
I had grasped a light,
That has lingered ever since.
And it’s true.
It is still near,
Burning strong and very much
Alive.

..........................................

A Perfect 84

42 years of a life,
Lived well and full,
Is not enough to wrap,
My weary arms around the world.

42 more would do,
Let’s make it symmetrical.
42 more would do very well.
My social calendar,
Is much too full.

84 years you say?
You’d be lucky.
I know.
But, 84 years in the scope of things,
Is just a drop on the great agar plate
Of the world.

84 years is all I ask,
A perfect number seemingly.
Keats got only 25,
And I’m no Keats,
That’s what I see.

We’ll call him Gabe,
My angel
Alarmed me of what’s to come.
He tapped me on the shoulder ,
Changed my curfew to some,
Night I never dreamed of,
Then changed it once again so I’d learn.

Then I knew,
That I was strong enough.
I knew when I saw you in my room,
That night, of all nights,
Mr.Gabriel.
Thank you for coming so soon.

I only wish,
That you were less frightening,
With your perfectly trimmed beard.
And eyes of clay and sinfulness,
Here on hallowed ground, so rare.

We are less earthy than you think,
Bring your white robes, I don’t care.
But I forgive you, Gabriel,
Your message was loud and clear:

These hands have more,
Comfort to give.
This left hand more to write.
This right hand more peace to share,
With those I encounter each night.

This hair much more,
Than vanity,
A frank expression of who I am.
This brain to compute and rationalize,
My relation to earth as it stands.

These eyes,
They are a window,
To a soul,
Not clean, but bright.
These bulky arms,
Which I lament,
Have held my child so tight.

These ears to listen caringly,
To those whom need me most.
This mouth with which to kiss goodnight,
All those whom are not lost.
These teeth to chew
The chocolate, most delicious and so fine.
This nose to smell the springtime air,
As it wispily leaves the vine.

This neck,
To accept,
Kisses and caresses,
All the same.
These shoulders
To shoulder the gardening,
Creating life along the way.

These breasts create a line,
From me to my
Beloved and his stare.
My waist encompassed by those arms
Who really, truly care.
My hips contain my power,
Of life and femininity.
Those thighs that I wish smaller,
Have gotten me from sea to sea.

These old calves are
Not so bad,
But shaving them gets routine.
My feet, oh my woeful feet,
You can kiss them,
But not this week.

My heart,
I save the best for last,
It holds so many dear.
Although I may not express myself,
Hear me loud and clear.

84 years,
Almost a century,
Of life to give and share,
This body with the great wide world,
I’ll do it, if you dare.

Knowing that I love you all,
Sleep silently,
Knowing that I care,
And never for a minute dream
Of when you will not be here.
Leave that worry all to me,
I’ve seen it all before.
To me it’s just a path I’m on,
And I’ve just opened the great big door.

This is my one wish for you,
Life can be so unfair.
For I have people looking out for me,
Some white dove--down here, up there.
Oh No! I’ve lost my shoes again,
Radiation is a bear.

I Keep Chipping Away

2011-05-23T14:33:00.013-04:00

I've been working on a series of poems about breast cancer for months now. Writing, rewriting, and finding my muse in many places that I never even thought to look. This particular poem caused me many nights of lost sleep and moments of frustration, and the members of my writing group, who watched me as I brought a new version in each week, can attest to this. I was initially inspired by the Chronicles of Narnia exhibit at the Buffalo Museum of Science. I began reflecting on this idea of children at war and how perhaps we have some kind of innate strength that is present, even since birth. I used the idea of light as a symbol of my own strength, from which I was able to tap into many times over the last 6 months. This poem lay in its beginning stages for at least a couple months until one night, inspiration came to me. The title came to me in a half asleep-half awake state, after throwing off my blankets in the heat. I pictured a computer file labeled with the title One Good Rain, and I began to write and eventually finish this poem in this state of "in-between" consciousness. As I coast through my last few radiation treatments, I am very happy to present to you my latest literary creation and to say that the series is,at long last, complete.

One Good Rain

All we need is one good rain
To wash these sins away.
Too bad it’s not so easy
To become clean again.

In the beginning,
There was sword and shield,
To keep us fully clothed.
Then we had witness protection,
To keep away all our foes.

Now it’s just a crapshoot,
We have nowhere to hide.
For me it’s just a walk on the beach,
But I am not too sure of the tide.

There really is no use,
I can duck in every doorjamb,
But I will always be looking backward,
A weapon filling each hand.

Protect both the chest and head
With armor reinforced.
Not once, but twice,
To withstand the force
An army of 100 men.
The battle cry sounds with a rush,
Of arrows emerging swiftly,
Over the cries of lonely voices
A raging fireball arcs,
And turns this armor to ashen dust,
This hope to smoke.

The fallen counted as we pass
Through these years
To days, not less dangerous.
It is not within the integrity of the body,
But in its own stealthiness.
We can disappear into thin air,
But still find invasion from within.
Crossing the crime of the organized
Will only leave you
With a neck forever cricked
a gaze directed behind those eyes,
A throat not quite nicked.

Night falls over the bustling bar,
A glow arises from the corner.
An enticing circle of fire emerges,
From the dimness
Beyond, the face slowly becoming visible
In the darkness.
A world alive at dusk,
A youth riveting and vibrant,
Confident in her ignorance.

A tinkle of ice as the whiskey
Flows, the smell wafts over me,
Like a banana freshly peeled,
It passes my lips like a fantasy.
That numb little confidence I love
Has entered my skin.
I coast down its river through days
And months
And eventually years
To where I am right now.

Here in this room
Whiskey long forgotten
Yet still a part of me.
Is it really
A mere cellular memory?

That’s it.
The deed is done.
I’ve unsheathed the sword,
Released my own ball of fire,
Submitted my body to flame and forge.
I’ve opened the gate to chaos,
I’ve started this holey war.
I’ve crossed the mafia cell at its own game,
And I will always be looking back.
With a crick in my neck,
A dislocated shoulder,
Waiting for that next attack.

And I owe it all to those whiskey years,
And that marvelous carelessness.
In my innocence of youth,
I had grasped a light,
That has lingered ever since.
And it’s true.
It is still near,
Burning strong and very much
Alive.

A Mother's Day Wish: A Poem by Me

2011-05-08T18:00:00.003-04:00

"Poetry is a record of the life around us and in us, and you'll get a better idea from poetry what it was like to be alive in 2011 than you will from the New York Times." ~Garrison Keillor

If this is so, I only hope my own poetry can live up to the task. This poem was written this week, May 2011:

A Perfect 84

42 years of a life,

Lived well and full,

Is not enough to wrap,

My weary arms around the world.

42 more would do,

Let’s make it symmetrical.

42 more would do very well.

My social calendar,

Is much too full.

84 years you say?

You’d be lucky.

I know.

But, 84 years in the scope of things,

Is just a drop on the great agar plate

Of the world.

84 years is all I ask,

A perfect number seemingly.

Keats got only 25,

And I’m no Keats,

That’s what I see.

We’ll call him Gabe,

My angel

Alarmed me of what’s to come.

He tapped me on the shoulder ,

Changed my curfew to some,

Night I never dreamed of,

Then changed it once again so I’d learn.

Then I knew,

That I was strong enough.

I knew when I saw you in my room,

That night, of all nights,

Mr.Gabriel.

Thank you for coming so soon.

I only wish,

That you were less frightening,

With your perfectly trimmed beard.

And eyes of clay and sinfulness,

Here on hallowed ground, so rare.

We are less earthy than you think,

Bring your white robes, I don’t care.

But I forgive you, Gabriel,

Your message was loud and clear:

These hands have more,

Comfort to give.

This left hand more to write.

This right hand more peace to share,

With those I encounter each night.

This hair much more,

Than vanity,

A frank expression of who I am.

This brain to compute and rationalize,

My relation to earth as it stands.

These eyes,

They are a window,

To a soul,

Not clean, but bright.

These bulky arms,

Which I lament,

Have held my child so tight.

These ears to listen caringly,

To those whom need me most.

This mouth with which to kiss goodnight,

All those whom are not lost.

These teeth to chew

The chocolate, most delicious and so fine.

This nose to smell the springtime air,

As it wispily leaves the vine.

This neck,

To accept,

Kisses and caresses,

All the same.

These shoulders

To shoulder the gardening,

Creating life along the way.

These breasts create a line,

From me to my

Beloved and his stare.

My waist encompassed by those arms

Who really, truly care.

My hips contain my power,

Of life and femininity.

Those thighs that I wish smaller,

Have gotten me from sea to sea.

These old calves are

Not so bad,

But shaving them gets routine.

My feet, oh my woeful feet,

You can kiss them,

But not this week.

My heart,

I save the best for last,

It holds so many dear.

Although I may not express myself,

Hear me loud and clear.

84 years,

Almost a century,

Of life to give and share,

This body with the great wide world,

I’ll do it, if you dare.

Knowing that I love you all,

Sleep silently,

Knowing that I care,

And never for a minute dream

Of when you will not be here.

Leave that worry all to me,

I’ve seen it all before.

To me it’s just a path I’m on,

And I’ve just opened the great big door.

This is my one wish for you,

Life can be so unfair.

For I have people looking out for me,

Some white dove--down here, up there.

Oh No! I’ve lost my shoes again,

Radiation is a bear.

Part 2: A Room with a View, The 1986 Merchant-Ivory Film

2011-05-03T15:32:00.005-04:00

Lucy Honeychurch looking out over Florence from her "Room with a View"

Julian Sands as George Emerson

Yesterday's post talked about my revelation about how I came to my life at this point, all 42 long years of it. Today, I want to continue the conversation by telling you a little about my all-time favorite film, A Room with a View. This movie is about as true to the original novel as a two hour film can be. The cast is amazing and most of them have had noteworthy careers up until this point, although they may appear very young to our eyes 15 years later.

Daniel day Lewis as Cecil Vyse

Daniel Day Lewis plays the character of Cecil Vyse, the passionless, reserved fiance of Lucy. He reminds me of a cold impenetrable marble statue both in demeanor and personality. Daniel Day Lewis is spectacular in this role. Lucy Honeychurch is the main character whom the novel revolves around. She is played by Helena Bonham-Carter, whom we have seen more recently as the young Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother in The King's Speech. Lucy is as compassionate as Cecil is sneering, as soft as Cecil is hard. She is an accomplished pianist who, before she undergoes her trans-formative period, puts all her passion into her music. As Mr. Beebe, the clergyman in the church in Windy Corner (Lucy's home), states, "If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays-it will be very excited-both for us and for her." With this statement, we are offered a glimpse of what is to come as the film progresses and unfolds. Lucy's music exposes the real Lucy, the genuine side of her just waiting to come out and be known.

Julian Sands plays the character of George Emerson, "silent George", a man ignorant of propriety but not of happiness, nor Fate itself. Through clandestine meetings, Lucy and George begin to fall in love. George recognizes this, but Lucy refuses to acknowledge the feelings she has for George. George is both sultry and innocent at the same time. He is bold and unafraid to show his passion and to believe in what he feels.

Maggie Smith plays the bumbling and incorrigibly exhausting Charlotte Bartlett, chaperon to Lucy in their journey to Italy. The novel seems to pivot around Charlotte. She is at times antagonistic to the novel's ability to resolve itself, and at others, she gives the novel its momentum to come to a turning point. Judy Dench plays a minor role as Eleanor Lavish, the feisty lady novelist. We also see Rupert Graves as Freddy Honeychurch, Lucy's brother, and Simon Callow as Mr. Beebe.

The most important chapter of the novel is aptly named The Twelfth Chapter and this Merchant Ivory Production really does this chapter a good amount of justice. I think Forster had highlighted this particular chapter because it exhibits exactly what Forster is attempting to achieve with this novel. Freddy, and George meet here, along with Mr. Beebe, and all three decide to spend the afternoon at the "Sacred Lake", the village pond mostly secluded by all but those who happen to pass through the woods. The three men become naked and almost immediately natural, without any sign of civilization and polite society to hold them back. They throw their clothes around in play as to show that this is what they think of society and its trappings. I might also add this scene contains a shocking amount of male frontal nudity, which really is all right by me. There is too much female-centric nudity in film these days. I wanted to pull a quote from the novel that really fits with this scene:

Lucy and Cecil at the Sacred Lake

"I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? Today I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests, we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage...In this-not in other things-we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." I must add here, though, that this quote does not appear in the movie. In fact, much of Forster's language and idealism has been left out for what I would assume are time constraints.

Lucy and George in Florence

It is quite appropriate that Lucy and Cecil walk over to the Sacred Lake to escape from their engagement party. Cecil is a surreal, misplaced figure here-the marble statue placed inside the wilderness. Cecil is ill at ease here amidst the natural world and when they kiss, it is awkward, humorous, and his glasses get in the way. Pretty much a disaster! Not a very natural kiss to say the least. Not like the kiss that Lucy experienced with George in Florence. (It really doesn't get any better than that!) Cecil is unable to enter nature with Lucy, so they cannot be comrades. He won't allow for equality. He sees her as something to possess, to be had for show, for her beautiful "playing" on the piano. But, not for the passion of what she plays, for what it will tell others about his choice of a wife.

I love how James Ivory is able to exhibit this idea of nature and civilization clashing throughout this film. We see Cecil in one scene smoking inside the house gazing at Lucy who is running back from tennis, all flushed with the fresh air, exercise, and passionate feelings toward George. In another, Cecil is taking Lucy, her mother, and Charlotte for a walk past the Sacred Lake while the three men are playing naked. Now this is a hysterical scene! Cecil is not one of the "natural" men. He is "one of the ladies" trying to defend them from the men, clearing a path in the brush so they do not have to directly walk past the lake. In another scene, Cecil is annoyed by Freddy's humorous, very "middle class", singing at the piano, so is forced outside into the unknown natural world because he prefers this to being with the lower classes.

To conclude, I will leave you with another quote from the novel:

"Yes, we fight for more than Love or Pleasure, there is Truth. Truth counts, Truth does count."

The 1986 film version of A Room with a View is available for immediate viewing on Netflix. I hope you will consider my recommendation and watch it for yourself.

This film gets a perfect 5 stars from me.

How Did I Get Here?

2011-05-02T16:38:00.003-04:00

Life isn't about perfection, and I am telling you this from the position of a person going through treatments for breast cancer, so you have to believe I am sincere when I say this. In fact, I myself prefer life messy. It is not a sin to be human-to have, feelings, emotions, imperfections, humanity. We all struggle to survive in our own way, with our own individuals ideas of what true happiness is. We each run out of time, experience heartache, illness, and grief, feel distress, loneliness, and betrayal. To be human is to a be a being with the need to love and be loved in all its inevitable pain and emotional upheaval. But, we also need to be happy and without love, happiness is an impossibility. As happiness comes out of love, so Beauty comes out of happiness. Not just normal everyday beauty, but Beauty with an enormous capital "B".

The definition of "beauty" has been twisted over the years. Beauty is not what you see on the cover of Glamour magazine, in the make-up aisle, in the look of the "celebrity of the day", or even in the most beautiful woman/man in the world. It may be within this person, but Beauty, true Beauty, is not superficial. Beauty is something that you see within someone, through their actions, expressions, way of being. Beauty can also be seen between people, whether they are lovers, family, friends, or even strangers meeting for the first time. People who "fit" in some way. Beauty is in Nature-within its power, its synergy. Nature is true to itself and holds no airs or propriety. Beauty can also be created in art of any form. It just needs to be true and hold no pretense. So, when something is true to itself or him/herself, then Beauty can be found here. Perhaps it's true what Keats wrote in his poem "Ode on a Grecian Urn" from 1819:
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

I believe when we deny happiness and refuse to follow our heart where it leads us, we commit a true sin against ourselves and against Beauty. I have always felt this way, just not in a conscious way. More like a little seed inside of me waiting for the chance to sprout. In this, E. M. Forster was my water and sunshine. He helped me to understand this ideal Beauty, leading me away from superficiality. Somewhere around 1990, I happened to discover the 1986 film A Room with a View, completely by chance. It was playing on the television when I was living with my parents. My parents each had their own TV (actually they each had their own living room due to a general dislike of each other), but I do remember seeing this movie on my father's TV in my father's "room". In my youth, my father, in his own way, tried to introduce me to great literature. I remember him buying me a nice leather bound edition of Daphne du Maurier's Jamaica Inn and urging me to read it. I don't think I ever got past the first couple chapters. Actually, I probably should look up that book and read it with my more "adult" eyes and see what I think about it. I did love Rebecca, her more well-known novel. My father wasn't a huge reader of fiction, but he did have a library of books, more of a scientific bent to them though. He had many books on science, nature, and history, typical of a high school science teacher. I do think I remember seeing a little Dickens there, though. My father was a very unique individual, kind of an aloof intellectual, but with a very mercurial streak and a very physical bent. He loved sports and was always coaching one sport or another. As I grow older, I realize more and more how like him I have become (minus the sports). My temper does flair quite often, and I'm surrounded by the books that I love, just of a different sort.

From what I remember of high school, a public high school I might add, was that books and literature were things to be got through and completed, kind of like a chore. Hopefully, this has changed in public school today, but somehow I sense that it has not. So, my appreciation didn't blossom for a while. I was a true late bloomer in life. My happening on this film at the age of 22 was pure serendipity for me. It was one of the defining moments of my life. "A Room with a View" puts into both words and images my own thoughts and philosophical beliefs that I had held close all along. The film also gave me an appreciation for art, both good and bad, and art's power. It allowed my mind to open and expand, to include those people beyond my own scope and very limited society.

I ended up taking my first university level English course in the Fall of 1994. I had graduated in 1991 with a Bachelors degree in Clinical Laboratory Science and was working in a lab at the time, but knew that this was not my future as it was intended. My father had hoped that I would attend medical school, but unfortunately, my strengths did not lie in science and math. My grades were not med school worthy (a B average) and my emotional makeup was not condusive to getting up close and personal with the human body. In fact, the whole idea of having to take gross anatomy scared me away from most of the health fields available to the coursework I had already taken. I ended up in the laboratory when everything else had been ruled out. A great way to start a life.

I enrolled in a course called The Romantic Movement offered by the English department at the University of Buffalo. And I won't lie to you, it was tough. I read the poems of Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Coleridge with relish and to the best of my ability at the time, but could not write a proper English paper no matter how hard I tried. It would take years for me to try to do this, but I did and can and now find that I am actually really good at it. Who would have thought? As I am sitting down finalizing my coursework for the Fall to finally, at long last, complete my Masters degree in English, I realized something of profound importance. E. M. Forster opened the doors to a world I had never known existed. Those few moments in my four-decade-long life, watching cable on my father's massive medieval-style console TV, sitting on the burnt orange wall-to-wall carpet, were the beginnings of the biggest turning point of my life.

And I have Mr. Forster and his contribution to the great tradition of literature to thank for it.

Stay tuned tomorrow for more on the film A Room with a View, directed by James Ivory in 1986.

A Test of Patience: My Very Personal Journey Through Triple Negative Breast Cancer

2011-03-24T10:18:00.010-04:00

From everything you have heard about breast cancer, from the risk factors to treatment to prognosis, you are probably not getting the complete picture. There are many different types of breast cancer, and most women are lucky (well, if you could call anyone with cancer lucky) to get the most common form, estrogen positive breast cancer. This most common form coincides with all the typical risk factors, such as early menses, late childbirth, late menopause, hormone replacement, or anything that would increase your lifetime exposure to estrogen. Prognosis is good if caught relatively early (Stage 1 or 2) and there are all sorts of treatments available because it is easy (well, again, easy in the scope of breast cancer treatments) to reduce estrogen in the body.

With triple negative cancer, everything you thought was true now isn’t. This cancer has no hormone receptors, which means that we have no clue how it grows. We have only known about this cancer for a few years, but researchers are working frantically on trying to understand what exactly makes it grow and what risk factors are causing it. There are a few groups who have a tendency to get triple negative breast cancer: African Americans, Hispanics, Ashkenazi Jews, and young pre-menopausal women with positive BRCA mutations. Obesity has found to be something that triggers it, along with a high fat diet. A recent study was just published saying that those who have had no children have the lowest risk of developing triple negative breast cancer, while those who have had more than 3 children are at the highest risk. Pregnancy seems to spark the growth of this type of cancer. African American women have the highest death rates from breast cancer because they are getting more triple negative cancer, and since most African American women are less likely to get their yearly mammograms, their cancer is found too late, usually when a lump is found and at this point, it is much too late. It is a very sad fact for some women that they don’t have access to health care and must be made to suffer for it.

The main difference between triple negative and estrogen positive breast cancer is that triple negative is highly aggressive and is much more likely to metastasize, and it metastasizes fast, usually 1-3 years after diagnosis. Once it does metastasize, the patient is usually given only 9 months to live because it usually goes right to the bones. Estrogen positive breast cancers are less aggressive and take longer to metastasize, therefore most tumors would not need chemotherapy unless very large. Also, there is a drug called tamoxifen to hold it at bay. For triple negative breast cancer, there is no such drug. So, for those with tumors greater than 5 mm., chemotherapy would be considered in that chance that those metastasizing cells would take route somewhere far from the breast. Even so, chemotherapy is more effective in triple negative cancers, but not 100%. There are those who fall through the cracks, trying everything and ending up dying anyhow.

Good news is that there is a tidal wave of research being done right now on different markers, enzymes, and inhibitors that might play a role in its growth. Adding this to the increased emphasis on yearly mammograms and genetic testing, these tumors are found sooner, like in my case. Another good thing is that they are less likely to recur after 5 years, unlike its estrogen positive counterpart. So, once it is killed the first time, you are unlikely to see it ever again.

In my case, my tumor was found accidentally. When I had my yearly mammogram in December, they found some calcifications which are a warning sign of DCIS (Ductal Carcinoma In Situ), a form of breast cancer completely confined by the duct and not able to go anywhere else. I had my first lumpectomy in January to remove the area of DCIS and within this area, they found a 3 mm tumor. This never happens. Triple negative tumors are very rarely found this small because they would not be felt or seen on mammogram. I am so, so lucky and have found that there are not many women like me in the world (I’ve been going onto breast cancer discussion boards to reach out to anyone out there and have only found a handful). Plus, what is even more puzzling is that I am not Black, Hispanic, Jewish, and I did not test positive for genetic testing. The only risk factor I had was obesity. Since cancer is a great motivator, I have lost 30 pounds so far. My doctor wants me to get down to the bottom of my weight range, so I have at least 30 more to go-my own personal form of chemo. also, my diet should be no more than 20% fat, which is even harder ot accomplish than weight loss.
Well, the day I received my pathology results was the day I got on the worst rollercoaster ride in the world (and I usually love rollercoasters!). I went from having a Stage 0 breast cancer to a Stage 1a triple negative breast cancer. At first, I thought I would need chemo and mastectomy. I ordered up my wigs and hats and got ready. Then I was sent for a second opinion at a large cancer institute and found that chemo isn’t considered until the tumor is 6 mm, and they said I shouldn’t need a mastectomy. I quickly cancelled my surgery date, then had a third opinion to be sure.

So, here I am today. A week after my re-excision (which was completely pain free, by the way) and I am happy to say that my second pathology report says that there were no abnormal cells found! My surgeon explained to me that my body killed all the cancer cells that were left in the process of healing and inflammation from the surgery. So, I get to keep my breast and will be starting 7 weeks and 1 day radiation next week. I am getting off this crazy rollercoaster and am ready to get on with my life. My only hope is that I never have to look breast cancer in the eye again because if I do and it is triple negative breast cancer, it won’t be so easy the second time. That said, I will be welcoming my radiation treatments with open arms. I will rejoice in all of it, the burning, blistering, and fatigue and anything else that comes up, because I will know that those little bastards will burn, and burn, and burn. So, bring it on! I am ready.

By the way, there are all kinds of journeys and most are exciting and new. This is one journey I did not want to be on.

Sincerely yours,
The Wingchair Traveller

p.s. Just a note to those of you who are visiting my blog for the first time and are on your own journey through breast cancer. Please peruse my recent posts because there may be some things that I have written that will touch and inspire you as you go through all the emotion and turmoil that only cancer can bring us. Also, don't be afraid to comment on any of my posts to share your own stories. I'd love to hear them!

Me and My Shadow

2011-01-26T11:41:00.002-05:00

A shadow has passed over me lately, blocking my sun. That shadow has a name that we all dread to hear--cancer. This shadow isn't necessarily the shadow of death per se, but the presence of my own mortality coming to the forefront, becoming a real possibility. Most of us put our own mortality into a deep pocket inside our minds that we sometimes dare to open in rare moments of introspection, but most of the time, to most of us, time is boundless and, sadly, for most of us, true happiness is just out of reach, but always a possibility, to be achieved in the future, sometime.

When we are faced with our own mortality, happiness is something that we need to reach out and grab immediately. There is no time to wait and hope anymore. All those trivial things in life fall away. Even when observing everyone else going about their lives as usual, we stand by in disbelief about the truly petty concerns of others, like those unwanted wrinkles or those last stubborn five pounds. Within this passing shadow, a strong, clear light begins to shine on our lives-clarifying things, brightening things, exposing the truth behind all the fiction and unimportant concerns. My shadow has given me a sense of peace, a need for serenity. I appreciate things so much more now. I truly cherish my family and friends and love their unwavering presence at this time when I need them the most. I think twice before getting angry or annoyed now, or sinking into a state of passivity. The passionate, forward-moving side of me has been activated. Even writing now seems senseless, but of course only superficially, when there is so much more I could be accomplishing out in the world, people out there who need my help or guidance in some way. I now want to reach out and touch as many as I can.

I sometimes wonder if my cancer is just a side effect of my passivity-my inability to take action, to pay attention to my own power, my God-given potential and spirit, the power within my own body to be the best that I can be. To be honest, my own insecurities and anxieties have held me back in a way, so my life at home has become my safe haven away from potential hurt or fear. But, nice as it is to be at home away from the hustle and bustle of life, it has only given me the opportunity to hide within a shell of my own making. I've always believed I was merely simplifying life by leaving it to take care of my family, but my family really doesn't need that much care. My family needs ME--my presence, my energy, my potential, my strength, not my availability. It is time for me to move forward, get out into the big world, start breathing again. My cancer has woken me up from my reverie, enabling me to live a life of my dreams. Anything is possible now.

When I first found out that I have cancer, I thought, "Why me?". Now I see it as "Why not me?". I am human after all. And for someone who has never quite fit in, I now feel more a part of the human experience of striving and rising to our fullest potential. Life isn't about our own death. Let's face it. We don't get to witness the aftermath. Life is about what we do with our lives while we are here, right up until that last moment when we finally have to leave.

A Re-Posting of Some Poems from October

2011-01-14T09:25:00.005-05:00

I've been a little scared to write lately. And you'll see why when I re-post these poems written at the end of October, before I had any clue I had cancer. What it all means, I'm not sure, but this isn't the first time this has happened to me, both in my writing and in dreams that have turned out to be prophetic in someway. This first poem is called "Tell Me". Perhaps I was asking to be told about this cancer? Well, if I was, my prayers were answered..

Tell me that I can stay,

A little longer.

A life formed out of bits of thread and spilled blood

Is just a moment, a flash.

My creative clutter the only proof that I breathe.

Flesh plundered, compromised, sight unseen,

By one bad seed waiting,

For that slim circumstance

To strike and grow in a moment,

Interrupting a long-awaited dream.

We never know until we know,

We are not a given, even if we are forgiven.

I’d love to speak to that cell,

Lone invader of my own universe,

Travel the rivers and canyons of this divide,

Confront him and my swept-up fear.

To understand what he’s after,

Stealing my breath in order to live,

And perish with me.

I'd love to debrief that cell,

Make him squirm,

Will he have one noble reason?

Will I even comprehend why,

He means to use my body as his own,

Home Sweet Home,

For a little while?

I’d love to speak to that cell,

To tell him that I will stay,
And he will go,

It’s not up to him.

_________________________________________________

On Awareness: A Plea

Does tomorrow melt in your mouth,

Not in your hands,

Like Desire pulling you along by a taut, silken harness,

Only to nestle and caress you within the jaws of the famished world?

Do you tell your Prince to wake you later,

As you languishly linger within the folds

Of a sleep, unblemished by potion?

But, sooner than later, you will need those eyes open wide,

That breath strong and able,

Expanding and contracting for life.

Do you gaze across an open, fertile landscape,

Only to while away in longing,

For that noble Youth,

When all bitter Beauty has is these petals in her void?

All the while, the leaves rustle amongst us, calling out for Winter,

Awaiting to hear his step on the porch boards.

Do your dreams recall a listless longing,

Lying limp and open on the forest floor,

White flood rising from your cool gown,

A sad stream echoing your delirious sleep?

A cold wind blows, suddenly,

harsh and heavy upon your parched skin.

Shivering with eyes aflutter,

You think,

Perhaps, there is another way,

To conceive of this future,

Without falling through the cracks and chasms,

Of a life lived by another.

As you grasp the reins,

You navigate your way,

Slowly, ever so slowly,

Forward.

Latest News: The Good and the Bad

2011-01-10T09:51:00.000-05:00

So, which do you want first? Good news or bad news? Well, I always like to concentrate on the good, so I will start with that. I have been accepted into graduate school at the University of Buffalo. Yaaay! It has been something I have been working on for at least the last couple of years, and the effort finally paid off. I am not starting this spring as planned, though. I am pushing it back to the Fall due to my "bad news".

I have just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Yes, breast cancer at the age of 42. I have gotten over the shock of it all after three weeks or so of ruminating about it. I count myself as VERY lucky. They caught it on a routine mammogram with no symptoms and, although I won't know for sure until my lumpectomy, it is most probably Stage 0. In other words, it looks as though it is still confined and not spreading anywhere. They used to consider this a pre-cancerous tumor, but they have changed their approach and are now calling this cancer. I will either need radiation or a mastectomy. I am definitely feeling better about it all, thus I am now able to write about it. I will be having surgery next week and will know more then. I figured I needed to get this off my chest and explain to all my followers why I have been very absent lately. I was on a roll with my writing too! Oh well, sometimes life throws us curve balls and we just have to adapt and change accordingly.

I have a very important message to all of you out there. If you are a woman, get your mammograms as soon as you are able because they need to find the cancer BEFORE symptoms appear. That means every year after 40, or before 40 if you have cancer in your family. To the men, if you have a lady in your life, urge her to keep up with her mammograms as well. I am so thankful that I started mine at 39 and have been up on them every year. They found it as soon as they could. Please don't listen to the insurance companies' recommendations of starting after 50! They have ulterior motives. And, by the way, there is no breast cancer in my family, I am pretty darn healthy (never smoked and drink only occasionally), eat mostly organic and try to live as healthfully as possible.

So, now that I have that off my chest, I want you all to know that I am still here, working diligently on my diet and exercise routine, and plan to be a better person when all is said and done. Sometimes it takes a scare to force a person out of complaisance, and I see my cancer as a warning. I do know that what I have been doing with my blog is the right thing and I wish to continue in the future. I am also excited about returning to school and continuing my research on Austen, Gaskell, and Forster and the relationship of their writing to the architecture and decor of the time. If you don't see me much over the next few weeks, it's because I am busy with my health, but, count on it, I will return.

Wherever You Are...

2010-12-13T15:16:00.012-05:00

I hope you are enjoying the season. Up here in Upstate New York, winter has arrived. It is 10 degrees Fahrenheit and, if I must say, pretty darn nippy. But, contrary to popular belief about the blizzards of Buffalo, it really is truly beautiful, and hardly ever life threatening (unlike those tornadoes, mudslides, earthquakes etc. etc. found in other parts of the world).

Skating on Park Lake (Delaware Park), c. 1910.
Image from Private Collection

The snow was falling pretty heavily today. Not the kind that sticks to the road creating treacherous driving, but the white, fluffy stuff that just blows across the road and just looks so pretty. I had a miraculous moment this morning. What I can only describe as a "stag" crossed a suburban main road today directly in front of my car as I was driving. He was the biggest, most astounding deer I have ever seen! Just his antlers seemed as big as my car. Then, in a flash, he was gone.

I am sending these lyrics out to you in honor of winter moments like this, whether you are lucky enough to be basking in the sun, or have the great pleasure of a white winter wonderland. By the way, you can listen to this song as well, if you just scroll down to the bottom of my blog and find it at the beginning of my playlist. Happy Holidays and a Wonderful Winter to you All!

Snow by Loreena McKennitt

White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree
Falls down scarce audibly.

The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.

The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.

Save when at lonely intervals

Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runner and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;

The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne, echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far afield;

Then all is silent and the snow falls
Settling soft and slow
The evening deepens and the grey
Folds closer earth and sky
The world seems shrouded, far away.

Its noises sleep, and I as secret as
Yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream

At Home with the Georgians

2010-12-13T14:17:00.002-05:00

Finally, I believe I have returned from my very extended hiatus. I did not plan to be gone this long, but a brief illness had me unable to write, let alone think, for a little while, and of course, the holidays are in full swing and it is quite difficult to find the time to sit down at my laptop for longer than it takes to go through all my e-mails (which are a lot and mostly Christmas advertising). I wanted to come back with a bang, though, and I think I have found it!:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/i/wh6lz/

Click on the above link to view the new BBC series "At Home with the Georgians" hosted by Amanda Vickery. It is so spot on with my own research interests and is quite an enjoyable look at life, married and unmarried, during the Georgian period. We even get a privileged glimpse of Chawton Cottage, Jane Austen's home for many years and where she wrote most of her novels.

If, like me, you are not from the UK, you need to download Expat Shield in order to view this series. It will then think you are indeed an "expatriot", so you then, as a qualified Brit, would be allowed to view the show :). Happy viewing, and enjoy!
http://www.expatshield.com.

Brief Interruption...

2010-11-08T07:36:00.004-05:00

I know, I know...I'm on break and not supposed to post, but I wanted to announce a giveaway on Stephanie's Written Word blog. She is giving away three copies of The Distant Hours by Kate Morton. I am pretty excited about this book, since I loved her other book, The House at Riverton. Check out Stephanie's great review, also.

Good luck! Since there are three copies, I hope you win too! ;)

This Blog is Now Officially on Mini-Break

2010-11-06T11:09:00.002-04:00

I have to write this post because, if I do not, I'll keep just keep on posting when I should, instead, be working on my application to graduate school. For those of you who are interested, I am applying to an MA in Humanities program with a concentration in English and Art History. My tentative topic is: Jane Austen, Social and Gender History, and the Home. I am completely fascinated by the whole idea of marriage and the transfer of property in Jane Austen, and how the two intersect i.e. the woman being transferred as a sort of property in marriage. I would also like to contrast this with the attitude of Austen's female characters towards the home, in general, and what home itself means to them. Wish me luck, and I'll be back when I am finally done! ( p.s. I will still be commenting and checking my dashboard, so I won't be completely absent, just so you know. :) )

Culture Clash: In Pictures

2010-11-05T08:17:00.003-04:00

Italian "Camping" in style

Tristan adapted quite well to Italy- he's been speaking Italian since we returned home in July

A Child's Mask from Venice


Gentleman in traditional garb- Graz, Austria


Iced Coffee and "Macher" torte in Graz


A Whole Plate full of Meat!! Now how do I eat this?! My gall bladder is screaming right now...


Must Americans make a sandwich out of everything?


Rabbits in your own backyard? Visiting family in Hungary

Thermal spa in Hungary, or floating in a pond full of weeds!


Palenka! goes down pretty easily...


Hector, the family dog in Hungary-he was even part of the wedding procession until he got kicked out of church! Poor Hector...


Cool! Basketball in a Hungarian back yard


View from a Rest stop- Austria

Camping on Lake Garda


Pool at Camping with Afternoon Activity-locked in a see-through ball!


Ahhh! Una Siesta...


Finally a decent cappuccino! Lake Como

Risotto with shrimp and saffron- Bellagio


Jumping in Lake Garda with my Danish friends at camping.	Last day of the trip and oh so sad!

Viva Italia!


Buona Notte!

Feast Your Eyes on Graz, Austria

2010-11-04T07:59:00.001-04:00

Everything Austen II Challenge Wrap-Up

2010-11-03T10:20:00.002-04:00

Today, I'd like to wrap up the Everything Austen II challenge, so I can get on with the mini-break I will be taking, over the next week, or two. I'll be leaving my blog for a little while to tie up some loose ends at home and prepare my application to graduate school. I wanted to complete this challenge to the best of my ability at this point, and here are my results:

1. Lost in Austen mini-series-FINITO! 4 stars-see my review from Monday.
2. Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict-Laurie Viera Rigler-FINITO! 3 1/2 stars-see my review from Monday.
3. Pride and Prejudice-a re-reading and re-viewing of 1995 film-I will be reviewing below. 5 stars, of course!
4. Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart by Beth Pattillo FINITO! 2 1/2 stars
5. Attend my first JASNA regional meeting in Rochester, NY (I wish I could have gone to Portland this year, but I didn't want to miss Halloween with my son!!) FINITO! 4 1/2 stars
6. Finish reading Becoming Austen by Jon Spence-not very motivated at this point to finish, and not sure I will!

This has been a great challenge, all-in-all. It has definitely forced me, a person with not much patience for long term projects, to complete most, but, unfortunately, not all, my self-imposed tasks. For those of you who have read my review of Lost in Austen and Rude Awakenings, you know that I enjoyed both takes on the same theme: the interchange through some kind of time travel between the Regency era with our Modern one. I have read Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart by Beth Pattilo, but this didn't give me too much of an impression, so I won't review this one. It is more of a fun novel for leisurely reading, and I find these days, that I really prefer something more intellectually stimulating. Maybe at another point in my life, I will enjoy it more.

I did attend my first JASNA regional meeting in Rochester, NY this past month, and I was wowed! Not only by the fact that there is a such a place to celebrate Jane, but by the fact that there are people out there with such an incredible knowledge of Jane Austen, almost bordering on encyclopedic! One particular attendee claims to have all of her writing memorized, and she took the opportunity on many occasions to "show her stuff". What a resource she was!   Everyone was fully attentive, and the discussion was quite thorough and intense. We discussed the issue of money in Austen's novels, which is one of the most interesting aspects of her novels, in my opinion.   I am so glad I made the hour-long drive to attend and spend a couple hours immersed in Jane's writing.

So, there are two items left on my list. Becoming Jane by John Spence is still in the works, but, to be honest, I haven't touched it in a while. It is a slow moving , rather dry biography, and right now, I have so many other books keeping my attention. I do have until the end of the year, right? Well, one can only hope.

The last item then on my list is the combined reading and watching of Pride and Prejudice-both the original novel and the 1995 film, written by Andrew Davies. I have actually read the novel twice: once in the form of her traditional novel format and the other an annotated edition by David M. Shapard. I loved both re-reading the novel (I had read it a few times previously) and reading an annotated edition. I love Shapard's analysis of this novel, and it would be the book I give to someone who wants to read Austen, but never has before. I love some of his comments, and here is a good example:

Shapard gives us this note about Mr. Collin's proposal to Elizabeth:
pg. 199
            "It is significant that, amidst his lengthy explanations as to why he has decided to marry, Mr. Collins has said almost nothing in praise of Elizabeth herself; clearly she has little to do with his decision. All this makes his next sentence, speaking of his violent affection for her, especially ludicrous."

Yes, "especially ludicrous" would be a good term to use for Mr. Collins. He is always ludicrous and exasperating, and his proposal is him at his most foolish. He is such a buffoon!
I highly recommend Shapard's edition to anyone, whether you know Austen by heart, or have never heard of her before.

So, lastly, we come to the film, the most celebrated of all the P&P adaptations: the 1995 BBC film with a screenplay by the great Andrew Davies. I think the majority of us will concur that this is the definitive adaptation, and it would be extremely difficult to improve upon. I think one of the few criticisms I have heard about this film is the excessive masculine references added by Davies. Yes, of course, these parts were not in the novel. We see little of the male perspective in Austen's novels. In my opinion, a film does not need to follow the novel word-for-word. That is why it is called an adaptation for the screen. The novel must be adapted to fit the viewing audience, and I think seeing things from a male perspective is a wonderful addition, especially Darcy's personal perspective, which I highly enjoyed!

Another aspect I enjoyed about this particular film is the purely evil Mr. Wickham, played by Adrian Lukis. He is definitely the best Wickham I have seen: so slimy, duplicitous, a true cad, and a very bad human being. I feel sorry for the actor because he probably cannot get past this casting. We will always know him as that awful Mr. Wickham.

Mr. Bingley is also wonderfully cast. He is so incredibly positive and friendly, and I think this is who Austen had in mind. Lastly, and most importantly, the casting of Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle as Darcy and Elizabeth is iconic, and cannot be touched, by anyone, anywhere. The romance, the chemistry cannot be topped. It is amazing to me that they are not married in real life, but I guess that is the true power of acting.

I do love the visual quality of this film, from the costumes to the landscapes and buildings chosen, especially Pemberley, but as far as the set design, I would give Joe Wright's film higher regards. Wright's film is just amazingly rich and beautiful and the colors are exquisite. The music as well, in this film, is perfect and cannot be improved upon.

But, having said this, when it comes to a Jane Austen film, especially P&P, what really matters are the characters and how they deliver her witty lines, how they interact with each other and bring her story to life. So, I think that the 1995 film is the best and takes top honors, and prove me wrong, but it will always be the best ever made.

So, this is my wrap-up. I may have to add to it, but right now this is what I have to say. Happy Reading, Crafting, Viewing etc. Everyone!

Jane News from the Blogosphere

2010-11-02T08:38:00.007-04:00

Hot off the presses!
Laurel Ann from Austenprose posted today on her blog about Day 2 of the JASNA AGM. Sounds like she had a wonderful time! I would have liked to hear Stephanie Barron speak. I've never read her books, but she wrote an essay about writing that is the best I have ever read on the subject. She also posted about Day 1, so click here to read more. Oh, I am soo jealous!

Also, the blog Jane Austen Today compiled a list of all the first hand accounts out there. Click here for the post with links.

Finally, Laurie Viera Rigler, author of Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict, is having a giveaway. Visit her website janeaustenaddict.com for more info.

Happy Voting today! I know I for one cannot wait until this election is over and done with. I can't take these campaign ads anymore! Agggh!

And November Begins...

2010-11-01T13:14:00.006-04:00

As much as I look forward to Halloween every year, I am excited when it is finally over. The coming of November means that, finally, book-reading season is here. The weather starts to get pretty chilly (today in Buffalo it is 41 degrees, and there will be snow by the end of the week), sweaters and scarves come out, and the fire begins to blaze. What perfect moments await, snuggling in front of the fire with some great books! Time to catch a little bit of solitude before the crazy holiday season begins.

This week will be all about Jane Austen. I would like to write a little bit about each of the items on my Everything Austen II challenge list. I will also be honoring her by sharing anything I read out in the blogosphere about the Annual General Meeting in Portland that was held this weekend.

Today, I will be crossing two items off of my list: The Lost in Austen mini-series, combined with Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler.

I watched Lost in Austen on YouTube, in ten minute segments of course, with french subtitles. Quite an interesting way to watch it, but nevertheless, I was able to watch the whole thing in almost one piece. I found the series incredibly funny and an interesting take on Austen. When Amanda Price (played by Jemima Rooper) discovers a secret passage in her bathroom, she enters the fictional world of her favorite novel by Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice. As Amanda meets all the characters in this fictional realm in many hilarious situations, she notices the plot start to change. She spends the rest of the movie trying to fix these changes, so that the novel ends the way it was intended. So, as not to ruin it for anyone who hasn't seen it already, I won't say how all her machinations work out, but I will say it is a great series, and I highly recommend it for any of you avid Austen fans out there. 4 stars

I'd like to start out by giving you the context of my reading of Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict. I bought a paperback copy of the novel with the above cover in Toronto airport on the way to Venice. I proceeded to read it during my entire summer trip from Venice, to Hungary, to the Italian Lakes. I read it here and there, so I did not get much continuity from the novel. I do remember finishing it poolside on Lake Garda, and the ending of the novel will always bring me back to that particularly pleasant moment.

I did enjoy this novel and now believe I would have enjoyed it even more if read in one long sitting, or over a couple days. Since I didn't (I wanted to savor the book over the entire 2 1/2 weeks for my nightly read before bed. It is very difficult, to say the least, to find good English books in Italy.), my initial impression was lukewarm. But, looking back, it was a wonderful read. Actually these books had to have been pretty difficult for Rigler to write, and I admire her for writing them. And, I love that she attended my alma mater, the University of Buffalo! I learned this from a recent alumni newsletter.

The main character, Jane Mansfield, a gentleman's daughter living in 1813 England, awakens in the body of Courtney Stone in 21st century Los Angeles. Contrary to what most people say, the aspects of this novel I most enjoyed weren't the trials of Jane trying to adapt to our technologically advanced society. I loved how Jane Mansfield uses her own particular strengths and point of view from her own life in another century to succeed in our 21st. I think what is most important about Jane's time travel experience is her awareness of both her lack of choice in early 19th century England, and her abrupt awareness of having too many choices in our modern world. As Jane says herself, from pg. 265 of the novel, "I cannot deny that in the brief time I have been here, I have had more choices in a single day than I had in my entire life as a gentleman's daughter. Choices of everything from what I might wear and how I might spend my day to how I could earn my living. But the thing that I now know I want the most seems the farthest from my reach." And that "thing" turns out to be love. This novel proves to the reader that attaining love is difficult no matter who you are, or what era you live in, or come from.

I would next like to find Rigler's other novel to compare it to Lost in Austen, and to see if it is as great as Rude Awakenings. I give this one 3 1/2 stars after some reflection. Reading Rigler gives me some hope for any other novels out there who claim to be continuations of Austen. In my experience, there is a minefield of really bad books written using Austen's novels as a takeoff point, and I dread spending any money on them until I'm sure they will not disappoint me.

This was my first Everything Austen II review. More to come this week....

Did You Know? Some Fun Halloween Facts

2010-10-31T14:19:00.003-04:00

~John Keats was born on Halloween in 1795.

~The ancient Celts thought that spirits and ghosts roamed the countryside on Halloween night. They began wearing masks and costumes to avoid being recognized as human.

~The electric chair was invented by a dentist.

~If a candle flame turns blue, there is a ghost in the house, according to legend anyway.

~Bobbing for apples is thought to have originated from the roman harvest festival that honors Pamona, the goddess of fruit trees.

~Dracula, in Romanian, means 'the son of the devil'.

~The Native Americans believed that the owl escorted the dead to the spirit world.

Trick-or-Treating at the Amherst Museum

2010-10-30T13:44:00.004-04:00

Friday night, we had the privilege of attending the Halloween event at the Amherst Museum in Amherst, New York. The Amherst Museum is a museum complex set up like a 19th century village of 12 historic buildings, moved from their original site. These include homes, one-room schoolhouses, a barbershop, and a church. Each building had its own stop on the trick-or-treat trail, and they really decked them out in all the Halloween finery! One of the schoolhouses was set up for "Eternal Detention", filled with the skeletons of students who had been there for "ages". Also, there was Zombie Detection school for training in defeating zombies, and the "Undecorated" Show house, filled to the brim with deconstruction advice. The hanging skeleton barnyard was a place to store any unused skeletons and their parts. There were zombies in the barber chairs, as well as a place to buy your ghoulish goods, such as eyeballs and lizard tongues. It was great fun. Now, on to the real deal, tomorrow night!

November Schedule

2010-10-29T09:38:00.003-04:00

Week 1:

Since I will not be attending the 2010 General Meeting of The Jane Austen Society of North America (I am so bummed!), this next week will be dedicated to Jane herself. I will be wrapping up my Everything Austen II challenge with some posts on my challenges, sharing what I have seen on other blogs of what the Portland meeting holds in store, and anything else that strikes my fancy as the week progresses.

Already, the blog The Little White Attic has a post on Day One of the meeting. Click here to read about it.

She even gives us a glimpse of her own dress for the ball (Oh I wish I were going!)

Week 2:

I will be working on my application to grad school this week, so I might not post very much. Bear with me. I will soon return.

Brueghel's The Harvesters from 1565

Week 3:

From the beginning of Week 3 until Thanksgiving, I will be posting about Thanksgiving and the harvest, in literature, film, and the home.

Happy, happy Halloween weekend, and I'll see you on Monday!

The Man Who Watched Me Sleep

2010-10-29T08:49:00.014-04:00

The man who watched me sleep (click to read)

This morning, I discovered this article from salon.com.

Finally, a logical cause of my nighttime hallucinations: sleep paralysis. I'm not insane! I've been dealing with these things for years. Men at the side of my bed, toddlers trying to climb up on the mattress, and, for those who read my "Continental" article, sometimes the devil have been in my room (doesn't matter where I live) for for as long as I can remember. Just recently, I had a remote control car, all lit up, driving around the ceiling with sounds and everything! I usually wake up my husband, completely terrified, to check with him whether someone, or something, is really there. He is pretty used to it by now, and it is actually pretty funny in the morning, but never, ever, while it is happening.

A couple years ago, I told my mother about the man that was always in my room at night. She was convinced he was a ghost and told me to tell him to leave me alone and go into the light. Surprisingly, that man really didn't come back again, but others have. Although I was skeptical, I kind of believed that he was a ghost, and that our house was most likely haunted. But I really didn't think much about it, since I had stopped seeing that particular scary presence. Thank goodness.

Just thought I'd share my own, very real, spooky experience.

Enjoy all the Halloween festivities this weekend. Just make sure no one is watching...:0 And, if you happen to encounter any ghosts or ghouls along the way, hope you too find some kind of logical explanation for them.

As for me, I will just play "Dawn" from the movie Pride and Prejudice with Kiera Knightley (#2 on my playlist), and pretend it is already morning.

Painting above: The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli (1781)

What Will You Be For Halloween?

2010-10-28T12:38:00.008-04:00

This painting is called "Sirin Bird on a Grape Tree" from 1710

Suggested musical pairing:
"Prospero's Speech"
"Penelope's Song"
"Marrakesh Night Market"
"All Souls Night"
"The Old Ways" (#35 on my playlist)
all by Loreena McKennitt
scroll to bottom of play list for the rest of the songs

I myself have been researching my own costume for the past couple weeks. I have a pair of black wings and some birdlike make-up stencils, so I wanted to transform myself into a combination of woman and bird, somehow. If I had to choose an animal to become, it would be a bird because there would be nothing better than having the ability to fly. So, of course, I had to start googling to find out if there was such a creature. When I put in a search for half bird, half woman, I came up with "sirin" which is the Russian form of the traditional Greek siren. And, this is what Wikipedia had to say about sirins: Sirin is a mythological creature of Russian legend with the head and chest of a beautiful woman and the body of a bird (usually an owl). According to myth, the Sirins lived "in Indian lands" near Eden or around the Euphrates River.

These half-women half-birds are directly based on the Greek myths and later folklore about sirens.They were usually portrayed wearing a crown or with a nimbus. Sirins sang beautiful songs to the saints, foretelling future joys. For mortals, however, the birds were dangerous. Men who heard them would forget everything on earth, follow them, and ultimately die. People would attempt to save themselves from Sirins by shooting cannons, ringing bells and making other loud noises to scare the bird off. Later (17-18th century), the image of Sirins changed and they started to symbolize world harmony (as they live near paradise). People in those times believed only really happy people could hear a Sirin, while only very few could see one because she is as fast and difficult to catch as human happiness. She symbolizes eternal joy and heavenly happiness.

The legend of Sirin might have been introduced to Kievan Rus by Persian merchants in the 8th-9th century. In the cities of Chersonesos and Kiev they are often found on pottery, golden pendants, even on the borders of Gospel books of tenth-twelfth centuries. Pomors often depicted Sirins on the illustrations in the Book of Genesis as birds sitting in paradise trees.

Sometimes Sirins are seen as a metaphor for God's word going into the soul of a man. Sometimes they are seen as a metaphor of heretics tempting the weak. Sometimes Sirins were considered equivalent to the Polish Wila. In Russian folklore, Sirin was mixed with the revered religious writer Saint Ephrem the Syrian. Thus, peasant lyrists such as Nikolay Klyuev often used Sirins as a synonym for poet.

How appropriate! "Sirin" as a synonym for "poet". I am definitely onto something here...

I guess I'll have to also research the Polish "Wila":

This is taken from Monsterpedia:

In Polish mythology, the Wila (VEE-lah) are reputed in Poland to be female fairy-like spirits who live in the wilderness and sometimes clouds. They were believed to be the spirits of women who had been frivolous in their lifetimes and now floated between here and the afterlife. They sometimes appear as the swans, snakes, horses, falcons, or wolves that they can shapeshift into but usually appear as beautiful maidens, naked or dressed in white with long flowing hair.

It is said that if even one of these hairs is plucked, the Wila will die, or be forced to change back to her true shape. A human may gain the control of a Wila by stealing feathers from her wings. Once she gets them back, however, she will disappear.

The voices of the Wila are as beautiful as they are, and one who hears them loses all thoughts of food, drink or sleep, sometimes for days. Despite their feminine charms, however, the Wila are fierce warriors. The earth is said to shake when they do battle. They have healing and prophetic powers and are sometimes willing to help mankind. Other times they lure young men to dance with them, which according to their mood can be a very good or very bad thing for the lad. They ride on horses or deer when they hunt with their bows and arrows and will kill any man who defies them or breaks his word. Fairy rings of deep thick grass are left where they have danced which should never be trod upon (bad luck).

Offerings for Wila consist of round cakes, ribbons, fresh fruits and vegetables or flowers left at sacred trees and wells and at fairy caves.

Well, I don't plan on being naked this Halloween (don't want to scare the kids too much), or wearing white (I will probably be in mostly black to match my wings), but offer me round cakes, ribbons, and flowers, and I may change my mind.;)

Happy Halloween Everyone! May your evening be as mystical as mine...

Despair by H.P Lovecraft

2010-10-27T09:03:00.006-04:00

Now, is this a perfect Halloween poem, or what?
Suggested musical pairing: Spem in Allium by Thomas Tallis
Help, I'm Alive by Metric, Haunted When the Minutes Drag by Love and Rockets

Despair by H.P. Lovecraft

Despair O’er the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro’ the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking;
Damn’d daemons of despair.

Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quench’d my youth’s aspiring ember,
Liv’d there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Gold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learn’d it all was dreaming —
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.

But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing —
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrel’s whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.

Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.

Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.

Look What $16 Can Buy!

2010-10-27T07:59:00.004-04:00

Just thought I'd share a story of my good fortune this weekend. I attended the Kenmore Village Library book sale on Friday, and look what I found! My son Tristan and I have already delved into reading some of these! (btw, 50 cents for paperbacks, $1.00 for hard covers, can't beat that!)

Toujours Provence by Peter Mayle
Summer by Edith Wharton
The Oysters of Locmariaquer by Eleanor Clark
The Reader by Bernhard Schlink
The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Jane Fowler
Travelling Mercies by Anne Lamott
Wessex Tales by Thomas Hardy
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (never had a paperback)
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
The Portrait by Iain Pears
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
French Women Don't Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano
Middlemarch, Silas Marner, Amos Barton by George Eliot
The Tale of Jemima Puddle Duck
The Tale of Tom Kitten
The Tale of Benjamin Bunny
The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter
(one can never have too many of these!)
Frog and Toad Together by Arnold Lobel
Trick or Treat Faces by Judith Moffatt (glow in the dark)
Abridged The Phantom of the Opera-retold from Gaston
Leroux (Tristan has been held entranced by this book every night since I bought it!)
Are there any of your favorites here, or any to recommend? I'd love to know...

The True Halloween Experience: The Continental

2010-10-27T07:26:00.020-04:00

photo courtesy of The Continental Facebook page-the existence of which tells all!

For the following, my suggested musical pairing would be "Every day is Halloween" by Ministry, "Dig It" by Skinny Puppy and "Lucretia, My Reflection" by Sisters of Mercy. Just scroll down to my play list at the bottom of my blog, and then scroll down to the last songs.

The Continental nightclub in downtown Buffalo, New York was a place where you could live Halloween, any weekend night of the year. The nightclub had a first floor, where the indie bands of the time played, a second floor, where the cool people danced, and an outdoor courtyard in back, where there was a lot of marijuana aromatherapy, bat watching, and, if you were lucky, good old fashioned making out. You were never really quite sure what was going on out back.

For those of you from good ol' Buffalo, and old enough to remember, the Continental was quite the unique place. As we used to say, one is either a tourist merely there to watch the unique goings-on of the crowd, or a regular part of the crowd, which was the cool, and only, way to be. Needless to say, the regulars despised the tourists. Nowadays, we would call it a goth bar, but back in the 80's, I'm not even sure if that phrase was coined yet. It was a ritual getting ready to go out on those Friday and Saturday nights. I think we must have owned stock in black eyeliner and white make-up. And, lest we forget, we never wore anything but black.

The Continental night club is now defunct. It closed a few years ago after changing a few hands and the popularity died out, or as I like to say, the patrons grew up and moved on. But, in it's heyday, it was THE place to be, if you were interested in breaking into the alternative music scene, or, in the early days, punk scene. I remember we were friendly with a couple of guys who seemed to play every weekend in their band. They were known to us as Johnny and Robby (my friend Kim had an ongoing flirtation with Johnny). Nowadays, everyone knows them as Johnny Rzeznik and Robby Takac and their world famous band, The Goo Goo Dolls. We just knew them as that blond good looking guy, and his short friend.

I pretty much did my "growing up" at The Continental. I starting going there around 1986 or so, around the time I entered college and got my first car, a 1976 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale, medium blue with a white vinyl top. And, boy, was I proud of that car! My best friend at the time, Kim, and I would arrive early, just after dark. We would park in the parking ramp across the street, so we could spy the door to check when our favorite bouncer would arrive (I don't remember his name, but he was quite large, African American, and completely bald). When he did, we made our move. Copies of our birth certificates in hand, the date changed to protect the innocent, we made a run for it before he left the door and someone else took his place. Although I really don't think we were ever thrown out, and I look back now and laugh at how we would get so nervous about it. I mean, come on, we were 18 years old and quite pretty, and the Continental was a DIVE. Why wouldn't they let us in?!

We never really got into too much trouble back then. I only remember a handful of nights when we drank too much, usually Kim more than me because I was driving. I do recall a night in the bathroom, Kim just a pile of skirts and combat boots lying on the grime-encrusted bathroom floor. I believe that was also the night I dropped her off on the front lawn of her house, literally on the front lawn passed out. It was a "Sixteen Candles" moment. Kim was the one with the midnight curfew, too! I don't think things even got started at the Continental until midnight. That's when all the freaks come out, after all.

I wrote a little story, a sort of memoir, a few years back, in September 2007. It is about a night that will remain ingrained in my memory, and it is perfect for this Halloween time of year. And, here it is:

The Continental

I moved up to the bar, self-aware and hesitant, to order our usual first drinks of the night. This decision was usually made after 15-20 minutes of commiseration about who was at the bar, which bartender was there, and how much tip did we really need to leave. I remember those drinks, Blue Hawaiians, and how they actually glowed in the dim, reddish light of the Continental. I also remember the smell of the place before the evening got under way, the smell of sticky drinks, old cigarettes, Kim's perfume (Lauren by Ralph Lauren) and lots of leather in various states of decay.

The Continental was our haven, our shelter. Our elders expected something totally different of what a teenager should do and be. Kim's parents believed that at 19, she was still a child and should be locked away like Fiona in her dragon-guarded castle. My parents expected perfection, but never gave me any rules or guidelines in which to plan my life, leaving me floating around aimlessly, which I did for years. But, I was always the responsible one. Go figure.

So, every Friday and Saturday, like clockwork, we would enter our dreamlike state through a combination of alcohol (buy one get one), dim lighting, and very shady characters at our place of choice. Little did we know, it would form our future, our personalities, and our social life for years to come. (Well, at least mine. I lost touch with Kim after college. Last I heard, she had married quite young and has twin boys.). For me, the Continental formed my imagination, heightened my creativity, even to this day.

One night in particular, I swear to God, I'm sure, I met the devil. He was one of those few standing at the bar, earlier in the night, as the first band was playing. It was one of those nights that we did our commiserating at "the mushroom" (a spool-shaped bar table), but that particular night, it was so smoky, I almost couldn't breathe. When I decided to finally walk up to the bar, I walked up beside him. He turned to me and shook my hand. Somehow, with this handshake, he left red marks on my palm from his long, black fingernails. And, his hair, how can I possibly describe it? It was a wild mass of dreadlocks, but different. They were more like long strips of black tattered rags. It was almost as if he shaved his scalp between the rags. He seemed to appear like a demon from an angst-ridden teenager's wild imaginary drawings. His voice was a scathing whisper that still resonates with me still to this day, more than 20 years later.

I saw him in my bedroom later on. I'm not sure if it was days or months later. I just know that I saw him, and he seemed real, yet wasn't. I saw him twice in one of the hallucinatory nighttime visions I have been having all my life. He sat in the corner of my bedroom at my parent's house, quietly, but unmistakeably him. Clear as a bell, him.

I sometimes look back at this time in my life in disbelief. The girl from a mostly Polish-Catholic Cheektowaga, New York who thought she wanted to be a forensic scientist, but somehow, through life experience, realized it wasn't science that grabbed her soul. It was the unknown, that which we will never know, the spirits that still lurk within the walls of that place on Franklin Street, the spirits that lurk within our minds just dying to come out into the great world. The Continental was the essence of emotional inspiration, proof of the slippery slope of humanity.

"In a Bind", My Feeble Attempt at Flash Fiction, Freshly Rewritten

2010-10-26T11:05:00.017-04:00

Since I seemed to have been writing with an unconscious emphasis on Halloween this week, I decided to pick up this old story and rewrite it using my recent inspiration as a guide.

For an extra bit of atmosphere while reading my recent posts, may I suggest that you scroll down to my play list and find "Lullaby" by The Cure? Enjoy!:

The key rests lightly on the tartan scarf I had worn yesterday evening. They both seemed to have been placed gently, patiently, there by someone who cared whether they stayed on the hall table, or tumbled down onto the slick, marble floor below.

This key alone knows the truth, the whole truth. It knows that someone had tried to kill me last night in my bed, but to no avail. The key knows the time, the place, and the M.O., and it, alone, knows the man himself, intimately.

Apparently and interestingly, he arrived late for dinner, just after 7:30 and left at 2:30 am, but not in a rush. All clues lead us to this determination.

I lay breathless, in a limp heap on my bed, but still full of life a short time after 2:30. I then rose, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water to quench my parched thirst. I saw then, out of the corner of my eye, the key and the scarf on the hall table, both lifeless, but present. The scarf is the same that I had purposely draped around my neck earlier in the evening, and the same used as a reluctant accessory to attempted murder.

My first impulse was, after presumably slipping on gloves, to place them both in a plastic bag as evidence, but I let them be, their presence as proof of the crime. Suddenly, the phone rings, startling me, and I jump, my heart pounding. A lone raven caws in the yard. I let the machine pick up the call as I quickly close the rear window in the bedroom, fearing invasion by another intruder.

"Hi. You've reached Rachel. I am unable to come to the phone right now, but if you please leave a message, I'll return your call as soon as I can." Beep...."Hi, uhh, Rachel, are you there? Just wanted to call to say thanks for the pleasant evening [pause]... by the way, you didn't happen to find a skeleton key there by chance? It's the key to my coat closet. Don't mean to put you in a bind, so I'll just stop by later this afternoon. Also,(he chuckles) will you wear that scarf on our next date? I had a fantastic time..." Beep....

Perhaps this tape will only confuse investigators. I press "ERASE" quickly, before the machine stops, and get back to my water.

On Awareness: A Plea

2010-10-25T16:35:00.009-04:00

Scarecrow Most Eerie
(photo taken at the organic farm of a friend)

On Awareness: A Plea

Does tomorrow melt in your mouth,

Not in your hands,

Like Desire pulling you along by a taut, silken harness,

Only to nestle and caress you within the jaws of the famished world?

Do you tell your Prince to wake you later,

As you languishly linger within the folds

Of a sleep, unblemished by potion?

But, sooner than later, you will need those eyes open wide,

That breath strong and able,

Expanding and contracting for life.

Do you gaze across an open, fertile landscape,

Only to while away in longing,

For that noble Youth,

When all bitter Beauty has is these petals in her void?

All the while, the leaves rustle amongst us, calling out for Winter,

Awaiting to hear his step on the porch boards.

Do your dreams recall a listless longing,

Lying limp and open on the forest floor,

White flood rising from your cool gown,

A sad stream echoing your delirious sleep?

A cold wind blows, suddenly,

harsh and heavy upon your parched skin.

Shivering with eyes aflutter,

You think,

Perhaps, there is another way,

To conceive of this future,

Without falling through the cracks and chasms,

Of a life lived by another.

As you grasp the reins,

You navigate your way,

Slowly, ever so slowly,

Forward.

Tell Me by Susan Harris-Gamard

2010-10-25T09:34:00.011-04:00

Tell me that I can stay,

A little longer.

A life formed out of bits of thread and spilled blood

Is just a moment, a flash.

My creative clutter the only proof that I breathe.

Flesh plundered, compromised, sight unseen,

By one bad seed waiting,

For that slim circumstance

To strike and grow in a moment,

Interrupting a long-awaited dream.

We never know until we know,

We are not a given, even if we are forgiven.

I’d love to speak to that cell,

Lone invader of my own universe,

Travel the rivers and canyons of this divide,

Confront him and my swept-up fear.

To understand what he’s after,

Stealing my breath in order to live,

And perish with me.

I'd love to debrief that cell,

Make him squirm,

Will he have one noble reason?

Will I even comprehend why,

He means to use my body as his own,

Home Sweet Home,

For a little while?

I’d love to speak to that cell,

To tell him that I will stay,

A little longer.

It’s not up to him.

Writer's Block Officially Over!!

2010-10-25T09:25:00.003-04:00

And I am ecstatic! With the writing of two poems last week, my "fallow" period seems to have come to an end. Although I have been keeping my blog going with book reviews and such, my creative writing seemed to have been stifled over the last few months. I wasn't sure whether this was my usual drifting away out of disinterest or a true writer's block, but last week I had quite the flow of creativity. I am still doing a very grueling rewriting of one of the poems, but the other I will post separately today.

What seemed to compel me to start writing again was my goal of reading more, especially the blogs that I follow on my dashboard. These blogs have been exposing me to the current zeitgeist, both in fiction and literary non-fiction. My interest has been sparked in a few areas, especially food and travel writing and combining literature and the home in a holistic way.

So, look for more from me. I may be posting less, but what I post will be much more extensive and well-thought out.

Patty Berglund, Just Another Bored Housewife?: A Review of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom

2010-10-18T10:35:00.017-04:00

SPOILER ALERT!!!
"Is it raining, my love?" "Yes, my love. And I am bored to death with it. Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with my self." "What was that, my love?"."Nothing...of consequence. Nothing."

These words were spoken by Lady Dedlock and Sir Leceister in the 2005 BBC film series of Bleak House. Lady Dedlock is married to Sir Leceister, a very conservative baronet, much older than herself. She lives in the lap of luxury with everything taken care of for her, but seemingly her life is far from perfect.

"Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine." Bleak House, pg. 170.

We learn to find out, as the novel progresses that there is a reason for this boredom. It is not boredom per se, but more like an inert anxiety over a secret kept from everyone, something that happened before her marriage, something that could destroy "her shrine" and cause everything to fall apart around her. I don't wish to reveal the secret for those who have not read Bleak House (and it really is not relevant to this review), but suffice it to say that boredom is only a symptom, not the heart of the problem. If you have experienced this feeling of "inert anxiety", you know what I am speaking of: a feeling of being frozen, unable to move or take action, almost like one is tied up in a tight knot.

We see another example of "the bored housewife" in the novel Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, but we see a different sort of woman, a kind of villainous victim, or victimized villain, however you wish to see it
"But she was full of hungers, rage, and hate. That gown with its straight folds concealed a heart in turmoil, and those reticent lips did not tell of its torments. She was in love with Leon, and she desired solitude in order to be able more conveniently to delight in her image of him...The exasperating thing to her was that Charles had not the air of suspecting her anguish. His conviction that he was making her happy seemed a witless insult; and his sense of security a further ingratitude. For whose sake was she being virtuous? Wasn't it for him, the obstacle of all felicity, the cause of all misery, and in a way, the sharp-pronged buckle of the strap that was lashed about her?" pg. 94-95, Madame Bovary.

Emma Bovary is part of a long tradition in literature of woman who have been taken away at a young age in order to be married to someone of whom only her family approves. These men are usually too old, too boring, too abusive, lacking affection and/or a sense of equality, or too neglectful to live up to the fantasies of love in a young girl's heart. As Emma ponders, "And Emma wondered just what it meant, in real life, by the words felicity, passion, and intoxication, which had seemed to her so beautiful in books." (pg. 30) As we usually see in this case, Emma jumps out of the frying pan into the fire. Leon is just another man who is only willing to categorize her, only this time as the married mistress to be kept in private, out of the public eye. She starts to buy many pretty things in order to impress him and win him over so that he takes her away from her unhappy marriage. Sadly, she merely realizes that she cannot escape her gender, and becomes a lesser sort of person by trying. Emma steals from and is unfaithful to her hard-working husband. Her whole life becomes a lie, and she is split into two in order to keep the lie going.

My theory is that Jonathan Franzen is giving us a modern day Emma Bovary in the guise of Patty Berglund, in his new novel Freedom. Seemingly, in our very modern, contemporary society, you would think that a woman could never be compared to Emma Bovary. Our American marriages are no longer arranged, except for some first generation immigrants who are still keeping up traditions. Woman are free now, both sexually and financially, and are considered equal in society. As Frantzen begins his own commentary on what it means to have freedom in America today, he bases his story on a central character named Patty who lives a life just as entangled and just as self-destructive as Emma Bovary herself. Patty has the ability to make her own choices, marry, or not marry, whom she chooses. We see the other characters as satellites circling around Patty having a kind of gravitational pull on her choices and her actions. And choices she makes, as we will soon see.

The story begins with an outsider's view of the Berglunds. "There had always been something not quite right about the Berglunds" seems to be the mantra of the beginning chapters of the novel. The Berglunds were the young pioneers of Ramsey Hill, a neighborhood of St. Paul, Minnesota. when they first moved there after marriage, it was run down and unsafe, but they stayed the course, raising two children, Joey and Jessica, and fixing up their dilapidated Victorian, bought for a song. The biggest complaint from the neighbors was that Walter was too nice and that Patty was too smug and needed a full time job to keep her occupied. She never spoke bad of anyone. If anyone tried to gossip about the "not quite right" goings on of her neighbor Carol Monaghan, her response always was that is was just "weird". Patty doted too much on her son, and not enough on her daughter. She placed too much emphasis on her house and the small world of her little family. Her extended family was never mentioned. There was never a visit from out of town guests (her husband's family is from Minnesota), so little was known of Patty's past.

The reader does learn of it when reading Patty's Autobiography "Mistakes were Made", however. We get an up close and personal glimpse into Patty's past. Her mother was a very liberal career politician, and her father a successful attorney who spends many nights working on pro bono cases. Her parents like to keep up appearances, which is quite ironic given their liberal views. Her father admits that within the pro bono cases, everyone involved is pretty much a liar. So, her family is all about looking good in the public eye with no thought to what goes on in private. The reader learns she also has a dirty old man for a grandpa (see gives us a visual of him bouncing Patty on his thigh for pleasure). He is a very wealthy man with an ancestral mansion who sees it as a right to be eccentric as long as he looks good in the public eye. He is also notoriously tight-fisted, and while Patty's siblings loved to rebel against this by making impossible demands, Patty decides to just ignore it all by just caring only for sports, something in which her family have absolutely no interest and completely ignore Patty from then on. Well, until of course she was raped by Ethan Post, son of the high society "Posts" who were very influential for Patty's parents. So, of course, they swept the rape completely under the rug, even though Patty seemed completely devastated to anyone who got close enough to look, which her parents completely didn't. Between her dirty old man grandfather, the rape that was completely ignored, her ineffective father, is it any wonder she would choose athletic prowess over something more traditionally feminine? Sports were her escape from being the powerless woman. And it worked for awhile, until she hurt her leg. Then along comes Walter to save her from herself, and thus begins her 20+ year journey to discover a place where she can be free.

It's interesting to note that the two men in her life, Walter and Richard, are like soul mates. It's actually alluded to in the novel. Put them together and you would get a perfect man, or Joey, Patty's son (I will discuss this a little further along). Walter is one side of the spectrum: a lifelong tee-totaler, he always sees women as "victims" of society, the forever defender of those unfortunate beings among us. Richard is the other side. While he respects Patty as a woman and as a sexual, powerful being, he still is drawn into throwing her aside after a period of time. Richard has the inability to keep women for any period of time. The only person he keeps around is Walter, whom he is forever in competition against. Richard is the true artist, the creator, the reactionist against the status quo, but as Richard says so himself, being an artist, he is only advancing the progress of consumerism along. Walter blindly does the same while trying to save a species of bird. The difference being Richard realizes what his work has done, Walter merely does whatever he has to do to get to the desired result.

At the "very young in our day" age of twenty-three, Patty marries Walter. She leaves her family in New York to join Walter and his family in Minnesota. Her main goal in life at this point was to have babies, which is one thing Patty was good at. Patty seems to choose Walter because he is at the "nice" end of the male spectrum. He will never abuse her and always be respectful, and he understands the things she has been through. Patty needs an escape from what she knows: her past, her family, her life before Walter. Like a pioneer discovering a new country, she creates her own world in the old Victorian in St. Paul. Her house was her domain in which she can play out her own utopia: raise a son who was different from all the other stereotypical men out there, raise a daughter who will be a woman no matter what she does, so don't put much effort into it. Her utopia was a perfect little bird cage keeping her family safe and away from the apathetic public eye, until, of course, the little bird cage started to fall apart. Joey moves out to live with Connie, the quiet, unassuming girl next door. His sexual drive leads him to leave, in Patty's eyes. She felt she failed him by not separating him from the inevitability of male sexual desire and the defiling of women.

Patty moves up to Nameless Lake, and lets the Ramsey Hill house remain empty, the garden go to seed. She tries to create another place of refuge, but this time with Richard. Walter had disappointed her over the years, always seeing her as "the victim" and working long hours for the Nature Conservancy, never spending a minute with Patty as equals. Patty starts drinking, they move to a townhouse in Washington D.C., she is unfaithful to Walter with Richard (although Walter was just about to be unfaithful to Patty with his new first generation Indian assistant Lalitha). The townhouse is no longer Patty's world: it is Lalitha and Walter's (Lalitha lives upstairs). Nameless Lake is no longer the perfect utopia because Richard called off the affair due to his feeling disloyal to Walter. Walter finds out about the affair through Richard giving him Patty's autobiography. Walter breaks it off with Patty and is unforgiving. In fact, how could he ever forgive "poor Patty" who suddenly becomes this powerful "adulteress Patty"? Such a betrayal! He then continues where he left off and begins his own affair with Lalitha, who ironically is Indian, and in her own culture would probably be married off in the "traditional way", unlike Patty.

Through all this breaking off and chaos, Patty in the mean time is finally beginning to find herself. She gets a job as a receptionist at the local gym, starts to buy new clothes, cuts her hair, and looks like the beautiful Patty that she used to be. Patty does not do this to impress any man, though. Unlike Emma Bovary, she improves herself for herself, more for a message to Walter that she is strong. When Walter throws her out, she lives with Richard but only for as long as he'll have her. Walter in the mean time moves to Nameless Lake and becomes an eccentric psycho. His girlfriend Lalitha is dead. He worries about the birds being killed by neighborhood cats, resulting in his sending one cat to the animal shelter.

While Patty has become strong, and Walter has become psycho, they both realize that they love each other after all. Through all the chaos, destruction, betrayal, departures, they come back together again. Walter renames Nameless Lake after Lalitha and turns it into a bird sanctuary. This is where the birdcage references come in for me. Patty doesn't need her birdcage anymore. She is ready to live in the world. Walter and Patty leave Nameless Lake to the birds and the spirit of Lalitha, two symbols: the first, unspoiled America and its real natives and the second, the possibilities and idealism of the America dream.

Walter's grandfather originally came from Sweden to America. I cannot find the quotations right now, but Frantzen writes that it was more a defect in genetics that originally led Europeans to travel to America. A whole country was founded on a genetic defect: the gene responsible for getting along with others. People that came here could not get along with the people of their own country, so they came here to create a place where they could get along. It seems as though this is exactly the same thing that Patty tried to do. She couldn't seem to get along in this world as a woman due to her upbringing and neglect by her parents, so she had to create a new world inside the home to house a place where she could feel free. Eventually, the real world encroached on Patty's world. Her son Joey let the world in. He was the only male character in the novel who could play the game of capitalism while keeping his own sense of self in check. What Patty did not realize is that she created a near-perfect son, so it was O.K. to let him out into the world. He would survive because she equipped him with what he needed.

I found it interesting that, in the end, Patty finds work as a teacher's aide. To me, working with children is symbolic of a role in the building of the future. Patty is taking a role in change by molding children. People say the Frantzen is a misogynist in writing this novel. I disagree. He is a realist and an optimist. He gives us the reality of the problem of women and men in society, but ends the novel with a sense of hope.

No, Patty Berglund wasn't bored. She was her own version of pioneer, in our crazy, fast-paced, modern world. Patty foresaw a need for change and exerted her own power in her own way to try to achieve this change, if only for herself. To me, Patty is the Emma Bovary that should have been.

5+ stars

Catch Up Day

2010-10-15T12:41:00.017-04:00

Fridays always seem to be catch up day for me, and for this, I am the ultimate multi-tasker. I am presently watching the 1995 film version of Pride and Prejudice (one of the last things I have yet to complete for the Jane Austen challenge). While I watch this film, I am writing this post, while waiting for my "ghosts" to dry. I am attempting to make some papier mache ghost halloween decorations (see photo) from a project in Country Living magazine. I am also waiting for a hay wreath to dry. I have painted it black and sparkly in preparation for a really cool Halloween wreath I am making, at least I hope it turns out! In the midst of all this, I have taken a bike ride in the beautiful sunshine we are having (although pretty chilly) and am contemplating a longer post that I hope to get out sometime in the next few days.

I am only about 15 minutes in to the film, and since I don't want to watch it again, I need to end my post so that I can actually watch it with my eyes, not just my ears.

I have a big day planned for tomorrow. I am attending my first Rochester, NY chapter monthly meeting of the Jane Austen Society. The talk will be on the article "Money" by Edward Copeland. So, I guess we need to bring some passages related to Money in Austen's novels. Since I have been researching aspects of social and gender history in Austen, this meeting sounds like it will be great and beneficial. I am armed and ready with some great passages from Persuasion and Northanger Abbey, and I am really looking forward to tomorrow.

After the meeting, I am heading to the Anthropologie store. I just found out there is one in Rochester, only an hour away from us! Hopefully, I can find a nice autumn outfit, or at the very least some cool ruffled riding boots. What an exciting Saturday awaits!

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Bleak House Read-along

2010-10-13T11:58:00.005-04:00

I just stopped by A Literary Odyssey blog and noticed that there has been a Bleak House Read-along going on since August, but ending October 27th. Well, coincidentally, I've been reading Bleak House, but not so far along (around page 140 out of 800+pages!). Hopefully, they'll let me join in. I can read REALLY fast! click here for more info.

Some Long Longed-for Birthday Gifts

2010-10-13T10:16:00.008-04:00

thank you, hubby dearest!

These are the most beautiful books I have ever come across. Now, do they have Persuasion?

(in case you are not familiar with these books,they are the new Penguin Classics series)

A Reassessment

2010-10-13T08:28:00.003-04:00

With the passing of my birthday this weekend, I am presently focusing my thoughts this week on a reassessing of my goals and work, especially pertaining to the future of my blogs. As some of you may know, I just recently opened two new blogs, Forage and From the Hand. In the beginning, I was very excited and motivated about starting these, but as time has passed and I have settled comfortably into autumn and the cooler weather, my interest has waned and I am finding them, in particular From the Hand, rather tedious. Those who know me well understand that I am more of an idea person, so anything pertaining to details and following through on an idea is something that will not "float my boat", so to speak. So, that said, I am contemplating closing From the Hand and keeping Forage as a sort of design laboratory, kind of a way of organizing my raw material.

This blog, The Wing Chair Traveller, will be undergoing a metamorphosis. It has evolved over its slightly over a year long existence to be a literary, travel, and writing blog. This will still remain so, but I will be placing its emphasis on a more holistic way of looking at things. One of my goals has been to read my blog dashboard at least once per day. A result of this has been a good amount of inspiration. There are some incredible blogs out there with many having an astonishing number of followers. One thing I have found about blogs in general is that in order to be received and followed, they need to have a unique take on things and be very inspiring to their readers. When I first started this blog, it was more personal for me. I really just wanted a place to write and try to figure out what to write about and what really holds my interest. I never thought that people would really want to read what I write. With every follower, I have become more inspired, and I am grateful for all of you. As this blog continues to evolve, I hope I still am able to hold your interest and will try to give you something to come back for. So,please hang in there while I grow and change. And please ,join my followers if you are not one already. I welcome you with open arms.

Coming Soon

2010-10-13T08:05:00.005-04:00

A complete review of Jonathan Franzen's novel Freedom. Just waiting for my last friend to finish before I expose spoilers. I've read both The Corrections and Freedom since August and cannot wait to review them both. Stay tuned.

Lonny

2010-10-12T08:26:00.006-04:00

October/November | Lonnymag.com

I just discovered this new online magazine (fairly new-it's been around for a year now). This post probably belongs on my Forage blog, but I thought it was relevant to this blog because it is not just design focused. There are travel-related and travel-themed design articles in here, including a great one on Zurich, Switzerland in the most recent issue. Plus, these photos look absolutely gorgeous placed within my blog, if I may say so myself!

I really think it is important to highlight great publishing in our world of ever-shrinking paper printing. The online world is an excellent venue for publishing, if only for the ability to carry it with you on your portable laptop/i-pad/i-touch etc. I have a big problem accumulating magazines and keeping them organized enough to access articles on an as-needed basis. Sadly, there is no method to my madness. In my case, sometimes, the digital world can be a great thing!

Hope you enjoy Lonny as much as I am.

Imagine There's No Heaven...

2010-10-11T20:19:00.011-04:00

I know, I know...I need to cool it with the John Lennon references. I just couldn't resist with this one. If there really is no heaven, then Lake Como is paradise itself. Just one look at these pictures and you'll agree.

On our summer trip to Venice, Hungary, Austria, and the Italian lakes, we, just my husband and I, set aside one day to spend on Lake Como. I had always dreamed of coming here and did not want to miss it. We started our journey in Bellagio, shown here in this first picture. We then took a boat tour around the lake, stopping at Villa Balbianello, which was heart-stoppingly breathtaking and the highlight of the journey. The pictures will speak for themselves. And, in answer to your next question, no, we did not see George Clooney....
our boat...

Photos of the Villa Balbianello

You Say It's My Birthday? (well, yesterday...)

2010-10-11T07:45:00.008-04:00

Two Beatles songs in a row without even trying. How appropriate! Saturday would have been John Lennon's 70th birthday, and yesterday was my...well, I'll keep that to myself.

Anyway, I've been on a little birthday hiatus for the last few days. We spent Saturday in Niagara-on-the-Lake taking a wine tour and drinking some fabulous ice wine. Surprisingly, this was my first time tasting it and well worth the wait! We also had Afternoon Tea at the Prince of Wales Hotel, which was incredibly good, and incredibly bad for the health, as you can see in the pic.

Finally, we had a fun-filled evening in Niagara Falls, Ontario, enjoying the attractions on Clifton Hill. We had the choice between House of Frankenstein, Dracula's Lair, the Fun House, Ripley's Believe-It-or-Not, Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, or the Crystal Maze. My son (and I!) was too scared to go in Frankenstein and Dracula, so we chose the Crystal Maze, which was complete highway robbery considering that it is just a room full of mirrors and black lights, and we were out of it within 10 minutes! But, my son loved it, which is all that matters.

As soon as the party hats are cleaned up, I'll be back with yet another post on our summer trip. See you soon!

Light and Dark: Photos

2010-09-29T13:49:00.005-04:00

Enjoy these...my impression of Venice at night.

"Where then is the meeting point?: where in mankind is the ecstasy of light and dark together, the supreme transcendence of the afterglow, day hovering in the embrace of the coming night like two angels embracing in the heavens, like Eurydice in the arms of Orpheus, or Persephone embraced by Pluto?" D. H. Lawrence from Twilight in Italy

Venice at Night: The Return

2010-09-29T12:56:00.008-04:00

The Gamard Family a Table (excuse the lack of accent)
This past June, I revisited Venice after a six year absence, practically a different person with a different sort of life, so is it any wonder my impressions have changed about this unique place? (If you wish to read what I had written in 2004 about my first trip, please click here.)

But, one thing that has not changed, in fact it has only been more heightened with my last visit, is my love of Venice at night. What a difference from the daytime, more public Venice! Her private face is much more beautiful, enigmatic, and mysterious. My first picture shows my family (minus my husband who is taking the photo and most of my father-in-law) sitting down to an amazing dinner in Murano, one of the Venetian islands. We enjoyed a feast practically straight out of the sea (what else would you even think of eating in Venice!) and shared a bottle of the well-known Venetian Prosecco. It was an incredible meal-one of those meals that will stay in my mind forever.

Evening is falling, and the heat is beginning to dissipate as we share conversation and laughs looking out over the tiny town. As always in our family, as well as in Italy and France, the children share in the conviviality, and it is an injustice to exclude them from sharing meals and social life. As some of you may already know, my husband is French and most of his family still live in France. Stephan and I make it a definite point to embrace French culture, especially the sanctity of the meal and of food itself that is seen throughout France. We would never exclude our son Tristan, or any children, and we always understand that people of every age should feel free to socialize together. We are never too young or too old for great conversation, or great food!
After our meal, we stroll through the town, three generations high on life, and two high on prosecco, while each of us nurses our aches and pains of various levels from a day full of sightseeing through the Venetian islands. In this photo, as we are waiting for the boat to take us back to our bed for the night, no one thinks about the time spent waiting. Stephan is a true raconteur, so they are all immersed in the story he is telling. I decide to sneak away to start taking some photos because, as night falls, I start to feel the magic appearing like a nocturnal animal cautiously exiting its daytime hiding place.

After the vaporetto arrives, and we rush to the rear of the boat to get a view of the island and still be out in the night air, I notice the effect the boat's churnings have on the water in the lagoon. I spend a good 10-15 minutes snapping photos with my very basic point and shoot (without a tripod) hoping to capture this effect and the feeling of being there. In my next post, I will include a few of these photos.

After night had fallen and it was impossible to get any more photos, we started to see the moon emerge. Not just an ordinary moon, though. The moon was very full and very red! We were amazed that we could be at such a right place and time as to observe this effect. Stephan kept saying, "La Luna Rossa, I've heard that someplace before. I'm not sure where, but it is familiar somehow..." Well, I've done a little research and the only thing I have come up with is that it has something to do with the heat in the atmosphere that creates this red moon. Regardless, those were some beautiful moments. I'm so glad we had a chance to share them on this night in June. It amazes me when I realize how incredible it is to arrive at certain places, especially those far-off places, and we are there, living and breathing, as if we were home. To me, this night felt like home.

A Journey Remembered...

2010-09-29T09:00:00.005-04:00

A View from the Rialto Bridge, Venice
A Gondola in All of Its Splendor, down one of the Smaller Canals
The Campanile, St. Mark's Square, Venice (flag of Venice)
The Lagoon
This is the first of a series of posts about our trip this summer to Venice, Austria, Hungary, and the Italian Lakes. I am going to start with start with these few pictures. Hopefully, it gets my memory back in gear so that I can write something decent ;)

Happy Autumn...

2010-09-22T10:58:00.003-04:00

Elegy IX: The Autumnal by John Donne

No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnall face.
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot 'scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame,
Affection here takes Reverence's name.
Were her first years the Golden Age; that's true,
But now she's gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable Tropique clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
They were Love's graves; for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.

And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev'ry where,
In progress, yet his standing house is here.
Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.
This is Love's timber, youth his under-wood;
There he, as wine in June enrages blood,
Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she,
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age's glory, Barrenness.
If we love things long sought, Age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter-faces, whose skin's slack;
Lank, as an unthrift's purse; but a soul's sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at Resurrection;
Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love's natural lation is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties so,
I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.

Grand Opening of My Two New Blogs

2010-09-13T14:58:00.005-04:00

Please check out my two newest blogs:

http://www.forageous.blogspot.com

http://www.fromthehand.blogspot.com

Leo

2010-09-11T13:29:00.007-04:00

Not only is 9/11 a solemn day for us all, it is the one year anniversary of our cat Leo escaping and surviving lost outside for a month. I just want to say again how very thankful I am that he was found and brought back to us, so we can love and cherish him today. I don't know what I'd do without him! Please stay home Leo this year! Your mid-life crisis is over...;)

Remembering Keats...

2010-09-08T18:40:00.005-04:00

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

- John Keats, 19 September 1819

Getaway Car

2010-09-08T16:32:00.004-04:00

The first day of school seemingly went off without a hitch. I woke up well before the alarm, the coffee pot brewed a full pot of coffee without spilling all over the kitchen or malfunctioning, Tristan woke up without a fight, and we both made it to the bus stop fully clothed. Historically this hasn't been the case. With the bus stop being at the end of the driveway and the middle of winter being dark and tundra-like, it is very tempting to remain in modest nightwear. Also, I sent Tristan to school last year one day without underwear due to the darkness and my verging on sleepwalking in the morning, causing me to almost have a mental breakdown from the worry of his reaction when he realized nothing stood between him and his uniform pants.

This morning, however, Tristan and I happily made the short walk to the bus stop all bright- eyed and bushy-tailed, and READY. We spy the flashing lights in the distance of the approaching bus. I turn to notice the one remaining toy left in the driveway from our fun-filled summer (his Volkswagen New Beetle, kid-sized). So, I say to Tristan, "You know there is still a way out. Your getaway car is waiting in the driveway. All you have to do is get in it and drive away." We hear the roar of the bus approaching. He says, "Yeah, that would be great! Except that car is too slow and it only has two seats. I think I'll take the Cabrio (my own adult-sized Volkswagen). That way we can both leave and spend the rest of our lives together at Target!"

Gotta love my guy! First grade, here he comes!

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

2010-08-12T08:35:00.002-04:00

Since I broke my writing silence yesterday with my first post in awhile (since I left for Europe), I would like to keep it going, if only for a quick informative post about the future. My goal is to write a series of posts about my experience in Italy, before I forget and the memories get washed away with the details of my photographs. There were some amazing moments there that I really would love to share with you. I am really trying to get back to writing.

Strong Motion by Jonathan Franzen

2010-08-11T09:11:00.008-04:00

I really, really loved this book, which is probably an understatement. For the first time, in a while, a writer verging on genius has managed to keep my attention and will for longer than say 5-10 minutes. This novel was written in 1992, before his first blockbuster novel The Corrections (which I have not read yet, surprisingly, and I am glad). I think I was so engaged because, in 1992, I was 23-24 years old myself, like Louis. So, of course, I related to him in many ways, even though we don't share our gender.

Franzen manages to be, in his own way, political without being overly forceful or preachy with his ideas, which to me is the best way to both get your point across and not take away from the very story one is attempting to write. I also appreciated his incredible characterization and the intricacies within the relationships between the characters. He manages to show us through a beautiful and engaging story that men and women are inherently the same once we can get past our biology, and my identifying with Louis greatly helped this along for me. In the end, the reader is left with a feeling that life is never simple no matter what we encounter along the way, but we have the power to simplify things within ourselves.

I would say my favorite aspect of this book is Franzen's ability to engage us. I have had trouble as of late remaining interested and passionate about writing in my jaded, post-English degree state, but Strong Motion allowed me to forget all that and remember there is such a thing as really good writing.

I am definitely looking forward to reading The Corrections because from what I have heard, it is even better!(less)
(edit)

Cranford: A Final Review

2010-06-19T11:46:00.004-04:00

Since I will be leaving shortly on my Venice and the Italian Lakes adventure, and my blog will officially be on vacation, I wanted to finish up my review of Cranford before leaving. I apologize in advance for not being around to participate and comment, but I will pick up where I left off when I return:

All in all, I grew to love the novel, even though the beginning was difficult for me. I grew to love the little village, and long to find a place just like Cranford to put down roots with my own family (although my husband would come along! hopefully, he wouldn't be intruding). I think the following quotation is a good representation of the novel:

"But to return to Miss Matty. It was really very pleasant to see how her unselfishness, and simple sense of justice, called out the same good qualities in others. She never seemed to think anyone would impose upon her, because she should be so grieved to do it to them. I have heard her put a stop to the asseverations of the man who brought her coals, by quietly saying 'I am sure you would be sorry to bring me wrong weight'; and if the coals were short measure that time, I don't believe they ever were again. People would have felt as much ashamed of presuming on her good faith as they would have done on that of a child. But my father says, 'such simplicity might be very well in Cranford, but would never do in the world'."

Yes, I believe that too, at least not in my world. I love Matty's simplicity and good faith and her love of children is very telling. She is like a child in both her innocence and belief in others, and if only everyone could learn from her example, how this world would be a better place!

So far, I have yet to find a place like Cranford, but I will keep looking. I will always have this novel at least to read over and over again to keep my own faith in humanity going.

I am changing my rating to 5 stars for this very unique and touching novel, and I hope to continue reading more of Gaskell's work in the future. Happy Reviewing!

A Bien Tot!
Susan

Everything Austen II Challenge

2010-06-17T20:26:00.005-04:00

I am so excited to be starting up a new challenge. Stephanie's Written Word Blog is hosting this challenge beginning July 1st and running until December 31st 2010. You just have to pick six Austen related books, shows, films, or anything else to read or watch or take part in before the end of the year. I am still in the process of compiling my list. There is so much to choose from! Definitely will be choosing the TV series "Lost in Austen"!

Cranford: A Review of the First Half

2010-06-14T21:36:00.010-04:00

Up until a couple of days ago, I had been dreading writing this review. This is my first official blog read-along and I really, really did not want to hate the book and so give it a negative response. It wasn't until I was well into the second half of the book that my attention was caught. The chapter called The Panic was so hilariously funny, I decided to go back and re-read the whole thing! I figured that I wasn't really giving the novel my undivided attention (which I really wasn't), since I was in the middle of reading 4 other novels.

I think the main problem was, in my case, that I had seen the Cranford BBC mini-series, and was expecting quite a different novel. I did not realize that the series was not only based on Cranford, but other short stories by Gaskell as well. I loved the Cranford film, especially the male characters, so when I get to the book and all the male characters die in the first few chapters, I was really disappointed to say the least, not to mention the complete absence of the young doctor, who really made the series to me. It took me a while, but I eventually forgave Gaskell for not combining all her writing into Cranford. A novel that is about mostly women and their contained lives within a small town in mid-nineteenth century England does have some redeeming qualities, after all.

It is at times very dark and very real, at times heartbreaking and other times awe-inspiring, and still others times, rip roaringly funny. There is quite a good amount of death happening, and most of it is so very sudden, without much commotion corresponding to the event. It is almost as if, since death happens so often and so easily at this period in history, people are more accustomed to the aftermath. I actually like that it is written in a mostly vignette form with very little plot continuity. It enables the reader to sit down and read a chapter whenever he/she feels the urge. It definitely helped me after I decided to re-read the whole bloody thing. (I cannot tell a lie--I did skip over some of the vignettes the second reading. Some are really just too boring and too filled with inconsequential details.)

Miss Matty is by far my favorite character in the novel. I love her naivete, her caring attitude towards others, her sense of doing what is right and what is honest, and her acceptance of people for who they really are. She honors the memory of her sister Deborah in her healthy sense of propriety, but at the same time, she does eventually move on to live her own life after her death. Miss Matty tries to hold on to the traditions of her sister, but because of Matty's strong sense of, not necessarily a moral code, but a strong sort of empathy for others, she does let many of the senseless (though she herself would never call them that) rules go in favor of a more caring, make-everyone-happy approach. I also love how the narrator, Miss Smith, and her observations and contributions really increased the depth of compassion that we feel towards Miss Matty. I think Miss Matty made the novel for me. I entirely felt her pain and understood her softness amidst her sister Deborah's authoritarian rule. She respected her sister and many of the other characters in this small town. Miss Matty is definitely a character to whom I can relate.

I don't wish to say too much, since I am only reviewing the first half of the novel, so I will finish my first review with a tentative 4 stars for this novel, with more to come next week for the review of the final half. (I am subtracting one star, not for any fault in Gaskell's writing, but in the fact that there are times that my attention flagged and the book did not sustain my interest.)

My Thoughts on Writing for a So-So Monday.......

2010-06-14T15:14:00.010-04:00

I like the fundamental act of writing. The act is done independently, yet it is a conversation among many-those that have come before and are now gone, though their work remains, those that are writing in the present, and those of many cultures and backgrounds. Writing excludes no one with the ability to read and write. It even includes those who have yet to start, the young, and those who haven't touched earth yet. The conversation is eternal and ongoing.

I have been thinking about writing as a form of characterization. A character itself can be a sort of description of a feeling long lost. You can place a character within a memory and allow them to feel what you feel as you reflect on this memory, but also allow the character to experience things differently and make their own choices, perhaps in ways in which you yourself wish to have experienced them.

For instance, some kind of solitary experience--like my first trip to Europe. I was alone, so my own experience was very solitary and very personal. How many others have felt like me? Are there others with the same thoughts or feelings as myself? With the same values and past experience? If there are, how I would love to find them and reach out to them. Have a conversation with them. What kind of people are they? What are their hopes and dreams? How would a character that I myself have created react to this same experience? How I would love to have a conversation with this fictional character, and many others in the history of literature.

This is the conversation that I am always speaking of. Reaching out to someone in the vast reaches of humanity to share an experience. The best way that I know of is to contribute to this conversation created by writing, and reading about the experiences of others through writing of their own.

In the words of Gilbert Highet:

"These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice... and just as the touch of a button on our set will fill the room with music, so by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart. "

"Through the Wormhole" and E. M. Forster

2010-06-11T07:59:00.014-04:00

Last night, as I was wracking my brain over writing this post on the writing style of E. M. Forster, my husband put on this program, hosted by Morgan Freeman (click on the link for a short video):

Through the Wormhole: Your Second Life

The program was a commentary about science's ability to determine the presence or absence of a creator. Of course, I ended up staying up long past my bedtime thinking about the theories that were discussed. And somehow, in my crazy mind, I established a connection between this idea of perpetual questioning with E.M Forster's A Room with a View.

The final theory in the program is explained in the above link. A jet propulsion scientist is questioned regarding his idea that, 50 years from now, we will surpass the human brain's thinking capacity. So, are we really becoming the deities, creating a bigger version of our own universe? If so, then who is operating us? And are we just some computer simulation, being programmed to feel a certain way by some master computer programmer somewhere beyond "the window of our own universe"?

Of course, since my own mind is programmed to completely go off track and apply any knowledge that I have attained to something completely unrelated (or not!), and since my mind was trying to get wrapped around the writing of E. M. Forster, I established a connection between this TV program and Forster's novel.

More specifically, I remembered Mr. Emerson's conversation with Lucy Honeychurch over his son George's melancholic disposition. Mr. Emerson talks about how "things won't fit" for George. The universe is all questions, but no answers. Mr. Emerson explains, "We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let's love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes, if you like, but a Yes." I think if we observe science's never-ending search to find answers, we also need to step back and say, "Does it all really matter after all? We are only aware of our present existence from our birth (kind of-we are not really aware because we don't really remember) to our death (and this we may not be aware of either, if we are sick or mentally diseased), so let's just make the best of our time here and find out what is important about our existence in the here and now.

Wow! I just realized why I love writing and books so much. It is this exploration of our existence that I speak of, and why we read novels and watch films and recite poetry and sing songs. So, while I enjoy exploring science and its fascinations, I also understand that it really may not even matter in the whole scope of things. What matters is the here and now, and who we are and how we treat others, work together for a common good, and learning to love.

So to conclude, and to finally comment on Forster's writing style, the reason why E.M. Forster has always been the pinnacle to me of writing is not because of his amazing ability with language (he writes very simply, not as simple as Hemingway, but he doesn't really sway too much from the point), or his wit (which he does have), it is because he attempts to get right to the "quick" of humanity, our source, our reason for being and living. He exhibits a depth of characterization within this emphasis on the resounding "Yes". Who in his novels is willing to really "live", and to live with integrity, not because of societal expectations, or even to purposely rebel against society?

To me, this is the goal of us all. Breaking away from illusion. And for that to happen, I believe, education is the key, specifically a humanities-based education. I give this a resounding Yes, and a Yes, and a Yes!

2010-06-10T20:06:00.000-04:00

Coming Soon

2010-06-10T15:22:00.003-04:00

My review, thus far, of Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell. I am reading and doing a book review for a Cranford Read-Along that the blog, A Literary Odyssey, is hosting. Deadline is Tuesday, June 15th for a review of the first half of the novel. Stay tuned for my thoughts...

On Point: Top Young Fiction Writers

2010-06-09T13:43:00.014-04:00

http://www.onpointradio.org/media-player?url=http://www.onpointradio.org/2010/06/top-young-fiction-writers&title=Top+Young+Fiction+Writers&pubdate=2010-06-09&segment=2

I wanted to post this On Point radio show segment from NPR. The segment is a discussion with 4 of the Top 20 writers over 40 from The New Yorker magazine (June 14&21). It is very pertinent to writers coming to the forefront today. I love what these writers have to say about the future of writing and books in the digital age. In the program, they portend that fiction in 20-30 years will be read as much as poetry is today. I have to disagree. I think the format of fiction (and writers themselves) will just have to keep up with the times i.e. appeal to the new reader who has an attention span of about two seconds ;). Seriously, there is hope in the future for fiction. I am sure of it and will never give up hope.

Writing Styles: Why I Like Jane

2010-06-09T13:36:00.010-04:00

For next week's writing group meeting, the subject is writing styles and what styles attract us. I have been going through my favorite books, trying to find passages which exhibit the best examples of a particular author's style. When trying to pin down Jane Austen, I started to go through some different scenes and dialogues which I thought expressed who she was as a writer. One particular scene that came to mind was Mr. Collin's proposal to Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. I love the interplay and dialogue that occurs both between these two characters and between Elizabeth and her parents, as well as the difference between how these different characters choose to express themselves. Her language reminds me of a person talking themselves into a kind of circle. There is a circular rhythm to this very formal, polite language that she is both expected to write at the time, and the way she chooses to use this language to express what she is trying to say. The language and words, when read, create a kind of symmetry. The sentences are very neat, but not concise. They definitely can go on for a long time, but not without goal or intent. This is what I enjoy. I love her rhythm and ability to say things in a way, not to shortchange her ability with language, but to create a structure of depth and changing intensity. Also, let's not forget her witty asides, and her ability to interject her own voice within the story. Austen never offends and always remains proper, but at the same time, she has the ability to really get to the heart of the implications of the situations she writes about.

I wanted to include a quote from Anthony Trollope from a lecture in gave in 1870, giving his opinion of Austen's writing:

"Miss Austen was surely a great novelist. What she did, she did perfectly. Her work, as far as it goes, is faultless. She wrote of the times in which she lived, of the class of people in which she associated, and in the language which was usual to her as an educated lady. Of romance,-what we generally mean when we speak of romance-she had no tinge. Heroes and heroines with wonderful adventures there are none in her novels. Of great criminals and hidden crimes she tells us nothing. But she places us in a circle of gentleman and ladies, and charms us while she tells us with an unconscious accuracy how men should act to women, and women act to men. It is not that her people are all good;-and certainly they are not all wise. The faults of some are the anvils on which the virtues of others are hammered till they are bright as steel. In the comedy of folly I know no novelist who has beaten her. The letters of Mr. Collins, a clergyman in P&P;, would move laughter in a low-church archbishop."

I second that Mr. Trollope!

E.M Forster

2010-06-08T20:46:00.002-04:00

"Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its highest. Live in fragments no longer." — E.M. Forster

Please, let's talk....

2010-06-08T14:13:00.007-04:00

"Yes, for we fight for more than Love and Pleasure, there is Truth. Truth counts. Truth does count." spoken by Mr. Emerson from A Room with a View by E.M. Forster

While I understand that the nature of a blog is to express my own thoughts, I also acknowledge and encourage my readers to engage in a conversation with me because that's the only way to get even close to the truth, and truth is ultimately what I am looking to attain with this blog, and my writing for that matter. So, please do not be afraid to comment. About, anything, absolutely anything. Truth does count, you know.

I am going to try to fix this blog's format so that all comments will appear under each post. Wish me luck!

James on Venice

2010-06-08T09:48:00.007-04:00

I wanted to include another quote by Henry James, and his impressions of Venice. I like to see the conversation that happens when we compare different writing:

"Exquisite hours, enveloped in light and silence, to have known them once is to have always a terrible standard of enjoyment. Certain lovely mornings of May and June come back with an in effaceable fairness...the sea and sky themselves seem to blossom and rustle. The gondola waits at the wave washed steps, and if you are wise, you will take your place beside a discriminating companion."

I could not have said it better!

Venice at Night: A Prelude (an essay written in 2004)

2010-06-08T08:16:00.008-04:00

In the words of Henry James, "The only way to care for Venice as she deserves it is to give her a chance to touch you often-to linger and remain and return." This summer, I will be returning to Venice, after an absence of six years. My first visit was in May of 2004, newly married and 5 months pregnant with my son. I wrote the following essay upon returning:

Plato wrote of human existence as being like the inside of a cave with a fire burning. Most of us have our backs to the world, facing the wall, only seeing the shadows of the truth flickering on this wall. For those who travel merely to view the notable sights and then go home, Plato's analogy runs true. If you travel to see the Eiffel Tower, not for the experience, but just to take a photo to prove that you were there, you are only seeing those shadows on the wall.

When a tourist travels to Venice with this attitude, a true tragedy occurs. Venice has the ability, if you allow it, to transform all of us permanently and irreversibly no matter who we are or where we come from. It is one of the few remaining sacred and spiritual places on earth, not for any icon or relic, but for who we are when we are there, and for what we see within ourselves and our souls.

I've been dreaming of Venice for years and years. Although I've travelled extensively all over the world, I had always saved Venice for a special time. I did not want to rush through the experience without having the ability and, I see now, the maturity to enjoy it. Learning that we were expecting a baby in October, my husband Stephan and I decided that this May was as good a time as any to finally see Venezia. We signed up for a cruise of the Adriatic-Venice, Dubrovnik, The Greek Isles, Athens, and Kusadasi, Turkey. Unfortunately, we weren't lucky enough to gaze from our hotel balcony over the Grand Canal, and, I'm embarrassed to say now, splurge for the 100 euros for the gondola ride, but we didn't need to. All we really needed was a general map (nothing too detailed-you get lost regardless), comfortable shoes, and time to explore.

The first day we arrived, we began our expedition in the dim light of evening at the main vaporetto station which I later learned was the entrance to the Grand Canal. Little did I know what I would be about to experience. Since I have absolutely no sense of direction, I had no clue where we were or even what direction we would be going. As we embarked, Stephan and I grabbed seats in the rear in order to be outside in the night air. After about three minutes, I realized we were already on the Grand Canal, and the buildings began to pass by, one after another. Except for the occasional noise of the vaporetto's motor and gear grinding, the city was dark and silent-not eerie, but mysterious and inviting. Each building was more and more magnificent, and we were able to catch glimpses down all of the smaller canals, full of darkness and glittering water. We would pass an occasional gondola still lingering, but for the most part, the Grand Canal was empty and serene.

I remember sitting there with the wind blowing in the nighttime silence and the whooshing of the water. Every building in Venice looks mysterious at night, even those that are unremarkable by day. If unremarkable buildings can look magnificent, what about the others? Well, no words can describe their beauty at night-their silence, their knowledge of what has been and will be. the memories they hold within their damp stone walls, perfectly cut with the love of a people who truly appreciated the beauty of their craft. The water may infiltrate the presence of these buildings , but it is a part of who they are and their very existence. Without water, after all, Venice would not be Venice. If Venice sinks, it is because it was Venice's fate to sink, being so united with the water. Why is Venice the one place in the world that has not been pinned down and become known for something other than what it is? Because Venice is Venice, that's all.

The more we try to pin it down, the more it escapes us. One can write infinitely about Venice, but her story is never complete. The history of Venice seems to go on, all at once. Venice is the one place that contains true ghosts. Not some specter waiting to be released from its earthly horror, but spirits who live amidst this city who would never think of leaving. Spirits who millions of tourists have felt, but never really realized. The spirit of the place will not let this happen. It's strength encompasses you wherever you turn, and you somehow become part of it. It can never be conquered, only joined and merged with. I think sometimes its power overwhelms people and so they try to ground it in some way, saying it is too smelly, or crowded, or hot, or too labrynthine. It's this fear of the unknown that does this to people. It is a natural human defense mechanism to fear what they cannot control, or conquer.

As we passed the Ca d'Oro, it was brilliant at night. You can actually imagine yourself back in the Venetian Gothic period, passing by this newly built opulent palace. It must have recently been cleaned because it is immaculate. The water leaps up onto its porch, striking a union between man and Nature in its embrace. There were other very beautiful notable buildings and private residences, but there was a general feeling of mystery, pleasure, and sensuality found here. The water gives the atmosphere a floating, gliding, and ethereal quality and slows everything down, allowing us to "taste" Venice in all its deliciousness.

When we reached our final stop, Piazza San Marco was a short stroll away. Everyone we saw here was strolling, which tells us a good deal about the nature of this city. There are many couples here, also, and most of them are Italian (contrary to the reputation of Venice being too touristy). These couples seem to be embracing their own new found romance while experiencing the one place where all inhibitions are discarded and forgotten. For some reason, I expected Venice to be a place of masked revelry and non-stop celebration, but not on this night in May. This more authentic Venice is a place of quiet, repose, safety, and a kind of watery embrace to all those who enter her fluid arms. There are very few parties, but the ones we do see are quiet and sophisticated. As we enter the Piazza, we hear only the musicians playing and the beating of pigeon wings. You could actually explore Venice at night without seeing more than a handful of people, if you stay off the beaten path. To me, this is the true beauty of Venice. Not only are you exploring Venice one-on-one, you are exploring your own soul and that of your soul mate, if you are lucky to have brought them with you, as I was this beautiful evening. The canals and pathways twist and turn, and there is something new and more mysterious around every corner.

The only smell I noticed here was the beautiful smell of the sea, and how it permeates throughout every corner, alley, building, and piazza. Walk a little, get off the overpriced gondola, take the city at face value, not just the value that others have thrown at you. Experience Venice with your heart and soul simultaneously. You will never return. You will leave a piece of yourself there, becoming one with this island of souls. Venice is the place where truth lies and will remain: the real truth of who we are and why we exist. It is a place in which to discover our faith in each other and the greatness of our race. It has been said that Venice is the perfect union of God and man. I will go one step further to say that it is not the union, but proof that God does exist within man, and that everyone has access to this power. Go to Venice and allow your own truth to begin and take hold.

Just as I will never be the same after Venice, anyone who has ever submitted to this powerful and deep city, releasing themselves to its pure essence, will never be the same. In the words of Henry James, "But it is hard, as I say, to express all this, and it is painful as well to attempt it-painful because in the memory of the vanished hours so filled with beauty , the consciousness of present loss oppresses." I will miss you, my Venice, but I will return, there is no doubt.

We are home now, contemplating naming our son Marco as we prepare for his birth. I am glad we waited to see Venice because, to me, it was the perfect time in my life and in our marriage to experience this amazing city, La Serenissima, the most beautiful, magical place in the world.

Back to 2010: Keep in mind that our son is now 5 years old and his name is Tristan Alexandre. I guess at some point we came to our senses ;)

Very Busy!

2010-06-05T11:10:00.003-04:00

I have been very busy, frantically reading four novels, so I like to post quotes that I find important and speak to me. They are all very important to me, and to life in general. I will be getting back to writing very soon. I just need to catch up! And, weekends are not the time to do it!

Henry James

2010-06-05T11:07:00.003-04:00

Henry James definitely gets right to the core in this quote:
"My idea is this, that when you only love a little you’re naturally not jealous-or are only jealous also a little, so that it doesn’t matter. But when you love in a deeper and intenser way, then you’re in the very same proportion jealous; your jealousy has intensity and, no doubt, ferocity. When however you love in the most abysmal and unutterable way of all – whey then you’re beyond everything, and nothing can pull you down."
— Henry James (The Golden Bowl)

It makes me want to re-read The Golden Bowl, but no, I am not even going to go there. 4 books is quite enough!

Come Again by John Dowland (published 1597)

2010-05-29T10:31:00.005-04:00

This Renaissance song was redone by Sting on his album "Songs from a Labyrinth":

Come again,
Sweet love doth now invite,
Thy graces that refrain
To do me due delight.
To see, to hear,
To touch, to kiss,
To die with thee again
In sweetest sympathy

Come again,
That I may cease to mourn
Through thy unkind disdain
For now left and forlorn.

I sit, I sigh,
I weep, I faint,
I die, in deadly pain
And endless misery

Gentle love,
Draw forth thy wounding dart:
Thou canst not pierce her heart;
For I that do approve.
By sighs and tears
More hot than are
Thy shafts, did tempt while she
For scanty tryumphs laughs.

Another Quote of the Day

2010-05-28T19:48:00.000-04:00

"I have been astonished that men could die martyrs
for their religion--
I have shuddered at it,
I shudder no more.
I could be martyred for my religion.
Love is my religion
and I could die for that.
I could die for you." — John Keats

Quote of the Day

2010-05-28T19:42:00.003-04:00

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

Dead Poet's Society"
— John Keating

What I am Reading, or What Did I Get Myself Into?!

2010-05-28T08:52:00.011-04:00

I am currently reading five books and have only a month before vacation to complete them! I am a glutton for punishment, I tell ya!
Here they are:
Vanity Fair by Thackeray---I am joining the discussion at the Victorians! group on Goodreads

Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk---against my better judgment ;) Thanks, Holly! I keep wanting to put it down, but don't for some reason. I even skipped the infamous short story, Guts!

Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell, for the Cranford Read Along

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, for the Pride and Prejudice Without Zombies Read-along

Master and Commander by Patrick O'Brian for the Jane Austen group on Goodreads

I did start Becoming Jane Austen, but quickly put it aside for better things. It's a pretty boring biography of Austen. I'll save this for our tundra-like winters...

I am hoping to fit in some writing too, in the midst of all this craziness. Stay tuned. I am working on something I am calling "Venice: A Reuniting" in preparation for our second journey to Venice....

Also, the topic for our writing group next week is Humor, so the first thing that comes to mind is Children's Lit! The best humor in my book! I'll be sharing The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame, The Tales of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter, and Solomon the Rusty Nail by William Steig. All three of these books are pretty pertinent to the title of this post: What did I get myself into!

Another Jane Austen Read Along:

2010-05-26T18:10:00.005-04:00

I will be joining Austenprose in a read-along:

‘Pride and Prejudice without Zombies’

June 15th – July 17th, 2010 at Austenprose

In honor of reclaiming Jane Austen’s classic novel

Pride and Prejudice back from the living dead

If you wish to join, check out austenprose.com for more info. The Event Preview begins on June 9th. You need to RSVP by June 14th.

A Poem for Summer by Emily Dickinson

2010-05-25T20:45:00.002-04:00

I just stumbled across this poem by Emily Dickinson. I thought it was perfect since summer has already begun! It is very beautiful too...

A something in a summer's Day

A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer's noon—
A depth—an Azure—a perfume—
Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see—

Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle—shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me—

The wizard fingers never rest—
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed—

Still rears the East her amber Flag—
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red—

So looking on—the night—the morn
Conclude the wonder gay—
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!

Why I Write: A List

2010-05-25T17:03:00.005-04:00

1. the first and most important reason why I both write and read is the search for that moment of complete transcendence, where nothing else matters, but a certain truth. It is that point in a piece of creative writing in which the reader gets past the words and letters, and forgets that he or she is reading.
2. because I love words. how they look, feel, sound, how they feel when read out loud, how they make me feel, how they react to the words around them. I love when a certain word sticks around, resonating with me as I go about my day.
3. because of the act of writing and how it feels to physically write, depending on the tool. I recently acquired a typewriter, given to me by a neighbor. I love how writing changes with the tool used: whether it is the very physical action of typing on the typewriter, the speed and effortlessness of a laptop (almost like the fingers are directly connected to the brain's current), the graceful, sweeping movement of a pen, or the more rustic, earthy feel of pen to paper. Different emotions, mood, motions for each tool...Will the writing follow? I hope to try them all and see what develops.
4. because I love the blank page, whether in a fancy journal that will be around for a while or a scrap paper lying around in my purse. (look inside my purse and you will see such papers covered with jumbles of writing written at that "light bulb" moment)
5. because I have a definite need for an arena to explore my crazy, ever-changing emotions-getting my feelings down on paper in order to sort through them into a sort of coherence, and discard those that are irrelevant (probably the majority). I've found that a typewriter can be very helpful in this process. Its very physical, rough kind of motion allows for the tumultuous emotions to surge out of my mind into my hands.
6. because writing transcends all works of art. Nothing is required of it. Memory is the minimal means of recording. Also, a handy hand to be written upon, a scrap receipt and a loose crayon on the carpet, or the digital world and its never-ending means of dissemination. To me, its the most perfect art form because it requires only our thoughts and some necessary practice.
7. because after 41 years of searching, I have found that it is the one thing I have always done, the one thing I feel I am meant to do, and the one thing I am comfortable doing. I still need to find a way to summon up the self-confidence to let my writing go out into the world without regret.
8. because of the body's inevitable demise (this is for you, John!) and how we all wish we could stick around longer. You can leave behind your shoes and a worn out old chair, but in order for someone to truly remember you, who you are deep inside, you need to leave a piece of yourself behind-your thoughts, feelings, aggravations, triumphs, ideals, teachings, or just some ramblings jotted every once in while in a journal. I would love to make a stamp in the world while I am here, but it would be nice if I am remembered too, even if only by my loved ones.
9. because I want to record those moods or moments that are so very fleeting before they pass by and are gone. They seem memorable at the time, yet they are eventually forgotten if enough time goes by.
10. because i enjoy being a writer. It "fits" me. I have always been an observer, a reader of both words and people, someone on the sidelines. In our society, where extroversion and assertiveness are valued above everything, it is nice to know there are still vocations out there for people like us. I heard someone say once that one should only be a writer after trying everything else. Well, believe me, I have tried out many things, but writing seems to be the only thing that really works.
11. because I can write anywhere and the writing will always be with me anywhere I happen to find myself. It isn't that I am a nomad, but it is nice to know I am never tied down by my career.
12. because writing makes me proud. Not in a negative way, but in a "hold my head up with confidence " way. I think it must be because I feel I am doing the right thing for me. Writing is a noble profession with limitless rewards (if you don't mind the rewards not being monetary) and limitless aspirations.
13. because I love knowing that I am now part of the ongoing conversation, like I have finally been invited to that dream party with all the right people, people who I have everything in common with--this group of writers, alive or dead, who have found a way to express themselves through words.
14. because technology has now opened long-closed doors, enabling all of us solitary writers to be heard at last.
15. And, finally, almost as important a reason as my first, because I love people. I love their struggles, their facets, their shared humanity, and I love, and have faith, that no matter what happens, we will all be there for each other.

Lost: The Finale and What I Thought

2010-05-24T12:01:00.018-04:00

Spoiler Alert!!: if you have not watched the finale yet, do not read on!

Let me say first off that I think the writers of LOST truly kept up the pace until the bitter end. They managed to maintain supreme quality writing from the first time we see Jack open his eye, until the very end, when his eye closes at his natural death. Secondly, an analysis of this 120 episode show can only really be accomplished by looking at it in a very general, universal way. If we try to arrange the details to fit like a puzzle, it just doesn't work. That said, I really don't think arranging the details is really necessary. The writers obviously kept the plot very open-ended, as all good writers do. Any great work of writing inevitably creates a conversation, and better yet, one without any closure whatsoever. It allows the piece to live on indefinitely, as LOST will. I think having a television show of this caliber with this wide of a scope should tell us a lot about where we are going as a society. Television isn't merely a form of mind-numbing pleasure anymore. Television has the same sort of capacity for change and transcendence as literature has always had. Technology is giving humanity new forms of communication and ways of relating, probably on a bigger scale than we have ever seen up until now.

So, now to try to decipher what this show has really meant, or at least my opinion of its meaning. I think the best place to start is with the characters. It seems that the most important, crucial characters have names that are symbolic of something:
First character that we see is Jack Shephard. He is the Everyman Jack (see second Footnote) trying to make his way in the world, but it is obvious he begins life with more than most of us have: wealth, intelligence, a father who is an MD and a brain surgeon, confidence, his own MD in brain surgery, and a God complex (which all or most doctors probably need to have in order to do what they do). So, in reality, he really isn't an Everyman Jack after all (on the other hand, see first Footnote). He is exceptional in many ways and, to add to this, he is also a born leader and takes the lead in every endeavor he attempts, not to mention always needing to be the one to "fix" things. This is where the name Shephard comes in, not spelled the same as the protector of sheep, but we get the picture. His father's name is even more perfect, Christian Shephard, which we see the meaning of why he has this name at the end. Christian is the first one through the doors to the light. Jack also spends his time either looking for his father or trying to find his father's lost body. Jack will eventually lead his own "flock" through those doors (they loyally wait for him to remember and join them), following his father, Christian, a play on the name of Christ who is the first to open the gates of heaven.

The next character of importance is John Locke. John and Jack clash over the question of faith vs. science and I think what is significant is that they are both leaders. They seem, as the series progresses, to each take one side over the other. John Locke believed that the island has a higher purpose, and Jack had trouble believing this. Jack desperately wanted to find every means for escape and try to get everyone to follow. In the end, John Locke is right, but Jack, ever since he returned to the island after having left it, has acquired this faith. At the same time, Locke begins to doubt his own faith due to lack of proof or signs. His doubt almost leads to his own suicide (if Ben hadn't interrupted and killed Locke himself). Jack tries life away from the island, but the island kept drawing him back with a very powerful unseen force. John Locke is named after the 18th century English philosopher who very curiously believed that all knowledge begins with what comes to the mind from the senses. Only then can people begin to organize this information through reason. His symbolic name echoes the reason why he kept waiting for the island to give him some kind of sign. At the time, he felt that the hatch was that sign. To Locke, the hatch represented the island and its higher purpose, and he wasn't exactly wrong about that, as we now know. It is pretty fitting that the smoke monster used Locke's body as his vehicle to influence people to follow him. Locke is not only a born-leader, but one whose sincerity and optimism wins over most people he comes across. He seems to look at you like he knows you and has complete trust and confidence in you. People are at ease and open with him, and this allows the smoke monster to win over many to his side. Locke, like Jack, has a troubled relationship with his own father, and we can contrast this struggle with Jack's attempt to deal with his own father's death.

Desmond Hume is the next most significant character. His name also means something. David Hume was an 18th century philosopher, and Scottish to boot. He wanted to bring philosophy to its senses, and he scoffed at the idea of human reason. He believed that what people knew of the world began with the senses. I find it ironic that the philosopher Hume did not believe in god or science, but Desmond Hume has so much faith. He pressed that darn button for how many years? Hume the philosopher did not put any faith in either science or religion because people can only have the ability to see these ideas from a limited perspective. Desmond is not limited at all in that he is a kind of all-experiencing character. He is able to withstand the power of the island and is able to travel over the alternate realities. He maintains multiple perspectives, to override Hume's insistence on "tunnel vision" in human reasoning. Desmond ultimately is the coordinator of this reunion at the church at the end. His faith is real in that he can prove it through his own experience.

And, let's not forget Hugo Hurley, the lovable guy who inherits the island after Jack's death. Hurley's favorite word is "dude", and one can't help but feel at ease around such a casual, fun-loving individual. Hugo is unique in that he was perpetually haunted by the six numbers he used to win the lottery back home. (I'd list them, but I don't want to jinx myself.) Everywhere he goes, the numbers pop up. And these numbers always cause bad things to happen. For instance, the numbers that Desmond had to enter into the hatch's computer so that it wouldn't implode were Hurley's numbers. The only time that Desmond neglected to enter them caused Oceanic Flight 815 to crash! I suppose it is possible that Hugo was named after Victor Hugo, the French writer who was the champion of those less fortunate and social injustice. Hugo himself is obese, and Sawyer creates new and more demeaning names early on in the series to comment on his appearance, an unfortunate casualty of his obsession with food. To me, Hugo is the sweetest , most down-to-earth, and accepting character of the bunch. It is perfect that he is chosen to nurture the island after it has been restored by Jack. And, it is even more perfect that he chooses a partner, Benjamin Linus, to help him. Hurley forgets Benjamin's faults and outsider status and welcomes him in with open arms.

Benjamin Linus is one truly damaged, "lost" character. When we first meet him, he is the leader of the Others. This fact is significant in that Benjamin never belongs anywhere,(he is always an "other"), whether this is due to his own fault is beside the point. He maintains this status as outsider because of his ambition. His self-esteem is seriously deficient, and he spends most of his time trying to restore it. It is quite possible that Benjamin's last name "Linus" is a play on the word "lie" in that this is what Benjamin does best. Unfortunately, he uses deceit and manipulation as his means, but if we examine him closely , we see the incredible scars he has had to live with and can somewhat forgive him for his actions. But because he kills John Locke, the only one who can offer him forgiveness is John himself, which of course he does. Benjamin chooses to remain in the alternate reality in the end, remaining the perpetual outsider, to work out his mistakes and selfish tendencies. At the end, he is a symbol of humility, which for him, is huge! He does not allow himself to join the group, even though he is invited by Hurley to do so. Benjamin was obviously a good second in command to Hurley, and this fact shows that he is headed in the right direction.

Sawyer is significant in that he is known by the name of his sworn enemy. He is the rebel of the group, and the guy who grows the most. Sawyer starts out as bitter, negative, and suspicious of others, and he learns to love and make friends by the end of the series. He opposes Jack in many ways. They both love Kate and Juliet at different points in the series, but Sawyer's true love is Juliet. Sawyer is as lovable as Hurley by the final episode, and he learns to live by integrity alone, instead of merely his desire for revenge.

I am not sure whether this is a good or bad thing, but it seems all the female characters are defined by their roles as mothers. Kate is crossed out from the list of candidates due to her becoming an adoptive mother to Aaron. Sun is disqualified after becoming a mother. Claire is the mother who goes insane and neglects her child. Juliet is a fertility expert, who is the mother of Jack's son in the alternate reality. And, it seems there are an awful lot of female characters who have died: Juliet, Charlotte, Libby, Shannon, the foster mother of Jacob and the Man in Black etc. I'm really not sure how to interpret this lack of female strength, but it is what it is. Any female who asserts herself in a too-masculine way, gets gunned down eventually. It is possible though that motherhood is considered to be of primary importance, even more important than the "source". Therefore, females would be considered the sole protectors of creation and so would be disqualified to be protectors of the island. And, let's not forget that it was Kate who ultimate killed the smoke monster in the end. She was helped out by Desmond, who shut off the source and made him immortal, but it was Kate who shot that last bullet. So, maybe after all, femininity is the ultimate power here in LOST world.

OK, so now let's get down to what I thought about what actually happened in this crazy TV series, what the ending tells us about what happens beforehand, and what we will take away with us now that it is ended. So, after seeing the finale, it is apparent that we were seeing this whole thing through Jack's perspective and experience. I found this surprising because most of the time, I had trouble relating to him. He is the kind of guy that you love to hate--hyper-successful, effortlessly rises to the top, who everyone appears to adore i.e. too proud in my book. These last episodes showed a Jack who is just as flawed, lost, and terrified of the future as the others. Jack is inevitably the glue that binds everyone together, not because of his perfection, but because of his own very human flaws and tendencies. He is the last to show up, the last to "let go and remember". He is true to himself until the end in that he is the last to let go of reason and embrace faith completely. Jack tries to love Kate, but he can't. He isn't allowed to love her like the other "lovers" in the series, but like he loves everyone else in the church---with a universal, binding love, full of compassion and togetherness, bound by human weaknesses and human potential. Jack saves the world and is the true hero, but he remains somewhat isolated within this heroism. Jack as a character is the embodiment of the lone hero, therefore he cannot truly bind to Kate completely. The ending of LOST serves to circumvent and "correct" this quite burdensome archetype of Jack's. The ending emphasizes that, in the words of Jack himself, "We can live together, or die alone." No one from "Jack's flock" dies alone in LOST. They are bound together by this togetherness that they have fostered throughout the six seasons of ups and downs. Let's face it. Most of these characters had gone through horrific circumstances, so why wouldn't their time together be the defining time of their life? Who can really top this? The ending was not corny, or overly simplified. Everyone seemed natural and accepting at the end. What we hope to all be.

So, let's get to all the complicated stuff that happened before Jack died. What is this source? Who are Jacob and the Man in Black? What about Eloise and all this talk of time travel, coordinates, the pendulum etc.? What about the Dharma initiative and their move to the island? Who is Charles Widmore? Is he bad or good? Well, I see it pretty simply. I am going to call it "anti-agnosticism". LOST is commenting on the point our world has come to: the advancement of science so far that the reason for our existence has been proven (or in the real world, quite possibly about to be proven). Within LOST, the human race has started to discover this "source". Charles Widmore merely represents to me a kind of scientific explorer, for good or evil depending on your perspective. He and his team have found proof of the source's existence and now wish to use it for human benefit. We can compare him to Christopher Columbus discovering the New World. I am sure the consequences would be similar if no one was protecting the island. The "source" would be raped and pillaged for all it has, like the Native Americans and their land was. Eloise symbolizes the opposite of this scientific discovery: intuition. She is able to sense things that go beyond reason, so combined with Widmore's powers, they are a formidable force. I found it very interesting that they were married in the alternate reality. Daniel Faraday (Widmore) was their tool (and it is quite fitting that he was their son in the flash sideways). He was the idealistic scientist searching for the ultimate truth. His goal was idealistic, as are all ideas when they are created. It is only when these ideas get into the wrong hands that they are twisted around and abused. The Dharma folks were others who wished to harness the power of the island, but in a more benevolent fashion. Linus breaks off from the Dharma because he was much more ambitious than them, and thirsted for power.

No child could be conceived on the island. So the mysterious original protector of the island (the unnamed woman) needed to steal Jacob and the Man in Black, so that she would have someone to take over when if she were ever killed. The water that these new protectors drink is symbolic for the source and its strength. If you drink the water handed to you by the previous protector, you become one with your predecessor and one with the source. This is reminiscent of the process of transubstantiation that we see in the Catholic sacrament of Holy Communion. The protectors have one goal: to protect the source and as we can see, not everything they do is pure and good for the sake of the island. The protectors are all humans, and humans are destined to be flawed in their humanity, as both Jacob and the Man in Black were.

So, at the end, we are really left with two things: the restoration of the source, and thus the salvation of the island, and the salvation of Jack and his "flock". As I said in the beginning, in order to understand LOST, you must simplify down to its essence and universality. Within LOST itself, the characters undergo this same purification process. They too let go of everything at the end, and they are brought down to just the essence of who they are and how they relate to the group. To me, this ending symbolizes the compassion required of all of us to achieve the ultimate spiritual transcendence. The source has been restored and the survivors of Flight 815 (and a few others) can move on. The island and its mysterious source are real, the survivors were alive until their individual deaths, and the alternate reality was just a purification process of remembering the joy, heartache, and compassion that they collectively experienced before they were able to leave this world.

The penultimate meeting at the church at the end was arranged by Desmond in order for their lives to be celebrated and remembered before they "move on", kind of like a funeral where only the dead are invited. LOST's final episode is a type of funeral within a funeral because LOST itself will no longer be with us and we will all move on with our lives. We will eventually find something else to fill our Tuesday evenings, but LOST's memory will live on in our hearts, and in our conversations, for a long, long time.

Footnote:

From Columbia Encyclopedia:
Everyman, late-15th-century English morality play. It is the counterpart of the Dutch play Elckerlijk; which of these anonymous plays is the original has been the subject of controversy. When Everyman is summoned by Death, he can persuade none of his friends-Beauty, Kindred, Worldly Goods-to go with him, except Good Deeds. This allegory has been used as the basis of plays by later writers and has remained popular in modern times.

From online dictionary:
every man jack n. Informal Every single person of a group

Cranford Read-along

2010-05-22T13:43:00.002-04:00

Starting on June 1st, I'll be joining in on a Cranford Read Along. I have been wanting to start this novel, and this will give me the motivation I need! If you're interested, check out A Literary Odyssey Blog at
http://aliteraryodyssey.blogspot.com for more info.

Book Review: Les Particules (The Elementary Particles) by Michel Houellebecq

2010-05-21T11:55:00.005-04:00

This is a truly ugly book with little bits of beauty hidden within its hatred. The author is a French novelist who was highly acclaimed by reviewers when this novel was published in 2000, at the turn of the millennium. If I hadn't been so sure of the author's satirical commentary on modern society and its danger of decline, I would have been tempted to push myself down the stairs in a wheelchair, like one of his characters, after reading it! I would not recommend this book to those who are faint of heart, or in a fragile mental state. That said, I believe Houellebecq has a lot to say in this book, and, for those with an open-minded global understanding of the world since the turn of the millennium, this book is a must-read. I personally am not fond of post-modern literature because of its gloom and doom, but for some reason this book really resonated with me. Out of all its despair and hatred, I found that I emerged from the reading with an unexpected hope for mankind and its future. In the words of Chuck Palahniuk: "It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything." . Engaging in this text allows the reader to start anew, after all of this dreadful post-modern angst has finally ceased.

Quote of the Day

2010-05-21T10:36:00.001-04:00

"Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none."
— William Shakespeare (All's Well That Ends Well)

What I am Pondering...

2010-05-11T08:48:00.002-04:00

My thoughts have been trying to get wrapped around three books and/or philosophies lately:
Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead, which supposedly has been gaining popularity recently (unfortunately for our country I might add), Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club, and D.H Lawrence's Women in Love. I've been trying to sort out their basic ideas and philosophies and will be bringing my thoughts to writing group tomorrow. All three works touch on many of the same things, but not all lead to a happy conclusion...more later.

I am looking for Simplicity

2010-04-20T13:22:00.001-04:00

Any fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius - and a lot of courage - to move in the opposite direction.
..................................... Albert Einstein

Just a Moment

2010-04-20T13:19:00.003-04:00

3 am
Sound of a Car
Gaping Wound
Immense Silence
But then again,
You were never here.

Shards of Glass
In your Underwear
That's what it feels like
To be betrayed
or Not??

Just one more!

2010-04-20T10:24:00.004-04:00

Just wanted to have one last post before leaving. This is a tiny poem I wrote a little while back. I would like to use it as a jumping off point for something else:

The wolf
smelled my outstretched hand,
and I
without hesitation
rubbed the length of his nose.

I like this quote!

2010-04-19T11:41:00.003-04:00

I like this quote by Einstein. It might even answer my previously posted question!

I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination.
..................................... Albert Einstein

We can read it the other way: If one draws freely upon imagination, then one could be called an artist. If you are coming up with your own ideas using your own power of creativity, then you can then be called a writer.

Heading to the Shore

2010-04-19T11:29:00.003-04:00

This will be my last post before writing group tomorrow and the start of our vacation, Wednesday. I know, it seems like I just started getting back into my blog, and I'm leaving already! Well, I hope to bring back many ideas for my writing, and I need the chance to relax and kick back for a while.

As I've been contemplating the idea of origins this week, I would like to end the week with this question, which I'm not sure has an answer:

When does one begin to call themselves a writer? Is it at the moment that the pen meets the paper for the first time? Does one have to wait until they are published so as not to be thought a fraud? I, myself, have always had trouble with this. Whenever I do introduce myself to someone as a writer, I immediately want to take it back. But, it's funny the reaction I get from people. I immediately am thought of as someone so cool (for the first time in my life, I might add.). People get so excited and immediately want to know what I write about and whether anything they do will appear somewhere in something that I create.

Still, within all this glory, I still feel it is too early. I guess it brings out my vulnerability, just like every time I press the "Publish Post" button on this blog!

Anyway, I hope everyone has a wonderfully exciting spring break and is able to enjoy the sunshine for a little bit, at the very least. I'll be back to post again very soon.

Yet another!

2010-04-17T09:29:00.001-04:00

Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.
..................................... Albert Einstein

Quote of the Day: E. M. Forster

2010-04-17T09:10:00.002-04:00

"A man does not talk to himself quite truly -- not even to himself; the happiness or misery that he secretly feels proceed from causes that he cannot quite explain, because as soon as he raises them to the level of the explicable they lose their native quality."

Those Elusive Beginnings

2010-04-17T08:53:00.003-04:00

I'm finding that having this week's theme of origins in the back of my mind has affected both my reading and writing this week (even as I look back on all of my posts!). I am exploring the origins of love right now. Where does it begin? How can we break it down into its essence, its bare essentials? I am also contemplating the origins of our world--watching Nova and its theories of the universe's origins, exploring the theories of theism, and revisiting ancient literature. Surprisingly, I just starting reading the novel Twilight, after seeing the movie and being astounded by, not necessarily the film itself, but its whole concept and philosophy. The book has drawn me in, surprisingly. It's considered a young adult novel, and I, at 41 years of age, seem to be an unlikely reader, so I hide the cover when I am in public. But, I will admit, I am loving it. Twilight follows our theme this week. How can love transcend all? Does love begin at all, or has it always existed without our being aware of it? Can there be an ultimate attraction between two beings, stronger than everything else, stronger than life itself?

This is By Susan Harris-Gamard

2010-04-16T16:43:00.004-04:00

This is...just is
As it should be.
Hands clasped, north and south
Two worlds collide and collapse within
Far beyond constriction.

Don't be afraid
To dive in.
Within
that greatest sense,
Only to find
That which you lost, long ago.

The Life of a Clergyman

2010-04-16T09:01:00.006-04:00

I’ve often thought it would be great to be a priest. What a wonderful existence, to be present at all of life’s greatest moments, to speak words of meaning to gatherings of people united for a common purpose. Some priests are lucky enough to run a school, and, if goodness is what is behind it, to experience the growth and learning of children and be there as they enter the world.

We seem to only remember priests at those important rites of passage: births, deaths, marriage, coming of age, and our unburdening of a sin that we are unable to forget. They are always there to observe us and help us through time’s transcendence, whenever we wish to reach for their help and guidance. They are at once passive, yet incredibly active in their passivity.

I find the lives of priests and writers to be very similar. We are both present at life’s greatest transcending moments. We don’t live conventional lives caught within the daily grind. We are somehow isolated and exempt from conventional existence. We are allowed to be unique and different. We live a monastic sort of existence. We observe people for who they are inside--our essence, our human foibles, sufferings, our love, our struggle to come to terms with the life we have been given. We are both searching for that ultimate spiritual experience, that moment of perfect transcendence.

I don’t dream of being a priest anymore. I don’t have to. After all, I couldn’t be one anyway. And being a nun is a whole different ballgame.

Thursday's Quote

2010-04-15T07:37:00.002-04:00

He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.
..................................... Albert Einstein

Quote of the Day

2010-04-14T16:09:00.002-04:00

To endure is greater than to dare; to tire out hostile fortune; to be daunted by no difficulty; to keep heart when all have lost it -- who can say this is not greatness?'' (William Makepeace Thackeray)

Emerge!

2010-04-14T15:26:00.002-04:00

~to arise from or as if from an enveloping fluid: come out into view

~to become known or apparent

~to arise from an obscure or inferior position

I am ready to emerge....

A Birthing

2010-04-14T13:55:00.001-04:00

Writing is like giving birth--excruciatingly painful to let go of those thoughts, yet liberating, glorious, and life-affirming at the same time, when you do. In the end, you meet someone or something you've never seen before, yet feel as though you've already met.

Great writing unfolds like a butterfly, stretching its wings for the first time.

The Origin of It All

2010-04-13T19:22:00.003-04:00

The topic for next week's writing group will be "origins". Our assignment is to bring in an excerpt from something to do with this theme. Here is my take:

Origins~~~

roots, ancestry, parentage, birth, beginnings, emergence, rise, source, cause
the point at which something begins its course or existence
causes operating before the thing itself comes into being
naissance (french for 'birth')
a start
where something unique in itself begins
a beginning
a clean slate
jumping off point
Where does something really begin, be it an idea, a feeling, a person or being, a group, a creative process, or a product?

Next week's theme is very pertinent to my life right now as I consider my own origins and the origin of my own creative process. Where should my own jumping-off point be? How to begin a project or a piece of writing? How did my own beginnings, or childhood, affect me as a writer today? A piece may originate anywhere, be it in the middle, beginning, end or just as merely an essence or seed in the mind.

I thought I would share a glimpse inside my impressions of my own beginning, or "naissance":

My Red Velvet Cloak by Susan Harris-Gamard
~written in the Fall of 2003

Mother, Mother, where have you been?
I miss that red velvet cloak
You held within.
I miss its soft caress
full of smiles and warmth,
and the love of a kindred soul
long lost, but never forgotten.

Mother, Mother
please put it on...
It isn't worn, or full of dust,
not yet, if ever it was.
Ah, but you have given it to me, for keeps
and I have put it away in safety,
so that I too may unfurl
It's red river of comfort
to the next Bright Star, who waits, in the wings.

Raft of Medusa

2010-04-13T18:19:00.002-04:00

Today, at our weekly writing group, the theme was non-traditional forms of writing. One form that was discussed was pictorial narrative. I thought of Gericault's painting "Raft of the Medusa". This is one of the best examples of French Romanticism, and it shows a traditional diagonal formation in order to express the emotion of the scene. More specifically, it consists of two pyramids of figures. I don't remember the name of the artist that was shown in group, but he also uses this figurative position in his paintings.

Absence makes the Heart grow Fonder

2010-04-12T14:01:00.001-04:00

I hope this is true, and that you haven't given up on me. I want to go back to blogging on a daily basis so, at the risk of blabbering on, I am going to write something everyday, whatever my thoughts are revolving around at the time. If I can't think of anything to write, I will, at the very least, post a "word of the day". Please forgive me though, if i do blabber on. I'm hoping something good will come out eventually. Bear with me , please!! Tune in again tomorrow. Hope everyone is having a nice Monday!

Word of today:

twilight

1. the light from the sky from full night and sunrise or between sunset and full night

2.a state of indistinctness

3. a period of decline

....my favorite time of day....