1. Total number of books I own:
More than the Fulton County Public Library (Kentucky, not Atlanta) but fewer than Anne Haines!
Seriously, we own several thousand books. My husband has books at school, in his office, and in a storage building he uses as a studio. My daughter has over 500 books--she is cataloguing them. We could use another room for just books (and we have a library). Reading is our drug of choice, followed closely by caffeine.
2. Last book I bought:
James Galvin: X (to replace a copy I gave away).
3. Last book I read:
It was a re-read: American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. This is a great book and bears multiple readings. I live very near Cairo, Illinois, which is featured prominently.
4. Five books that mean a lot to me:
The Bible (best stories ever)
Robert Louis Stevenson--A Child's Garden of Verse (I am still in awe of "The Swing")
Andre Dubus: Stories (thank-you gift from a teacher)
Vladimir Nabokov--Lolita (everything a book should be)
Henry James--The Ambassadors (reminds me that life begins at the age I am now)
OK, cheating and adding numbers 6 and 7--Daniel and the Dragon and The Misadventures of Jonathan Rabbit, written by my husband and me and illustrated with great charm by my husband. Very limited edition of one per child in our family.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Twined
http://www.carolynsandstrom.com/sisters%20holding%20hands.jpg
There is a poem here about sisters and tangled hair and moonflowers and twined hands...
I love this photograph. I wish that I could purchase a copy. I found it via Alison Stine's An Awfully Serious Girl.
There is a poem here about sisters and tangled hair and moonflowers and twined hands...
I love this photograph. I wish that I could purchase a copy. I found it via Alison Stine's An Awfully Serious Girl.
Walt and Al's Excellent Adventure
Happy Birthday, Walt Whitman!
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?...
— from "A Supermarket in California," by Allen Ginsberg
I was surprised to learn the following, a quote from Today in Literature:
For all their poetic differences, Whitman and Tennyson were not only contemporaries — they died just six months apart in 1892 — but correspondents and friends, to a degree.
Whitman praised Tennyson for reflecting “the upper crust of his time,” and Tennyson acknowledged Whitman’s own unique stature: “He is a great big something. I do not know what.”
Never was a better description written of Whitman. I'll be laughing at Walt and Al's Excellent Adventure all day.
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?...
— from "A Supermarket in California," by Allen Ginsberg
I was surprised to learn the following, a quote from Today in Literature:
For all their poetic differences, Whitman and Tennyson were not only contemporaries — they died just six months apart in 1892 — but correspondents and friends, to a degree.
Whitman praised Tennyson for reflecting “the upper crust of his time,” and Tennyson acknowledged Whitman’s own unique stature: “He is a great big something. I do not know what.”
Never was a better description written of Whitman. I'll be laughing at Walt and Al's Excellent Adventure all day.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
In Poker, A Pair in Hand; Here, a Pair of Hands
Here are two poems that, for some reason, I have twined in my head.
So Long--by James Galvin (in Agni 56)
I look down at my hand and there’s a wrinkling ocean in it.
A halcyon nest rocks on careless waves.
Small in the bottom of the nest, fledgling, my father curls.
He doesn’t look so good.
What I say, what he says, what does it matter?
I’ve got this ocean in my hand, and there’s no cure for that.
This Living Hand--by John Keats
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.
So Long--by James Galvin (in Agni 56)
I look down at my hand and there’s a wrinkling ocean in it.
A halcyon nest rocks on careless waves.
Small in the bottom of the nest, fledgling, my father curls.
He doesn’t look so good.
What I say, what he says, what does it matter?
I’ve got this ocean in my hand, and there’s no cure for that.
This Living Hand--by John Keats
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Sarcas-Meme--Taken from Another Blog
Have you ever stolen a book? Which book was it? Why did you steal it? Do you still have it?
I swiped Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book from a real-life hippie when I was 12 years old. I stole it because, well, it asked. I still have it. The pages are crumbling, but if you need a template for tire-tread sandals, I'm your girl.
Do you consider your life as a poet punishment for this and other thefts?
Not the comfy chair! Not the fluffy pillows ! I'm a fiction writer, mainly.
Do you often recite lines from old love letters to yourself, the ones you wrote to yourself instead of that person you were pretending to love all those years ago? Do you charm yourself? Are you seduced?
I am easily charmed but rarely self-seduced. I don't recite from love letters, but I can say the alphabet backwards, quickly.
Have you ever read a Hemingway story about catching VD from a hooker in a taxicab to your family at dinner? Which Hemingway story? Why? Did your family appreciate your point?
Nope, not Hemingway, but I have bored them with Absalom, Absalom before. And will again.
Can you admit you do not have a favorite poem? Why do you enjoy this lie?
I have a favorite poem--"I Knew a Woman," by Roethke. Occasionally, I cheat on it with "Crusoe in England." (My only monogamous committments are to my husband and Milky Way candy bars.)
When you read The Chronicles of Narnia back in grade school did you find the kids to be insufferable, especially that twit who ate all the Turkish Delight? Or did you just care about Jesus?
They were all insufferable, but I didn't read C.S. Lewis till I had a child of my own. I thought Turkish Delight was hashish till I read that book.
Do you dream of book tours during which you also sell meat and solve crime?
I do occasionally dream of solving crimes but am vetoing the butcher-book tour.
Which vegetal aroma first comes to mind when you read each the following words (be specific): library? textbook? classroom? bookstore?
One potato, two potato, three potato, four--so much starch!
If you answered any of these questions, do you realize what you have done? Are you proud of it?
If I had answered any of these questions seriously, I'd be very afraid.
Do you believe you will be remembered after you are gone? Do you believe you will be forgotten?
I believe I will be remembered, if only for my boiled omelets.
Thank you for taking the time to consider these topics. Your participation in this study enables or stymies the researchers, depending.
You're quite welcome.
I swiped Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book from a real-life hippie when I was 12 years old. I stole it because, well, it asked. I still have it. The pages are crumbling, but if you need a template for tire-tread sandals, I'm your girl.
Do you consider your life as a poet punishment for this and other thefts?
Not the comfy chair! Not the fluffy pillows ! I'm a fiction writer, mainly.
Do you often recite lines from old love letters to yourself, the ones you wrote to yourself instead of that person you were pretending to love all those years ago? Do you charm yourself? Are you seduced?
I am easily charmed but rarely self-seduced. I don't recite from love letters, but I can say the alphabet backwards, quickly.
Have you ever read a Hemingway story about catching VD from a hooker in a taxicab to your family at dinner? Which Hemingway story? Why? Did your family appreciate your point?
Nope, not Hemingway, but I have bored them with Absalom, Absalom before. And will again.
Can you admit you do not have a favorite poem? Why do you enjoy this lie?
I have a favorite poem--"I Knew a Woman," by Roethke. Occasionally, I cheat on it with "Crusoe in England." (My only monogamous committments are to my husband and Milky Way candy bars.)
When you read The Chronicles of Narnia back in grade school did you find the kids to be insufferable, especially that twit who ate all the Turkish Delight? Or did you just care about Jesus?
They were all insufferable, but I didn't read C.S. Lewis till I had a child of my own. I thought Turkish Delight was hashish till I read that book.
Do you dream of book tours during which you also sell meat and solve crime?
I do occasionally dream of solving crimes but am vetoing the butcher-book tour.
Which vegetal aroma first comes to mind when you read each the following words (be specific): library? textbook? classroom? bookstore?
One potato, two potato, three potato, four--so much starch!
If you answered any of these questions, do you realize what you have done? Are you proud of it?
If I had answered any of these questions seriously, I'd be very afraid.
Do you believe you will be remembered after you are gone? Do you believe you will be forgotten?
I believe I will be remembered, if only for my boiled omelets.
Thank you for taking the time to consider these topics. Your participation in this study enables or stymies the researchers, depending.
You're quite welcome.
The Miraculous versus the Miracle Whip
Rachel Carson has it exactly right:
We lay and looked up at the sky and the millions of stars that blazed in darkness. The night was so still that we could hear the buoy on the ledges out beyond the mouth of the bay. Once or twice a word spoken by someone on the far shore was carried across the clear air. A few lights burned in the cottages. Otherwise, there was no reminder of other human life.... It occurred to me that if this were a sight that could be seen only once in a century or even once in a human generation, this little headland would be thronged with spectators. But it can be seen many scores of nights in any year, and so the lights burned in the cottages and the inhabitants probably gave not a thought to the beauty overhead; and because they could see it almost any night perhaps they will never see it. (The Sense of Wonder)
What's astounding right around me, and do I even notice it?
Do I ever see the miraculous or only the Miracle Whip?
Which brings this poem to mind:
A MIRACLE FOR BREAKFAST--Elizabeth Bishop
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
—like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds—along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
—I saw it with one eye close to the crumb—
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
We lay and looked up at the sky and the millions of stars that blazed in darkness. The night was so still that we could hear the buoy on the ledges out beyond the mouth of the bay. Once or twice a word spoken by someone on the far shore was carried across the clear air. A few lights burned in the cottages. Otherwise, there was no reminder of other human life.... It occurred to me that if this were a sight that could be seen only once in a century or even once in a human generation, this little headland would be thronged with spectators. But it can be seen many scores of nights in any year, and so the lights burned in the cottages and the inhabitants probably gave not a thought to the beauty overhead; and because they could see it almost any night perhaps they will never see it. (The Sense of Wonder)
What's astounding right around me, and do I even notice it?
Do I ever see the miraculous or only the Miracle Whip?
Which brings this poem to mind:
A MIRACLE FOR BREAKFAST--Elizabeth Bishop
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
—like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds—along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
—I saw it with one eye close to the crumb—
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Jared Carter--Work, For the Night is Coming
Jared Carter is one of my favorite poets. When I think of poetry's face, his eyes are the ones I imagine looking back at me. Back in my salad days in the early 1980s, after a reading and day-long workshop with our poetry class (when he critiqued a poem of mine with much kindness and even more tact), he asked us to tell him something about one of his poems. Everyone else was struggling to think of something to say about the musicality in his poetry, the symbolism, the narrative impulses...I was able to talk about "At the Sign Painter's." Because my first husband was a signpainter, I knew the stick that a painter rests on the canvas, to steady his hand and keep it out of the paint, is called a maulstick (from Dutch for bad spot, plus stick). I could also tell him the words of the hymn "Work, For the Night Is Coming." That's just like me: Fact finding, geek girl detective. The things I wanted to say I couldn't articulate. I return to his poems over and over. His narrative poems are lyric, his formal poems are effortless, and his range is astounding. (A whole book is nothing but villanelles).
Here's some Jared Carter:
Narrative: http://jaredcarter.com/poems/2/
Love Poem/Synesthesia: http://jaredcarter.com/poems/6/
One from his entire book of villanelles: http://jaredcarter.com/poems/8/
Check out his beautiful website where these are found. I am sure you'll be as gobsmacked as I am over his poems, stories, and essays.
Thanks, Jared Carter, for all the poems I've learned by heart over the years.
Here's some Jared Carter:
Narrative: http://jaredcarter.com/poems/2/
Love Poem/Synesthesia: http://jaredcarter.com/poems/6/
One from his entire book of villanelles: http://jaredcarter.com/poems/8/
Check out his beautiful website where these are found. I am sure you'll be as gobsmacked as I am over his poems, stories, and essays.
Thanks, Jared Carter, for all the poems I've learned by heart over the years.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Fruit, Futons, and Little Women
Poesy Galore has a link to the debate over which is more poetic:
Fruit on the Futon VS Apples on the Sofa
Here's what I posted:
I'd vote for "apples on the sofa." There's Jo Marsh, curled up on the three-legged sofa in her garret, with six russets and a good book, and an ink-blotted story to worry over. Whether this is more poetic--I don't know. It certainly has more connotation.
I've tried several times to write about Jo March and her sisters. That might be a good poem. Four voices--maybe five.
__________
Update: I decided to take a survey:
I asked my husband: "Apples on the sofa."
I asked my son: "We don't have a futon."
I asked my daughter: "Fruit Roll-ups on the Futon." There's the clear winner.
Fruit on the Futon VS Apples on the Sofa
Here's what I posted:
I'd vote for "apples on the sofa." There's Jo Marsh, curled up on the three-legged sofa in her garret, with six russets and a good book, and an ink-blotted story to worry over. Whether this is more poetic--I don't know. It certainly has more connotation.
I've tried several times to write about Jo March and her sisters. That might be a good poem. Four voices--maybe five.
__________
Update: I decided to take a survey:
I asked my husband: "Apples on the sofa."
I asked my son: "We don't have a futon."
I asked my daughter: "Fruit Roll-ups on the Futon." There's the clear winner.
Happy Birthday, Jamaica Kinkaid!
Annie John is excellent. Her short story "Girl" is great, too.
Here's a good quote, once again from Today in Literature.
I am not at all -- absolutely not at all -- interested in the pursuit of happiness. I am not interested in the pursuit of positivity.... I feel it's my duty to make everyone a little less happy. You know that line in the Declaration of Independence, "the pursuit of happiness"? I've come to think that it has no meaning at all. You cannot pursue happiness. And to think that this bad little sentence has determined our lives."
— Jamaica Kincaid, in response to an interviewer's observation that her novels never had happy endings and her outlook always seemed bleak; Kincaid was born (as Elaine Richardson) in Antigua on this day in 1949
Here's a good quote, once again from Today in Literature.
I am not at all -- absolutely not at all -- interested in the pursuit of happiness. I am not interested in the pursuit of positivity.... I feel it's my duty to make everyone a little less happy. You know that line in the Declaration of Independence, "the pursuit of happiness"? I've come to think that it has no meaning at all. You cannot pursue happiness. And to think that this bad little sentence has determined our lives."
— Jamaica Kincaid, in response to an interviewer's observation that her novels never had happy endings and her outlook always seemed bleak; Kincaid was born (as Elaine Richardson) in Antigua on this day in 1949
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Blogoview
QUESTION: If you could turn any room or building in the world into your writing studio, what would you choose and why?
ANSWER: The sitting room in my apartment in Ghent, which is a section of Norfolk where the townhouses are Victorian. It was paneled oak, and the woodwork was beautiful. I had no money at the time for furniture, so I sat in the window seat (using, as a desk, a plastic cafeteria tray I'd swiped from Old Dominion), wrote very bad poetry, and dreamed of the day I'd have a house and a book of stories. I loved that apartment so much that I gave it to one of the characters in a story I wrote, "Horses." I'd love to buy that townhouse and renovate it totally.
ANSWER: The sitting room in my apartment in Ghent, which is a section of Norfolk where the townhouses are Victorian. It was paneled oak, and the woodwork was beautiful. I had no money at the time for furniture, so I sat in the window seat (using, as a desk, a plastic cafeteria tray I'd swiped from Old Dominion), wrote very bad poetry, and dreamed of the day I'd have a house and a book of stories. I loved that apartment so much that I gave it to one of the characters in a story I wrote, "Horses." I'd love to buy that townhouse and renovate it totally.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
And I Swore I'd Never Be a Doctor...
You're John Keats! You were born poor, trained to
be a doctor, and then decided you wanted to be
a poet. You threw yourself into poetry with
great dedication. You're very nice and
extremely dedicated to your art. You write
great letters and sexy poetry. It's amazing
how much you got done in your short lifetime.
Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
brought to you by
Thursday, May 19, 2005
From the Dictionary of Urban Slang
Windows update: A method of legitimately abstaining from doing any form of productive work
Boss: Hows that report coming on?
Slacker: Just doing a quick Windows update....
There's a poem in here--I just know it.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
05/19/1886: Rest in Peace--Hawthorne and Apples, Emily and Apples
Nathaniel Hawthorne died on this day in 1864. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow graduated from Bowdoin College with Hawthorne, and was a life-long friend; he describes the funeral day at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord — "white with apple-blooms," the dappled sunlight "shot through with golden thread."
The funeral of Emily Dickinson, held on this day in 1886, was held according to her wishes: a simple dress of white flannel, a white casket, only a few of her closest friends and family attending the home service, a bier of pine boughs and sand violets, the procession going out the back door and crossing the lawn "full of buttercups and violet & wild geraniums" (Thomas Wentworth Higginson's diary). As Longfellow's poem about Hawthorne noted apple blossom, so the memoirs of those present note the strong smell of apple on Dickinson’s funeral day. (from Today in Literature)
Apples, apples...Violets and pine boughs...a white flannel dress, a white casket ---the lawn full of flowers...
The Sleepy Hollow Cemetery--what a name...
The funeral of Emily Dickinson, held on this day in 1886, was held according to her wishes: a simple dress of white flannel, a white casket, only a few of her closest friends and family attending the home service, a bier of pine boughs and sand violets, the procession going out the back door and crossing the lawn "full of buttercups and violet & wild geraniums" (Thomas Wentworth Higginson's diary). As Longfellow's poem about Hawthorne noted apple blossom, so the memoirs of those present note the strong smell of apple on Dickinson’s funeral day. (from Today in Literature)
Apples, apples...Violets and pine boughs...a white flannel dress, a white casket ---the lawn full of flowers...
The Sleepy Hollow Cemetery--what a name...
This Is Freewritten and Unedited: Vital Statistics
I am 5 feet 3 and 3/4 inches tall. I'm 47 years old (will be 48 in July). I'm a mom to Daniel, 20, a musician and computer maven, and Raleigh, 7--she's a painter and a writer. I've been married to Harvey, who's 40, for nearly 2 decades. He's a sculptor, an illustrator, and an art teacher. He plays guitar and sings wonderfully. In his family tree are Edgar Allan Poe and the Carter family of Tennessee, (Mamma Carter and June Carter Cash). In my family tree are glassblowers from Russia, who moved to England and then to the Carolinas. My breath is caught in a small vase I keep in our parlor. Harvey and I were married after ten weeks' acquaintance. We live in an 1880s Queen Anne with gingerbread trim, in western Kentucky (a prominent notch in the Bible belt, rather than the South proper). My husband and I like antiques--collect what we can afford, covet what we can't. Right now we are in hot pursuit of Art Deco figurines and evil clown cookie jars. I went to 7 different elementary schools in 4 years. I went to a single college for 6 years. I studied history and literature in college--English history and American literature. I have a MA in English education. My first full-time job was in a medical examiner's office in Virginia, where I moonlighted in a new-wave band. (We were terrible, but I know all the words to every Blondie song). I then taught composition and research part-time at a local college before deciding I could not stand academia. I turned to medical transcription and am a nationally certified medical language specialist. This means I hear voices for a living and turn them into competent medical reports. This career allows me to work from home in my Pepe LePew pajamas and flipflops. I'm here when my daughter gets off the bus with her latest news about 2nd grade. That's important to me. My faith in God, in my family, and in the ACLU are central to my life. I support all three of them. I am addicted to coffee and crosswords, to Tennyson and Tuchman, and I'm writing again after 15 years. One of my best friends died of AIDS in the late 1980s. I miss him every day. My best friend from college has been missing for 20 years. I despair of finding her. I have 5 scars and a damaged larynx. It hurts sometimes to have a voice. I've titled every notebook I've ever kept "Pamela's Musings." My blog's named that, too, but I wanted to name it Chisenbop, because I count on my hands for everything. I have fast hands. I type 250 words a minute (no, I am not exaggerating). I have an octave plus 2 reach on the piano. I can pick your pocket. I can read your palm. I have a double lifeline and a single chin. I don't know if you'd like me. I'm way too boring.
Pamela
Pamela
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