Day six is actually the day that the entire Bread Loaf campus takes off. Well, more or less. There's still food to be prepared, rooms to be cleaned, people to be directed. "Off" applies mostly to the readings and workshops, but it really is a welcome chance to take a collective breath and catch up on laundry, or reading, or calling home, or any of the other things that hover just beyond our consciousness waiting to be addressed.
The morning was devoted to the Writer's Cramp race: 2.8 miles marked off around the campus. This always takes place the morning after the barn dance--a clever ploy of scheduling that limits the race to only the very hardiest of runners.
The day dawned drizzly and cool, but cleared just in time for the picnic at Robert Frost's farm. I didn't make it to the picnic, but heard good things about it. The staff went to town, ate lunch at A&W, a drive-up hamburger joint with root beer floats that is a local fixture. Then we went to Ben Franklin and bought props for the Harley Night at Treman cocktails.
Oni Buchanan gave a kick-ass visual poetry reading, a portion of which can be found on-line, followed by simliarly kick-ass readings by Katharine Noel and Cheryl Strayed. (Pronounce my name like a sentence, she said: Cheryl strayed.) I would also just like to mention that Cheryl and Katharine both brought their beautiful baby daughters with them. Every year I have attended Bread Loaf I have seen evidence that the staff understand that writers have lives beyond the conference and they are very accommodating and progressive in this. Yet another reason to admire the program.
The evening reading was fantastic. Rachel DeWoskin read from her very funny memoir Foreign Babes in Beijing (I hope I've got the title right). Then the ending gave me such a visceral reaction that I cried out before I even realized I had. It was so well set up. Following Rachel, Mark Doty read. I am a huge fan. He has been here all week and is so open and friendly and accessible. His partner is with him as well, and all I can say about that is that two finer specimens of male pulchritude would be hard to find. Then he read and wowed us even more. I'm sorry I didn't get the titles (planning to buy the book...), but there was a wonderful poem about being the only one in his group to hear the call of a bat and taking it as a personal message from the cosmos. He read The House of Beauty is Burning which left me breathless and burning, and a wonderful poem about dogs, retrievers, and Thanksgiving. There was a wonderful section of nonfiction, too. He talked about spirituality and the need to access your own. The Kingdom of heaven is within you, he said, and repeated. But the "you" can be deceiving. He said he prefers to think of it as the collective you. In English, he said, we struggle with this notion of a plural "you" and various regions of the country have dealt with this by employing various plural forms such as youse, y'all, you guys, etc. But it just doesn't sound as good when you try to insert it: The Kingdom of Heaven is within _____.
A waiter reading followed and this year's "crop" revealed themselves to be especially impressive writers.
Bread Loaf really is a magical place. Those of you who have been here before know what I mean. Those of you who haven't...what are you waiting for?
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
Day 5
The morning lecture was by Josip Novakovich and was titled "Writing in English as a Second Language or The Mot Juste." The most interesting part of the lecture to me was hearing how he had learned English. In school he had to choose between English and Russian, and the Russian class met in the early morning and he wanted to sleep in, so the choice was made for him in that small way. It really made me think about how easily and arbitrarily our lives can be forever altered..."Two roads diverged in a yellow wood..."
Josip said that once he began to write in English, he felt that writing without a broad knowledge of the language was actually freeing, and I was taken out of the lecture (again--my mind wanders easily) and reminded of my art school days when some of the best most freeing assignments were actually those that had restrictions. Make a painting smaller than a teacup. Draw with chalk on black paper so that you are only drawing the highlights. Make a pot that is not round, but start out throwing it on the wheel. Often, when we are told what we cannot do, our mind is forced to think in different directions and suddenly soars with thoughts of what can be done within our new parameters. Josip's analogy was a painter with a palette of three colors who can nonetheless combine them and produce wonderful creations. The lesson: Not all limitations are bad. Also: too many choices can be not freeing, but paralyzing.
Another interesting point was that the writer working in English, but as a second language, is not susceptible to cliches, because he or she does not know the English cliche and as a result the descrciptions end up being much fresher. Then Sigrid Nunez spoke up from the front of the lecture hall and said, "Yes, it's like the scene in Lost in Translation when the woman says, "Should I marry him? I asked myself in English: Yes. Should I marry him, I asked myself in Polish: No."
After that I had a lovely meeting with Julie Barer, a really approachable, intelligent agent who has opened her own agency after working at Sanford J. Greenberger. She seems really motivated and energetic and involved with her authors, one of whom is Gina Ochsner. Besides that, she's a lovely person.
Unfortunately, I missed the afternoon readings by Peter Orner and Toi Derricotte, one of the hazards of being on social staff--you simply can't attend everything. We were setting up for the big dance. We hung lights, opened cases after cases of wine, tapped the keg, cleared the dance floor, and even challenged the waiters to a dance off, thereby ensuring more people would attend the dance than might otherwise. Everything was ready. Except the DJ had trouble with the sound system--not good news for a big dance. There was much sweating and moaning and gnashing of teeth, but we did finally get the music going and the wine flowing, and a good time was (ultimately) had by all.
Josip said that once he began to write in English, he felt that writing without a broad knowledge of the language was actually freeing, and I was taken out of the lecture (again--my mind wanders easily) and reminded of my art school days when some of the best most freeing assignments were actually those that had restrictions. Make a painting smaller than a teacup. Draw with chalk on black paper so that you are only drawing the highlights. Make a pot that is not round, but start out throwing it on the wheel. Often, when we are told what we cannot do, our mind is forced to think in different directions and suddenly soars with thoughts of what can be done within our new parameters. Josip's analogy was a painter with a palette of three colors who can nonetheless combine them and produce wonderful creations. The lesson: Not all limitations are bad. Also: too many choices can be not freeing, but paralyzing.
Another interesting point was that the writer working in English, but as a second language, is not susceptible to cliches, because he or she does not know the English cliche and as a result the descrciptions end up being much fresher. Then Sigrid Nunez spoke up from the front of the lecture hall and said, "Yes, it's like the scene in Lost in Translation when the woman says, "Should I marry him? I asked myself in English: Yes. Should I marry him, I asked myself in Polish: No."
After that I had a lovely meeting with Julie Barer, a really approachable, intelligent agent who has opened her own agency after working at Sanford J. Greenberger. She seems really motivated and energetic and involved with her authors, one of whom is Gina Ochsner. Besides that, she's a lovely person.
Unfortunately, I missed the afternoon readings by Peter Orner and Toi Derricotte, one of the hazards of being on social staff--you simply can't attend everything. We were setting up for the big dance. We hung lights, opened cases after cases of wine, tapped the keg, cleared the dance floor, and even challenged the waiters to a dance off, thereby ensuring more people would attend the dance than might otherwise. Everything was ready. Except the DJ had trouble with the sound system--not good news for a big dance. There was much sweating and moaning and gnashing of teeth, but we did finally get the music going and the wine flowing, and a good time was (ultimately) had by all.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Day 4
Day Four's morning lecture was "Lyric Poetry and the Problem of Time" by David Baker which I had hoped to attend, but I still had workshop comments to complete before we met at 10AM so I skipped.
When our workshop met, we continued the excellent work from the prior meeting. The level of work continued to be quite high and again it was a pleasure to workshop. Ursula gave us an interesting two-part writing exercise which I will share:
Part One: Write about someone who has made you really, really uncomfortable, angry, unsettled or disgusted. Describe how they made you feel, then as you write, slowly make it more about them and less about your reaction to them.
Part Two: Write a scene in which you take your earliest childhood memory and give it to that character you have just described. It will help you to feel more empathy for the character and see him/her as a human being.
Important Twist: If you are woman, write about a man. If you are a man, write about a woman.
She also quoted Faulkner as saying that the act of writing fiction can be described in three parts: 1-Experience, 2-Imagination, and 3-"Where the hell did that come from?" (I really loved this.)
After lunch, I attended a craft workshop on voice, also run by Ursula Hegi. (I can't get enough.) I almost skipped this craft class and attended a different one because--after the morning fiction workshop exercise--I had reason to suspect that it would be more writing exercises and less lecture and after five days on the mountain I was feeling sort of "thinked out." But I had signed up and reserved myself a space and so I decided it wouldn't be fair of me to skip. And, sure enough, it was all exercise. It was valuable, though, if exhausting on a day when I felt as if I were swimming through pea soup. Here was the exercise:
We arranged ourselves into groups of about six or seven writers. Then she told us to all agree on an emotionally charged situation to write about. After much deliberation (seven fiction writers trying to collaborate was like herding cats). We finally settled on the funeral of a young man who had broken his neck diving into too shallow water. (Other groups had an older man coming out at a family Thanksgiving dinner, an older man being sent to a nursing home, and a December-August romance announced to the children of an older gentleman.)
Then, within each group, we were asked to write a short narrative scene from various points of view. If you were a man, your character needed to be a woman and vice versa. And each character had a different point of view from which to tell the story. We used a collective voice (we), a second-person voice (you), a limited third person voice (he, she), an unreliable narrator, the dead person, and I was the funeral director in third person. After the exercise we read them out loud and it was fascinating to hear how the same story sounded from all the different angles.
After dinner, which was not served by the waiters, as they had the night off, there was an amazing reading by Linda Bierds and Randall Keenan. Linda's poetry was amazing and all had a common thread of being told from the voice of various scientists from history, so it made for a very cohesive reading. There were poems either from the voices of, or about: Gregor Mendel, Erasmus Darwin, Charles Darwin, Marie Curie, Watson and Crick, and others. I really enjoyed it.
Then Randall Keenan delivered a fantastic reading / performance from a great short story titled "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" which, in one of those utterly bizarre coincidences of real life that you could never write into fiction and make believable, I had been singing all afternoon. I very rarely sing out loud in public, but I had been serenading the entire social staff prior to the reading, so it was kind of a weird moment when he said his story title and it mirrored the music in my head. But his reading was amazing.
The staff reading was tonight, and it was wonderful, although I freely admit to a particular prejudice. After the reading, we congregated at Treman (the faculty / fellow lounge) and had drinks, built a fire in the fireplace, and sat around talking about literature and life. These are some of my favorite moments at Bread Loaf, but I was hitting the mid-conference wall and so went to bed at about 11PM.
When our workshop met, we continued the excellent work from the prior meeting. The level of work continued to be quite high and again it was a pleasure to workshop. Ursula gave us an interesting two-part writing exercise which I will share:
Part One: Write about someone who has made you really, really uncomfortable, angry, unsettled or disgusted. Describe how they made you feel, then as you write, slowly make it more about them and less about your reaction to them.
Part Two: Write a scene in which you take your earliest childhood memory and give it to that character you have just described. It will help you to feel more empathy for the character and see him/her as a human being.
Important Twist: If you are woman, write about a man. If you are a man, write about a woman.
She also quoted Faulkner as saying that the act of writing fiction can be described in three parts: 1-Experience, 2-Imagination, and 3-"Where the hell did that come from?" (I really loved this.)
After lunch, I attended a craft workshop on voice, also run by Ursula Hegi. (I can't get enough.) I almost skipped this craft class and attended a different one because--after the morning fiction workshop exercise--I had reason to suspect that it would be more writing exercises and less lecture and after five days on the mountain I was feeling sort of "thinked out." But I had signed up and reserved myself a space and so I decided it wouldn't be fair of me to skip. And, sure enough, it was all exercise. It was valuable, though, if exhausting on a day when I felt as if I were swimming through pea soup. Here was the exercise:
We arranged ourselves into groups of about six or seven writers. Then she told us to all agree on an emotionally charged situation to write about. After much deliberation (seven fiction writers trying to collaborate was like herding cats). We finally settled on the funeral of a young man who had broken his neck diving into too shallow water. (Other groups had an older man coming out at a family Thanksgiving dinner, an older man being sent to a nursing home, and a December-August romance announced to the children of an older gentleman.)
Then, within each group, we were asked to write a short narrative scene from various points of view. If you were a man, your character needed to be a woman and vice versa. And each character had a different point of view from which to tell the story. We used a collective voice (we), a second-person voice (you), a limited third person voice (he, she), an unreliable narrator, the dead person, and I was the funeral director in third person. After the exercise we read them out loud and it was fascinating to hear how the same story sounded from all the different angles.
After dinner, which was not served by the waiters, as they had the night off, there was an amazing reading by Linda Bierds and Randall Keenan. Linda's poetry was amazing and all had a common thread of being told from the voice of various scientists from history, so it made for a very cohesive reading. There were poems either from the voices of, or about: Gregor Mendel, Erasmus Darwin, Charles Darwin, Marie Curie, Watson and Crick, and others. I really enjoyed it.
Then Randall Keenan delivered a fantastic reading / performance from a great short story titled "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" which, in one of those utterly bizarre coincidences of real life that you could never write into fiction and make believable, I had been singing all afternoon. I very rarely sing out loud in public, but I had been serenading the entire social staff prior to the reading, so it was kind of a weird moment when he said his story title and it mirrored the music in my head. But his reading was amazing.
The staff reading was tonight, and it was wonderful, although I freely admit to a particular prejudice. After the reading, we congregated at Treman (the faculty / fellow lounge) and had drinks, built a fire in the fireplace, and sat around talking about literature and life. These are some of my favorite moments at Bread Loaf, but I was hitting the mid-conference wall and so went to bed at about 11PM.
Day 3
Day three officially began with Robert Boswell's lecture "Process and Paradigm." It was really moving. He framed it by using the story of a young, desperate woman he met while on the road, staying in a hotel. It started humorously and ended very thoughtfully and made me reflect on the morals of co-opting other people's lives and desperations to make our stories. Let's face it, we all do it...and do we do it as a way to make the cautionary tale that Bill Kittredge spoke of, or to find understanding, or to simply entertain? What are the moral implications when we use a real person in our fiction? (Mind you, the whole lecture was not about this at all, but it was a powerful message that spoke to me.)
Here are the crib notes:
1-The Writing Process:
-Dress characters in clothes that make them uncomfortable.
-Throw in some instability; create a shifting ground (alcohol, smugness)
-Bring in a catalyst (a young woman who persists...like a story persists)
-Give your main character a sense of obligation (the masculine duty to buy her a drink when she offers to first)
-Offer a backward glance or a sideways reflection (often accomplished through the barest associative details)
-Then do whatever it takes to make the story work
2-Paradigm and Paradigm Shift
-A paradigm is the general collective of principles, patterns, suppositions and practices of a particular culture
-A paradigm shift occurs when there is any revolutionary change in a particuar way of thinking. An example would be a religious conversion.
3-How we think when we think about writing fiction
-conflict should not be imposed from outside, but should occur from within
-be mindful of the limitations of your story
-create a social paradigm in which the character participates (the young woman in the bar had lost custody of her kids--mothers are not supposed to lose their children)
-Tolstoy does this in The death of Ivan Ilych when he says, he was an ordinary man and that was terrible to be. (paraphrased) The paradigm stays the same, but Ivan's position in it changes when at the end, he asks, "how should I have lived?" His young son is there at his bedside but Ivan hardly notices--thus his question is answered.
4-Servants of Mercy
-In the Jean Thompson Story "Who Do You Love?" A policeman named Quinn opens the story by saving a possum from his dog. The possum is ugly and ungrateful and Quinn sees it (as do we) as a gratuitous act of mercy. Later in a convenience store there is a hideous man stealing cat food. His name is Gary and he is the son of Bonnie Livingood. Quinn takes them into his patrol car to talk. When Bonnie falls asleep in teh back seat, he lets her sleep--another act of mercy. Later, when Gary dies in a car accident, Quinn responds to the call first and is the last to leave the scene. Then he goes to see Bonnie and ends up having sex with her. Then, at the end of the story, the paradigm shifts when Quinn goes to find Bonnie later and she looks at him with disgust and tells him that she only slept with him because she felt sorry for him. Bang: Quinn's (and our) understanding of the world is changed.
-Peter Taylor's "A Wife of Nashville" offers a similar paradigm shift, involving race and gender in the south.
5-The Wrap Up:
-Take a look at your stories that are not quite working and examine the social paradigm.
-Search for patterns and use them.
-Ask yourself what social customs you accept without even considering them.
-Then, in the final wrap-up, "Boz" socked me in the gut by saying that he had come to understand that he used that young, desperate woman in the bar because of his interest in what her story could give him. Then, he told us, he had used her again, just now...but somehow--in this social paradigm--he thought he could get away with it. (Which of course, made us all instantly complicit as we had listened to the story of this desperate woman, and had laughed and gone along. It was a very powerful ending to the lecture. Let's just say my paradigm shifted.)
Later in the day there was a reading by Gina Franco (poetry) Allison Smith (CNF), and Michael Collier (also poetry). I missed most of Gina's reading, but I heard positive things about it, and what I heard was musical and lovely. Allison's story was a humorously melancholy examination of her childhood relationship to Jesus and how that ended the day her older brother died. And Michael's was excellent (as always). I was grateful to hear two of my favorites read. One about Spelunking and one about his son's mummified pet chameleon discovered behind the clothes dryer years after he went missing.
At lunch Cliff and I realized we had a few hours to kill and so decided to go for a hike. We walked about two-and-a-half miles up bread Loaf Mountain and back. It felt great to be weat and exhausted, but not so great when I had to still work the Treman Cocktail hour, smile, and serve drinks. We had our staff pictures taken, went to dinner, and then attended an excellent reading with Robert Hill (a collection of humorous mostly first-person rants), Barbara Klein Moss (who read from a story about two historical interpresters who blur the lines of the past--in college I worked in Colonial Williamsburg, so that was fascinating to me) and Mac McIlvoy read a very impressionistic, jazz-influenced sort of piece that was delivered in a perfect, smoky, sotto voce.
Here are the crib notes:
1-The Writing Process:
-Dress characters in clothes that make them uncomfortable.
-Throw in some instability; create a shifting ground (alcohol, smugness)
-Bring in a catalyst (a young woman who persists...like a story persists)
-Give your main character a sense of obligation (the masculine duty to buy her a drink when she offers to first)
-Offer a backward glance or a sideways reflection (often accomplished through the barest associative details)
-Then do whatever it takes to make the story work
2-Paradigm and Paradigm Shift
-A paradigm is the general collective of principles, patterns, suppositions and practices of a particular culture
-A paradigm shift occurs when there is any revolutionary change in a particuar way of thinking. An example would be a religious conversion.
3-How we think when we think about writing fiction
-conflict should not be imposed from outside, but should occur from within
-be mindful of the limitations of your story
-create a social paradigm in which the character participates (the young woman in the bar had lost custody of her kids--mothers are not supposed to lose their children)
-Tolstoy does this in The death of Ivan Ilych when he says, he was an ordinary man and that was terrible to be. (paraphrased) The paradigm stays the same, but Ivan's position in it changes when at the end, he asks, "how should I have lived?" His young son is there at his bedside but Ivan hardly notices--thus his question is answered.
4-Servants of Mercy
-In the Jean Thompson Story "Who Do You Love?" A policeman named Quinn opens the story by saving a possum from his dog. The possum is ugly and ungrateful and Quinn sees it (as do we) as a gratuitous act of mercy. Later in a convenience store there is a hideous man stealing cat food. His name is Gary and he is the son of Bonnie Livingood. Quinn takes them into his patrol car to talk. When Bonnie falls asleep in teh back seat, he lets her sleep--another act of mercy. Later, when Gary dies in a car accident, Quinn responds to the call first and is the last to leave the scene. Then he goes to see Bonnie and ends up having sex with her. Then, at the end of the story, the paradigm shifts when Quinn goes to find Bonnie later and she looks at him with disgust and tells him that she only slept with him because she felt sorry for him. Bang: Quinn's (and our) understanding of the world is changed.
-Peter Taylor's "A Wife of Nashville" offers a similar paradigm shift, involving race and gender in the south.
5-The Wrap Up:
-Take a look at your stories that are not quite working and examine the social paradigm.
-Search for patterns and use them.
-Ask yourself what social customs you accept without even considering them.
-Then, in the final wrap-up, "Boz" socked me in the gut by saying that he had come to understand that he used that young, desperate woman in the bar because of his interest in what her story could give him. Then, he told us, he had used her again, just now...but somehow--in this social paradigm--he thought he could get away with it. (Which of course, made us all instantly complicit as we had listened to the story of this desperate woman, and had laughed and gone along. It was a very powerful ending to the lecture. Let's just say my paradigm shifted.)
Later in the day there was a reading by Gina Franco (poetry) Allison Smith (CNF), and Michael Collier (also poetry). I missed most of Gina's reading, but I heard positive things about it, and what I heard was musical and lovely. Allison's story was a humorously melancholy examination of her childhood relationship to Jesus and how that ended the day her older brother died. And Michael's was excellent (as always). I was grateful to hear two of my favorites read. One about Spelunking and one about his son's mummified pet chameleon discovered behind the clothes dryer years after he went missing.
At lunch Cliff and I realized we had a few hours to kill and so decided to go for a hike. We walked about two-and-a-half miles up bread Loaf Mountain and back. It felt great to be weat and exhausted, but not so great when I had to still work the Treman Cocktail hour, smile, and serve drinks. We had our staff pictures taken, went to dinner, and then attended an excellent reading with Robert Hill (a collection of humorous mostly first-person rants), Barbara Klein Moss (who read from a story about two historical interpresters who blur the lines of the past--in college I worked in Colonial Williamsburg, so that was fascinating to me) and Mac McIlvoy read a very impressionistic, jazz-influenced sort of piece that was delivered in a perfect, smoky, sotto voce.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Day 2
This morning's lecture by William Kittredge was great. Here are a few of the highlights:
He talked about his friend Ray Carver (you may have heard of him) who was a snoop and never failed to "pay attention to the world around him."
"The medium we work in is the reader's imagination."
He said in college he read Eudora Welty's "Death of a Traveling Salesman" and it stopped him in his tracks. Meaning he didn't get it. He was baffled, so he dropped the class.
He belonged to a jock fraternity where the main activity was punching one another on the shoulder.
Sentimentality doesn't happen in life, just in the retelling. Avoid it.
Don't ignore your impulses, they are your strengths. Use them.
There are two types of stories: Cautionary tales and celebrations.
Get out of the way of the story.
"If you don't write every day, at least pick up your manuscript and carry it around, so as to stay in touch."
Conceptual stories don't make good novels because there are no characters to take over the story.
You have to first know what the question is, then find a false answer, then find the real answer, then explore the consequences.
When a reader finishes your story, you don't want him thinking about the story, you want him thinking about his own life.
Stories are the rafts we build and the maps we lay out on the table. (My personal favorite.)
Always strive for that slight, continuous sense of surprise.
After the lecture we had to return the yucky remains of last night's barn reception to the kitchen, pick up things for the big reception to occur later in the day, organize all of that, race to lunch, hurry to finish workshop comments, and then race to workshops. Mine was with Ursula Hegi. She is amazing and I am so psyched about workshopping this whole week. I am ecstatic to be working with her. My whole group seems to be really astute and articulate, too. Of course by the end of the conference we will all be slightly less astute and articulate.
Unfortunately I missed the Antonya Nelson reading because I was preparing for the reception, but Cliff said her reading was amazing. The big Treman reception passed in a blur, but went very smoothly. Dinner was scrumptious--I've been eating all teh wonderful veggie options. Tonight was a portabello mushroom covered in breadcrumbs and baked with a nice butter sauce over top. I love the food here. Afterward I did get to hear Sally Keith read a long lyric poem and David Shields read a humorous essay from his book about living with back pain.
The waiters are having a party tonight, but I'm skipping to keep my promise and update my blog. Thanks for reading.
He talked about his friend Ray Carver (you may have heard of him) who was a snoop and never failed to "pay attention to the world around him."
"The medium we work in is the reader's imagination."
He said in college he read Eudora Welty's "Death of a Traveling Salesman" and it stopped him in his tracks. Meaning he didn't get it. He was baffled, so he dropped the class.
He belonged to a jock fraternity where the main activity was punching one another on the shoulder.
Sentimentality doesn't happen in life, just in the retelling. Avoid it.
Don't ignore your impulses, they are your strengths. Use them.
There are two types of stories: Cautionary tales and celebrations.
Get out of the way of the story.
"If you don't write every day, at least pick up your manuscript and carry it around, so as to stay in touch."
Conceptual stories don't make good novels because there are no characters to take over the story.
You have to first know what the question is, then find a false answer, then find the real answer, then explore the consequences.
When a reader finishes your story, you don't want him thinking about the story, you want him thinking about his own life.
Stories are the rafts we build and the maps we lay out on the table. (My personal favorite.)
Always strive for that slight, continuous sense of surprise.
After the lecture we had to return the yucky remains of last night's barn reception to the kitchen, pick up things for the big reception to occur later in the day, organize all of that, race to lunch, hurry to finish workshop comments, and then race to workshops. Mine was with Ursula Hegi. She is amazing and I am so psyched about workshopping this whole week. I am ecstatic to be working with her. My whole group seems to be really astute and articulate, too. Of course by the end of the conference we will all be slightly less astute and articulate.
Unfortunately I missed the Antonya Nelson reading because I was preparing for the reception, but Cliff said her reading was amazing. The big Treman reception passed in a blur, but went very smoothly. Dinner was scrumptious--I've been eating all teh wonderful veggie options. Tonight was a portabello mushroom covered in breadcrumbs and baked with a nice butter sauce over top. I love the food here. Afterward I did get to hear Sally Keith read a long lyric poem and David Shields read a humorous essay from his book about living with back pain.
The waiters are having a party tonight, but I'm skipping to keep my promise and update my blog. Thanks for reading.
Day 1
Day 1 was a blur. My friend Cliff arrived. Lunch was good. Social staff worked and worked and worked and worked. What did we do? Honestly, I can't remember exactly, but I have vague memories of smiling, lifting, carrying, cleaning, organizing, smiling, giving directions, pouring drinks, answering questions, smiling, cutting cheese, building a fire, etc. Exhaustion keeps my brain from working well enough to give details.
I did hear an excellent reading by Percival Everett from his new work in progress that was very moving. And I got to watch it from up in the sound room where the tech guys tape everything, which was awesome. Michael Collier gave his always-charming opening remarks. Unfortunately I had to miss Linda Gregerson's reading because I worked nine to midnight at Treman Cottage, being social, smiling and nodding and answering questions, finding things, and being generally as helpful and accommodating as I know how to be. The job of being a Bread Loaf social staffer uses the three main things exhaust me in my normal life: being social, being intellectual (during workshops), and physical labor. I will be an absolute wet noddle by the end of week two.
I did hear an excellent reading by Percival Everett from his new work in progress that was very moving. And I got to watch it from up in the sound room where the tech guys tape everything, which was awesome. Michael Collier gave his always-charming opening remarks. Unfortunately I had to miss Linda Gregerson's reading because I worked nine to midnight at Treman Cottage, being social, smiling and nodding and answering questions, finding things, and being generally as helpful and accommodating as I know how to be. The job of being a Bread Loaf social staffer uses the three main things exhaust me in my normal life: being social, being intellectual (during workshops), and physical labor. I will be an absolute wet noddle by the end of week two.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Day -1
I'm posting early today because the schedule for today is packed. Last night was our last relaxing evening. A few of us congregated in a nearby building with a great view from the roof and drank wine and talked about life.
Today there's driver training to get licensed by the college--I'm hoping they'll just renew my expired one from last year and I don't have to watch that movie again. Then it's off to town for various supplies. We have a Harley Davidson theme night scheduled, so we have to find appropriate decorations. You know how much writers like to pretend they are tough badasses, so we thought we'd have a night just for that. I'll tell you all about my costume later--don't want to spoil the surprise. But I do love to don a different persona. Last year I went as Madonna for our '80s theme night. Which Madonna you ask? The early, Desperately Seeking Susan Madonna with big hair and leather jacket and lots of jewelry. It was a blast.
Then we have to organize all the liquor and get set up for a cocktail hour for the faculty, then break that down, head to dinner, and then we're giving a keg party for this year's waiters who will also be arriving today. I'll be tired and falling into bed by the time it's all over.
Off to stuff conference packets!
Today there's driver training to get licensed by the college--I'm hoping they'll just renew my expired one from last year and I don't have to watch that movie again. Then it's off to town for various supplies. We have a Harley Davidson theme night scheduled, so we have to find appropriate decorations. You know how much writers like to pretend they are tough badasses, so we thought we'd have a night just for that. I'll tell you all about my costume later--don't want to spoil the surprise. But I do love to don a different persona. Last year I went as Madonna for our '80s theme night. Which Madonna you ask? The early, Desperately Seeking Susan Madonna with big hair and leather jacket and lots of jewelry. It was a blast.
Then we have to organize all the liquor and get set up for a cocktail hour for the faculty, then break that down, head to dinner, and then we're giving a keg party for this year's waiters who will also be arriving today. I'll be tired and falling into bed by the time it's all over.
Off to stuff conference packets!
Monday, August 14, 2006
Bread Loaf Day -2
I say "minus two" because the real conference doesn't start until Wednesday and today is only Monday. Today we pow-wowed with the new members of social staff and practiced mixing drinks...a wet/dry run if you will. There were plenty of willing volunteers.
Before that we had an "informative" class on the Vermont liquor laws, which if I had to sum up in one word I would call..."insane." But whatever. It's a product of our litigous (Is that the right word, spelled right? Help me out here, Cliff.) society. Basically if a person drinks too much he and anyone he harms can sue anyone in the chain of alcohol delivery for crazy amounts and in all likelihood will win. But the person who actually opens his mouth and pours it down his own greedy gullet is not accountable. Hello? Personal responsibility? I think I must be a closet Libertarian who is still not comfortable using the term, but has begun to suspect...
An amazing surprise today! My sister and her boyfriend came by Bread Loaf. Talk about two worlds colliding! I hadn't even known they were in the area (they were camping nearby) but my other sister got a call from her and passed on my location and they showed up right here! It was marvelous to have her here even if it was only for about an hour (I had to go to work--wah). I didn't have much to offer them, but they did take me up on a quick hot shower (campers like those, you know)...such an amazing addition to my day. It has made me smile at random moments all day.
Tomorrow faculty, fellows and scholars begin to arrive. I can't wait to see several writer friends who'll be coming. I'll be workshopping with Ursula Hegi, too, and I'm really looking forward to that. Oh, and I just found out today (sneaking a peek) that Emily Raboteau will be the scholar in my group. I am so utterly psyched!
I will do my best to post something every day of the conference.
Before that we had an "informative" class on the Vermont liquor laws, which if I had to sum up in one word I would call..."insane." But whatever. It's a product of our litigous (Is that the right word, spelled right? Help me out here, Cliff.) society. Basically if a person drinks too much he and anyone he harms can sue anyone in the chain of alcohol delivery for crazy amounts and in all likelihood will win. But the person who actually opens his mouth and pours it down his own greedy gullet is not accountable. Hello? Personal responsibility? I think I must be a closet Libertarian who is still not comfortable using the term, but has begun to suspect...
An amazing surprise today! My sister and her boyfriend came by Bread Loaf. Talk about two worlds colliding! I hadn't even known they were in the area (they were camping nearby) but my other sister got a call from her and passed on my location and they showed up right here! It was marvelous to have her here even if it was only for about an hour (I had to go to work--wah). I didn't have much to offer them, but they did take me up on a quick hot shower (campers like those, you know)...such an amazing addition to my day. It has made me smile at random moments all day.
Tomorrow faculty, fellows and scholars begin to arrive. I can't wait to see several writer friends who'll be coming. I'll be workshopping with Ursula Hegi, too, and I'm really looking forward to that. Oh, and I just found out today (sneaking a peek) that Emily Raboteau will be the scholar in my group. I am so utterly psyched!
I will do my best to post something every day of the conference.
Bread Loaf!
It's so wonderful to be here again! The row of bright sunflowers along the stone wall look especially cheery today. The staff arrived yesterday, trickling in. It's really a special feeling to be here when it's quiet (the conference doesn't start until Wednesday). It's a different place when there are so few of us on campus. But it was wonderful to reconnect (hugs all around!) and be in the presence of writer-friends again.
Today we hit the ground running with training sessions and a huge shipment of food and libations to unload. I am ready to work!
Today we hit the ground running with training sessions and a huge shipment of food and libations to unload. I am ready to work!
Friday, August 11, 2006
Backpacking: Day 1
On our first day in the woods, we set out, about 8AM, shiny and fresh with full packs and glad hearts. (Okay, you know right now that this isn't going to end well...)
We drove to the parking lot and donned our packs after a quick trip to the outhouse for a luxurious last-minute sit-down pee (well, for me, anyway). Boots, check. Matches, check. Food, check. Bear canister, check. Water filter, check. Rain gear, check. Certainly, we had everything we would need.
At the start of the trail we met a generously white-haired, big-moustached fellow in rubber boots and red suspenders manning a team of white draft horses pulling a hay trailer with seats.
"Want a ride?" the fellow asked. "I'll take you both as far as Camp Santanoni for ten bucks."
"Nah," we said, smiling. "Thanks anyway. We're going to walk."
"How long you going in for?" he asked.
"Three days."
"A ride now'd shave five miles off those three days."
"True, but we want to walk it all."
"Well, I'll take your packs for free, then. Load 'em up in here. No charge."
"Wow, that's very generous, but we really want to walk it, packs and all."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." [foreshadowing alert!] "Part of the experience is to really beat ourselves up. We like that."
Oh, how our words can come back to haunt us.
So...we walked to Camp Santanoni, five miles, no biggie. The camp was amazing. Huge, built all of native wood harvested from the surrounding forest. It was built on Newcomb Lake in the 1800's by a wealthy family as a retreat, and no expense was spared. On the way we passed the Santanoni Farm ruins which had a barn, a creamery, a piggery, a smokehouse, an icehouse, a chicken coop, a turkey run, and lots of cleared land for vegetables. The farm operations stocked the Camp during its heyday. All of these buildings are within the area designated as "Wild Adirondacks" by NY state, and so they are no longer allowed to be privately owned.
But the camp is being restored by the town of Newcomb and it's an amazing job they're doing. It's been placed on the National Historic Register and so will not be torn down. We also got an excellent tour by a young docent who is living there this summer and helping with the restorations. There were plenty of interesting old photographs, too, something Len and I both love.
After the tour, we ate lunch and continued on our way. After consulting with the docent ("wet summer, soggy north trail") we decided to take the south trail around the lake and check out the Fish Rock lean-to there, which had come highly recommended. Upon leaving Camp Santanoni, we would not see another human--nor even footprints--until we staggered out three days later.
If the north trail was soggier than the south trail, it must have been really bad. On the south trail we had to cross beaver dams that had flooded whole sections of the trail...the trail itself was more of a stream with continuously running water...and at one point we crossed a bridge only to be dumped unceremoniously into a marsh. Now what? Well, there was nothing to do but cross it. We took a photograph of the trail--a two foot deep clear line of water surrounded by marsh grass and the very aptly named hobblebush. Even our gaiters were no match for this.
As it would turn out, though, the marsh was actually the easy (clean) part. Not so easy were the long stretches of black mud that sucked you down and threatened to pull your foot out of your boot. As we squelched forward (sschhlock! scchlooop! ssgllickk!) I kept hearing Ross Perot in his nasal twang saying, "That great sucking sound you hear is the sound of jobs leaving North America."
A long, soggy trail does funny things to your head.
But four miles later we were rewarded--Fish Rock lean-to! Ahh. It was everything that had been promised and more. Situated right at a deserted point of Newcomb Lake, with Loons and Cedar Waxwings your only visitors. It was marvelous. We had a lean-to all to ourselves, a fire ring, even a bench that someone had carted (or canoed) all that way, placed right out on the biggest rocks at the water's edge. The night was clear and lovely. We shared a meal of rehydrated Chili Mac and dried fruit. The weather was glorious and warm and we bathed in the lake leaving our clothes on shore. Then, as night fell we watched the stars pop out one-by-one and when the moon set, we lay back and watched the Perseid meteor shower. I saw three shooting stars and Len saw two, so I won (because it is, of course, a contest).
We forgot our soggy socks and dripping boots, our muddy gaiters and sore muscles and all of our responsibilities back home. We reveled in the glory of nature and solitude. It was wonderful.
...Stay tuned for Day 2.
We drove to the parking lot and donned our packs after a quick trip to the outhouse for a luxurious last-minute sit-down pee (well, for me, anyway). Boots, check. Matches, check. Food, check. Bear canister, check. Water filter, check. Rain gear, check. Certainly, we had everything we would need.
At the start of the trail we met a generously white-haired, big-moustached fellow in rubber boots and red suspenders manning a team of white draft horses pulling a hay trailer with seats.
"Want a ride?" the fellow asked. "I'll take you both as far as Camp Santanoni for ten bucks."
"Nah," we said, smiling. "Thanks anyway. We're going to walk."
"How long you going in for?" he asked.
"Three days."
"A ride now'd shave five miles off those three days."
"True, but we want to walk it all."
"Well, I'll take your packs for free, then. Load 'em up in here. No charge."
"Wow, that's very generous, but we really want to walk it, packs and all."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." [foreshadowing alert!] "Part of the experience is to really beat ourselves up. We like that."
Oh, how our words can come back to haunt us.
So...we walked to Camp Santanoni, five miles, no biggie. The camp was amazing. Huge, built all of native wood harvested from the surrounding forest. It was built on Newcomb Lake in the 1800's by a wealthy family as a retreat, and no expense was spared. On the way we passed the Santanoni Farm ruins which had a barn, a creamery, a piggery, a smokehouse, an icehouse, a chicken coop, a turkey run, and lots of cleared land for vegetables. The farm operations stocked the Camp during its heyday. All of these buildings are within the area designated as "Wild Adirondacks" by NY state, and so they are no longer allowed to be privately owned.
But the camp is being restored by the town of Newcomb and it's an amazing job they're doing. It's been placed on the National Historic Register and so will not be torn down. We also got an excellent tour by a young docent who is living there this summer and helping with the restorations. There were plenty of interesting old photographs, too, something Len and I both love.
After the tour, we ate lunch and continued on our way. After consulting with the docent ("wet summer, soggy north trail") we decided to take the south trail around the lake and check out the Fish Rock lean-to there, which had come highly recommended. Upon leaving Camp Santanoni, we would not see another human--nor even footprints--until we staggered out three days later.
If the north trail was soggier than the south trail, it must have been really bad. On the south trail we had to cross beaver dams that had flooded whole sections of the trail...the trail itself was more of a stream with continuously running water...and at one point we crossed a bridge only to be dumped unceremoniously into a marsh. Now what? Well, there was nothing to do but cross it. We took a photograph of the trail--a two foot deep clear line of water surrounded by marsh grass and the very aptly named hobblebush. Even our gaiters were no match for this.
As it would turn out, though, the marsh was actually the easy (clean) part. Not so easy were the long stretches of black mud that sucked you down and threatened to pull your foot out of your boot. As we squelched forward (sschhlock! scchlooop! ssgllickk!) I kept hearing Ross Perot in his nasal twang saying, "That great sucking sound you hear is the sound of jobs leaving North America."
A long, soggy trail does funny things to your head.
But four miles later we were rewarded--Fish Rock lean-to! Ahh. It was everything that had been promised and more. Situated right at a deserted point of Newcomb Lake, with Loons and Cedar Waxwings your only visitors. It was marvelous. We had a lean-to all to ourselves, a fire ring, even a bench that someone had carted (or canoed) all that way, placed right out on the biggest rocks at the water's edge. The night was clear and lovely. We shared a meal of rehydrated Chili Mac and dried fruit. The weather was glorious and warm and we bathed in the lake leaving our clothes on shore. Then, as night fell we watched the stars pop out one-by-one and when the moon set, we lay back and watched the Perseid meteor shower. I saw three shooting stars and Len saw two, so I won (because it is, of course, a contest).
We forgot our soggy socks and dripping boots, our muddy gaiters and sore muscles and all of our responsibilities back home. We reveled in the glory of nature and solitude. It was wonderful.
...Stay tuned for Day 2.
Backpacking: Day 2
Day two dawned bright and lovely. Newcomb Lake was still and flat and the surrounding mountains were so perfectly reflected that had you taken a picture (which we did) it would be impossible to discern which were the real mountains and which the reflected.
We ate our respective breakfasts. Len likes sweet in the morning and so had oatmeal with raisins. I prefer savory and ate my homemade concoction of grits, garlic salt, parmesan cheese and pumpkin seeds. (When I premade the mixture at home I discovered we were out of sunflower seeds and so used pumpkin instead--not nearly as good--but hey--on the trail? You eat it.)
We donned our nearly dry boots and I debated whether or not to break out my backup pair of thick, dry socks. The previous day's walking had given me a blister which I tried to pop using Len's hunting knife, but couldn't. The skin was still too supple and the corresponding pressure of the blister didn't offer enough resistance.
Another troubling development involved my second toe, specifically the toenail. (I know, I know, TMI, but backpacking really is all about the feet.) My boots have been my faithful companions for hundreds of miles in the Adirondacks, the Grand Canyon and elsewhere. They fit well and don't give me problems. But thanks to the combination of that sucking mud and the wetness that finally made it through the seams, my socks were being pushed down into my boots and congregating painfully against the toes. I also wasn't crazy about the way that second toenail floated around when I pressed on it, but we had a lot of ground to cover so I rolled my fresh, dry socks down to the ankle to create a rim that would keep them up, repositioned my gaiters, and pressed on.
Again, the trail was unbelievably wet, often with no way to go around the water; I immediately regretted wasting my dry socks. To cope, we became trail automatons, trudging straight through whatever we encountered. Running water? Meh. Splash, splash, splash. A blowdown across the trail? Psh. Crackle, snap, scrape. Our end point was a pair of lean-tos located on Moose Pond Stream. (So named because it is a stream that empties from Moose Pond and flows north. This tiny bit of information would prove to be very important on Day 3.)
As I said before, this trail was so remote that we not only saw no other hikers, we saw no footprints. No signs of human activity. And the trail crossed two good-sized creeks. At the first creek, Len used his poles and stepped from rock to rock; I opted to take off my boots and socks, roll up my pants and wade across. Icy water is an amazing tonic for poor, tired feet. The second creek (Calahan Brook, three miles on) was deeper with fewer exposed rocks and so we both removed our boots and waded across. The water was moving quickly and it wasn't easy to cross on slippery, rounded river rocks in fast moving water, with an extra 35-40 pounds on the back, but we made it, picking our way across slowly, then reapplied our boots and trudged on.
Shortly after this second crossing, I descended into madness. Specifically, mosquito-madness. Mosquitoes adore me. I am the blood hunter's bounty, a five-star sanguine sucker restaurant, and mosquito meals-on-wheels all rolled into one. When I enter their territory, there is much mosquito singing and dancing. And feasting. The particular hell of this area (affectionately named "Mosquito Alley" by yours truly) was compounded by a resident gang of black flies and the occasional mobster horsefly: they don't leave bites, they leave holes. I wore a bandana (open) over my head, held in place with a hat. Over that I wore my indispensable Survivor buff which is stretchy and conforms to any part of the body. In Mosquito Alley, though, no barrier proves too great for the ravenous hordes. They bit through the double layers of bug-sprayed fabric at my ears. They bit through my pants, my shirt, they swarmed and celebrated. They flew into the space between my glasses and my eyes. Madness, I tell you! MADNESS!!! Bwahahaha. I raced in front of my husband, arms swinging around my head, and speed-walked the trail for the next mile or so. I did not look back.
When the cloud of mosquitoes finally cleared, I waited for Len, whom the mosquitoes do not love as much, and we continued on. And on. And on. I gradually moved into the only emotional state that will allow me to continue hiking when every fiber of my being is screaming Stop, Stop! That state is rage. Rage will get me through anything, I've found. And I was surely pissed. Pissed at the trail for taking so damned long to deliver me where I wanted to go. Pissed at the running water that was everywhere it wasn't supposed to be. Pissed at the thick black mud that never betrayed its depth until you placed your full weight on it, and by god, pissed at the bugs. Pissed at the blowdowns that crossed our trail and slowed us up. Pissed at the heat index that was dangerously high that day. Pissed, pissed, pissed. If I had fallen and broken my leg, I would have risen up, pissed, and walked furiously on.
Let me tell you folks, rage really gets you there.
9.9 miles after leaving the glorious Fish Rock lean-to we staggered into the clearing of the Moose Pond Stream lean-to and made camp. In the way of all great physical trials (childbirth, marathons) we soon forgot our pains and reveled in what beasts we were to have come so far, so well. The nearby creek had a lovely sandy beach where we cooled our bodies and Len discovered the joy of creek-cold water poured over a hot scalp till the water runs cool. (I am honored to be the one to introduce him to this singular joy.)
The lean-to had a scythe and we cut the surrounding thigh-high grass (so grateful to have some work for the body that didn't involve carrying and walking that I sang "Don't Fear the Reaper" while swishing the scythe back and forth) and cut a path to the small beach. We spent the remaining afternoon wetting and rewetting our scalps as the sun blazed down and shone right into our lean-to. We hung our socks to dry and laid our boots upon a sunny rock, tongues hanging out, looking exactly how we felt.
We ate a whole dinner each that night (A Mountain House freeze-dried entree proclaims that it "Serves Two." Hah. Not after our day.) We gathered wood and assembled a fire which we would be too tired to light after the sun went down, and fell asleep knowing that the next day would involve nothing more than retracing our steps and connecting back up with the Camp Santanoni trail. We felt relaxed and secure. In the language of the trail, it would be all downhill from there.
...Stay tuned for Day 3.
We ate our respective breakfasts. Len likes sweet in the morning and so had oatmeal with raisins. I prefer savory and ate my homemade concoction of grits, garlic salt, parmesan cheese and pumpkin seeds. (When I premade the mixture at home I discovered we were out of sunflower seeds and so used pumpkin instead--not nearly as good--but hey--on the trail? You eat it.)
We donned our nearly dry boots and I debated whether or not to break out my backup pair of thick, dry socks. The previous day's walking had given me a blister which I tried to pop using Len's hunting knife, but couldn't. The skin was still too supple and the corresponding pressure of the blister didn't offer enough resistance.
Another troubling development involved my second toe, specifically the toenail. (I know, I know, TMI, but backpacking really is all about the feet.) My boots have been my faithful companions for hundreds of miles in the Adirondacks, the Grand Canyon and elsewhere. They fit well and don't give me problems. But thanks to the combination of that sucking mud and the wetness that finally made it through the seams, my socks were being pushed down into my boots and congregating painfully against the toes. I also wasn't crazy about the way that second toenail floated around when I pressed on it, but we had a lot of ground to cover so I rolled my fresh, dry socks down to the ankle to create a rim that would keep them up, repositioned my gaiters, and pressed on.
Again, the trail was unbelievably wet, often with no way to go around the water; I immediately regretted wasting my dry socks. To cope, we became trail automatons, trudging straight through whatever we encountered. Running water? Meh. Splash, splash, splash. A blowdown across the trail? Psh. Crackle, snap, scrape. Our end point was a pair of lean-tos located on Moose Pond Stream. (So named because it is a stream that empties from Moose Pond and flows north. This tiny bit of information would prove to be very important on Day 3.)
As I said before, this trail was so remote that we not only saw no other hikers, we saw no footprints. No signs of human activity. And the trail crossed two good-sized creeks. At the first creek, Len used his poles and stepped from rock to rock; I opted to take off my boots and socks, roll up my pants and wade across. Icy water is an amazing tonic for poor, tired feet. The second creek (Calahan Brook, three miles on) was deeper with fewer exposed rocks and so we both removed our boots and waded across. The water was moving quickly and it wasn't easy to cross on slippery, rounded river rocks in fast moving water, with an extra 35-40 pounds on the back, but we made it, picking our way across slowly, then reapplied our boots and trudged on.
Shortly after this second crossing, I descended into madness. Specifically, mosquito-madness. Mosquitoes adore me. I am the blood hunter's bounty, a five-star sanguine sucker restaurant, and mosquito meals-on-wheels all rolled into one. When I enter their territory, there is much mosquito singing and dancing. And feasting. The particular hell of this area (affectionately named "Mosquito Alley" by yours truly) was compounded by a resident gang of black flies and the occasional mobster horsefly: they don't leave bites, they leave holes. I wore a bandana (open) over my head, held in place with a hat. Over that I wore my indispensable Survivor buff which is stretchy and conforms to any part of the body. In Mosquito Alley, though, no barrier proves too great for the ravenous hordes. They bit through the double layers of bug-sprayed fabric at my ears. They bit through my pants, my shirt, they swarmed and celebrated. They flew into the space between my glasses and my eyes. Madness, I tell you! MADNESS!!! Bwahahaha. I raced in front of my husband, arms swinging around my head, and speed-walked the trail for the next mile or so. I did not look back.
When the cloud of mosquitoes finally cleared, I waited for Len, whom the mosquitoes do not love as much, and we continued on. And on. And on. I gradually moved into the only emotional state that will allow me to continue hiking when every fiber of my being is screaming Stop, Stop! That state is rage. Rage will get me through anything, I've found. And I was surely pissed. Pissed at the trail for taking so damned long to deliver me where I wanted to go. Pissed at the running water that was everywhere it wasn't supposed to be. Pissed at the thick black mud that never betrayed its depth until you placed your full weight on it, and by god, pissed at the bugs. Pissed at the blowdowns that crossed our trail and slowed us up. Pissed at the heat index that was dangerously high that day. Pissed, pissed, pissed. If I had fallen and broken my leg, I would have risen up, pissed, and walked furiously on.
Let me tell you folks, rage really gets you there.
9.9 miles after leaving the glorious Fish Rock lean-to we staggered into the clearing of the Moose Pond Stream lean-to and made camp. In the way of all great physical trials (childbirth, marathons) we soon forgot our pains and reveled in what beasts we were to have come so far, so well. The nearby creek had a lovely sandy beach where we cooled our bodies and Len discovered the joy of creek-cold water poured over a hot scalp till the water runs cool. (I am honored to be the one to introduce him to this singular joy.)
The lean-to had a scythe and we cut the surrounding thigh-high grass (so grateful to have some work for the body that didn't involve carrying and walking that I sang "Don't Fear the Reaper" while swishing the scythe back and forth) and cut a path to the small beach. We spent the remaining afternoon wetting and rewetting our scalps as the sun blazed down and shone right into our lean-to. We hung our socks to dry and laid our boots upon a sunny rock, tongues hanging out, looking exactly how we felt.
We ate a whole dinner each that night (A Mountain House freeze-dried entree proclaims that it "Serves Two." Hah. Not after our day.) We gathered wood and assembled a fire which we would be too tired to light after the sun went down, and fell asleep knowing that the next day would involve nothing more than retracing our steps and connecting back up with the Camp Santanoni trail. We felt relaxed and secure. In the language of the trail, it would be all downhill from there.
...Stay tuned for Day 3.
Backpacking: Day 3
Day three was the day were supposed to exit the woods, sweaty but exultant, and appropriately "beat up"--as per our expressed wish, told to the gentleman at the start of our trek.
Be careful what you...well, you know.
Our 5:30 AM wake-up call came in the form of a monster thunderstorm. Fortunately we were safe inside our lean-to and could enjoy the cracks of lightning that raised the hairs on our arms and the deafening thunder that shook the lean-to and echoed around in our chests. It was exhilarating, truly.
We rose as the worst of the storm passed and cooked breakfast under the shelter then walked down to the stream to filter water for the hike out. Yesterday's sandy beach was now under water. And the water in the creek was getting muddier by the minute. Ah, runoff, we thought. Of course. From the storm. Well, we'll just have to filter somewhere along the trail.
Over the next twenty minutes, the stream rose at an alarming rate and its flow increased in speed. Muddy whitecaps were forming and the roar began to approach deafening. During one of my tentative approaches, a huge tree trunk came barreling downstream crashing into rocks as it was propelled forward. This was when my morning grits began to roll around uneasily in my stomach.
Still, we hit the trail, retracing our steps and telling ourselves we just might have to leave our boots on to cross Calahan Brook, which would surely also be higher than normal.
Optimism can be a friend on the trail. It can also be your worst enemy.
We broke camp at 8:30 and I braced myself for another trip through the insanity of Mosquito Alley which was, if anything, even worse than the day before: the added humidity fogged up my glasses and blurred my vision as I quickened my pace and swung my arms and cursed the gods that made mosquitoes.
About a quarter of a mile shy of Calahan Brook my stomach made another lurch. I was in front, having not relinquished my Mosquito Alley pace, but I slowed down as I sensed what lay around the bend. Was the ground actually shuddering beneath my boots? Was that continuously rolling thunder I was hearing? I stopped, turned, gave my husband a meaningful look and rounded the bend in the trail that would reveal Calahan Brook.
The small beach of rocks where we had sat to reapply our boots the day before was under a good two or three feet of raging water. The brook was an angry, rushing, twelve foot wide torrent of mud and debris. For ten full minutes we entertained denial and insane optimism as we tried to figure out how we might yet get across. We hiked upstream to see if there were boulders high enough, or a downed tree that we could shimmy along to reach the other side. Reason soon took hold, though, and we realized that even if we made it across this one, there was another creek to cross, and no guarantee that the water was not still rising. Visions of that careening tree trunk I had witnessed morphed into a full-blown fantasy of destruction as I pictured one of us falling in or getting caught mid-stream and crushed before we could get out of the way.
Finally, we did the only thing we could do. We hiked back through Mosquito Alley, back to our starting point, and arrived at noon to reassess our options. I stripped off my wet gear and laid everything out to dry while we consulted the map. Should we wait for the waters to recede, spend another night and hike out the next day? We had an extra day's worth of food, but a quick listen to our weather radio told us more thunderstorms were forecasted. No, we could not wait this one out. The map showed that the trail we were on continued west and eventually met up with a road after about twelve or so miles (we had already hiked three-and-a-half). We could go that route and hitchhike back to the car...except that trail also crossed a number of creeks...should we head that way only to possibly have to turn back again?
As we studied our options, a helicopter flew low and nearby, hovering for several minutes. It was an ominous, out-of-place sound and we searched the sky but could not spot it. Later we learned that a young teenaged boy had drowned nearby. Were we hearing the sound of a body retrieval?
We realized that if we were to get out that day we would have to think of other, less obvious options. The map showed that the trail we eventually hoped to hook up with could be reached by an old logging trail that went halfway around Moose Pond (I would have called it a lake--it was very large, but what do I know about the nomenclature of bodies of water?). And Moose Pond Stream--which had the only bridge on the whole trail right there at our lean-to--emptied from Moose Pond, flowing north. Consequently, no creeks emptied into it from the west. If we were to cross the bridge over Moose Pond Stream and stay to the west of it (not a problem--there was no crossing that bad boy), hug the stream and bushwhack, we would eventually reach Moose Pond, yes? Then we could hug Moose Pond until we reached the old logging trail. It could work.
Old Optimism (ever our pal) took a look at that map and said, "It looks to be about three miles to the lake. The contour lines show it's pretty flat. Let's do it!"
So we did. We redressed and launched off feeling very clever and proud of ourselves and we started to bushwhack. I'd tell you all about that experience, but the thing is, it's pretty murky. And troubling to remember. I can tell you that it was more like seven miles than three, not counting all the swamps and blowdowns and inlets we had to hike around. It was hot, and buggier than I can describe, and the forests were so thick with undergrowth we had to literally fight our way through.
Each small rise or clearing visible through the trees gave us giddy, unreasonable hope. Was it the lake? Upon reaching the rise or the clearing we were invariably faced with but a different obstacle. Two that made our hearts drop into our boots and utter the mother of all expletives, swearing to sit down and quit forever were the immense stands of hobblebush (long, intertwining shrubs that cling fiercely to one another, making passage nearly impossible) and the areas of six-foot high pines so thick that we scratched our faces and arms as we pushed desperately through them.
We took turns giving up and then bolstering each other back to the non-existent trail. We broke out the Tylenol and the ginseng energy packets. We cursed and stumbled and lost our way. The shadows began to lengthen and we did not know exactly where we were. Had we reached Moose Pond--the beacon that would set us to rights? We thought we had, but where was it? Then we lost sight of the stream and could not determine our location even with the compass and map.
It was the combination of my stubborn insistence that we go east--the sun was setting so we stepped on our shadows to ensure we went in a direction that would lead us either to the stream or the lake--and Len's recognition of the characteristic slides of Santanoni Mountain that finally set us right. Oh, and the fact that when we did reach water, it was flowing north--Moose Pond Stream, we told ourselves. It had to be. But even with those landmarks, our optimism had betrayed us. We had thought we were farther along than we were. (We wondered briefly, had we missed the lake altogether?)
When you're charting your own course, it's the small things--the little setbacks that would be easily absorbed under normal circumstances--that prey on your psyche. When your whole body is under duress, and your mind is struggling to keep pace and think clearly through a haze of exhaustion, it's the little things that get to you.
Especially the false hope. Each time we thought we had reached the lake--because we wanted to believe it more than anything, and because we had walked so terribly, terribly far--but found we hadn't, the blow was especially crushing. It was like being dehydrated in the desert and seeing a mirage, running toward it gleefully and then being rewarded with handfuls of sand when you thought you were plunging your wrists into sparkling water.
And each time we had to stop and filter more water it was like admitting failure. We were still not where we needed to be and our punishment was to have to filter more water. Each pump of the handle was a swish of recrimination: Not there yet, not there yet, not there yet. It takes sixty pumps to fill a bottle.
As we struggled forward, our minds took hold of one simple fact: we needed to see the lake. Every other longing receded. Got to get to the lake. Got to see the lake. We must be almost there. We've got to be almost there.
When we finally topped yet another painful rise and saw the lake, it was an amazing feeling. Pick your metaphor, but be sure it includes a group of dirty, wandering outcasts standing on a ridge and viewing the promised land for the first time.
But even that gave us false hope, as we imagined that the rest of the way would be easy going. It wasn't. We still had two hours of struggle ahead of us in waning daylight. A quick consultation of the map showed three inlets coming into the lake before we would reach the old logging road. Each one of those inlets (and there turned out to be four, not three, Mr. Mapmaker, but who's counting?) represented a substantial rerouting that involved hiking downhill to the stream, walking upstream till we found a crossing point, hiking back downstream, and then hiking back up the other side...all while pushing through the aforementioned nasty hobblebushes and stands of aggressive young pines.
After passing the second inlet (or was it the third?) we spotted something bright red far ahead of us at the edge of the lake. "It's a tent," I said, wanting desperately for that to be true. "It's got to be a tent." It was not a naturally occurring red--not Cardinal Red or Wildflower Red, but Polyester Red or perhaps Ripstop-Nylon Red. And lo! We had a new set for our sights: Ripstop-Nylon Red, here we come!
But there were more moments of false hope to get through first. We came across herd trails or the remains of old wagon trails that would give us brief surges of elation, only to have them peter out or wind in hopelessly wrong directions. At one point we entered a clearing and found artifacts from an old Adirondack camp. A potter for ten years in my early life, making 18th century reproduction stoneware, I immediately spotted a shard from an old salt-fired crock, which I kept, adding to my pack weight, but hey, we were almost there! Then I spotted the door from an old wood-fired stove--Manufactured in Buffalo, NY, it proclaimed in a tidy cast-iron font. Suddenly my eyes could see everything that was old and man-made sticking out of the dirt. A tiny, cylindrical, handblown, green glass apothecary tube--intact--was the next treasure spotted. My husband collects small, old bottles; I handed it over with ceremonious pride.
In the previous century a law was passed pronouncing this portion of the high peaks Adirondacks "Wild New York" and any man-made structures were burned to allow the woods to return to their natural state. We had stumbled upon one such site. And there was a road that led away. We were there! We had made it! Visions of Dorothy and Toto flew to mind. Finally, a yellow brick road, and all we would have to do was follow it.
Only it died out, too. And we were dumped back into the woods, near the lake, at the end of another dead trail, some unknown distance from the campsite. It's difficult to convey how literally spirit-crushing such hopes-proved-false can be. But they were. Are.
And summoning yet another round of we're-almost-theres, we pushed on. And finally, finally, we found the real trail and the first campsite. I wanted to fall to the ground in the fading light and take this gift and set up camp, but unbelievably, Len said, "Let's go a little farther. I'm not crazy about this one."
My husband, the man with two heads who speaks in flaming tongues of fire. What had he just said? Keep going? No, no, surely not. Thankfully (for both of us), he was the one carrying the firearm in his pack and not me. I could be writing an obituary right now, instead of this epistle. But I walked on.
200 yards or so later we reached Ripstop-Nylon Red. And to my horror, it belonged to a life jacket bobbing far too ominously in the water at the front of a capsized canoe. I was sure there was a body underneath. As sure as I have been of anything. It was too creepy, too incongruous, too man-made a thing in the midst of our crazy survival adventure to be anything but a drowned human. I couldn't look at it and couldn't look away. Where were the arms? The bloated legs? The hair, floating above the submerged face? There wasn't any. But I couldn't seem to convince my mind of that no matter how I tried.
We set up camp, filtered water, shed our filthy, filthy clothes and boots and shared our last freeze-dried meal as the mosquitoes also feasted in the attractive glow of our headlamps. Then we fell into our bags--well, onto them, as it was still quite hot--and all this while trying not to hear the sounds of Ripstop-Nylon Red, dead in the water, lapping against the shore.
...Day 4 to follow.
Be careful what you...well, you know.
Our 5:30 AM wake-up call came in the form of a monster thunderstorm. Fortunately we were safe inside our lean-to and could enjoy the cracks of lightning that raised the hairs on our arms and the deafening thunder that shook the lean-to and echoed around in our chests. It was exhilarating, truly.
We rose as the worst of the storm passed and cooked breakfast under the shelter then walked down to the stream to filter water for the hike out. Yesterday's sandy beach was now under water. And the water in the creek was getting muddier by the minute. Ah, runoff, we thought. Of course. From the storm. Well, we'll just have to filter somewhere along the trail.
Over the next twenty minutes, the stream rose at an alarming rate and its flow increased in speed. Muddy whitecaps were forming and the roar began to approach deafening. During one of my tentative approaches, a huge tree trunk came barreling downstream crashing into rocks as it was propelled forward. This was when my morning grits began to roll around uneasily in my stomach.
Still, we hit the trail, retracing our steps and telling ourselves we just might have to leave our boots on to cross Calahan Brook, which would surely also be higher than normal.
Optimism can be a friend on the trail. It can also be your worst enemy.
We broke camp at 8:30 and I braced myself for another trip through the insanity of Mosquito Alley which was, if anything, even worse than the day before: the added humidity fogged up my glasses and blurred my vision as I quickened my pace and swung my arms and cursed the gods that made mosquitoes.
About a quarter of a mile shy of Calahan Brook my stomach made another lurch. I was in front, having not relinquished my Mosquito Alley pace, but I slowed down as I sensed what lay around the bend. Was the ground actually shuddering beneath my boots? Was that continuously rolling thunder I was hearing? I stopped, turned, gave my husband a meaningful look and rounded the bend in the trail that would reveal Calahan Brook.
The small beach of rocks where we had sat to reapply our boots the day before was under a good two or three feet of raging water. The brook was an angry, rushing, twelve foot wide torrent of mud and debris. For ten full minutes we entertained denial and insane optimism as we tried to figure out how we might yet get across. We hiked upstream to see if there were boulders high enough, or a downed tree that we could shimmy along to reach the other side. Reason soon took hold, though, and we realized that even if we made it across this one, there was another creek to cross, and no guarantee that the water was not still rising. Visions of that careening tree trunk I had witnessed morphed into a full-blown fantasy of destruction as I pictured one of us falling in or getting caught mid-stream and crushed before we could get out of the way.
Finally, we did the only thing we could do. We hiked back through Mosquito Alley, back to our starting point, and arrived at noon to reassess our options. I stripped off my wet gear and laid everything out to dry while we consulted the map. Should we wait for the waters to recede, spend another night and hike out the next day? We had an extra day's worth of food, but a quick listen to our weather radio told us more thunderstorms were forecasted. No, we could not wait this one out. The map showed that the trail we were on continued west and eventually met up with a road after about twelve or so miles (we had already hiked three-and-a-half). We could go that route and hitchhike back to the car...except that trail also crossed a number of creeks...should we head that way only to possibly have to turn back again?
As we studied our options, a helicopter flew low and nearby, hovering for several minutes. It was an ominous, out-of-place sound and we searched the sky but could not spot it. Later we learned that a young teenaged boy had drowned nearby. Were we hearing the sound of a body retrieval?
We realized that if we were to get out that day we would have to think of other, less obvious options. The map showed that the trail we eventually hoped to hook up with could be reached by an old logging trail that went halfway around Moose Pond (I would have called it a lake--it was very large, but what do I know about the nomenclature of bodies of water?). And Moose Pond Stream--which had the only bridge on the whole trail right there at our lean-to--emptied from Moose Pond, flowing north. Consequently, no creeks emptied into it from the west. If we were to cross the bridge over Moose Pond Stream and stay to the west of it (not a problem--there was no crossing that bad boy), hug the stream and bushwhack, we would eventually reach Moose Pond, yes? Then we could hug Moose Pond until we reached the old logging trail. It could work.
Old Optimism (ever our pal) took a look at that map and said, "It looks to be about three miles to the lake. The contour lines show it's pretty flat. Let's do it!"
So we did. We redressed and launched off feeling very clever and proud of ourselves and we started to bushwhack. I'd tell you all about that experience, but the thing is, it's pretty murky. And troubling to remember. I can tell you that it was more like seven miles than three, not counting all the swamps and blowdowns and inlets we had to hike around. It was hot, and buggier than I can describe, and the forests were so thick with undergrowth we had to literally fight our way through.
Each small rise or clearing visible through the trees gave us giddy, unreasonable hope. Was it the lake? Upon reaching the rise or the clearing we were invariably faced with but a different obstacle. Two that made our hearts drop into our boots and utter the mother of all expletives, swearing to sit down and quit forever were the immense stands of hobblebush (long, intertwining shrubs that cling fiercely to one another, making passage nearly impossible) and the areas of six-foot high pines so thick that we scratched our faces and arms as we pushed desperately through them.
We took turns giving up and then bolstering each other back to the non-existent trail. We broke out the Tylenol and the ginseng energy packets. We cursed and stumbled and lost our way. The shadows began to lengthen and we did not know exactly where we were. Had we reached Moose Pond--the beacon that would set us to rights? We thought we had, but where was it? Then we lost sight of the stream and could not determine our location even with the compass and map.
It was the combination of my stubborn insistence that we go east--the sun was setting so we stepped on our shadows to ensure we went in a direction that would lead us either to the stream or the lake--and Len's recognition of the characteristic slides of Santanoni Mountain that finally set us right. Oh, and the fact that when we did reach water, it was flowing north--Moose Pond Stream, we told ourselves. It had to be. But even with those landmarks, our optimism had betrayed us. We had thought we were farther along than we were. (We wondered briefly, had we missed the lake altogether?)
When you're charting your own course, it's the small things--the little setbacks that would be easily absorbed under normal circumstances--that prey on your psyche. When your whole body is under duress, and your mind is struggling to keep pace and think clearly through a haze of exhaustion, it's the little things that get to you.
Especially the false hope. Each time we thought we had reached the lake--because we wanted to believe it more than anything, and because we had walked so terribly, terribly far--but found we hadn't, the blow was especially crushing. It was like being dehydrated in the desert and seeing a mirage, running toward it gleefully and then being rewarded with handfuls of sand when you thought you were plunging your wrists into sparkling water.
And each time we had to stop and filter more water it was like admitting failure. We were still not where we needed to be and our punishment was to have to filter more water. Each pump of the handle was a swish of recrimination: Not there yet, not there yet, not there yet. It takes sixty pumps to fill a bottle.
As we struggled forward, our minds took hold of one simple fact: we needed to see the lake. Every other longing receded. Got to get to the lake. Got to see the lake. We must be almost there. We've got to be almost there.
When we finally topped yet another painful rise and saw the lake, it was an amazing feeling. Pick your metaphor, but be sure it includes a group of dirty, wandering outcasts standing on a ridge and viewing the promised land for the first time.
But even that gave us false hope, as we imagined that the rest of the way would be easy going. It wasn't. We still had two hours of struggle ahead of us in waning daylight. A quick consultation of the map showed three inlets coming into the lake before we would reach the old logging road. Each one of those inlets (and there turned out to be four, not three, Mr. Mapmaker, but who's counting?) represented a substantial rerouting that involved hiking downhill to the stream, walking upstream till we found a crossing point, hiking back downstream, and then hiking back up the other side...all while pushing through the aforementioned nasty hobblebushes and stands of aggressive young pines.
After passing the second inlet (or was it the third?) we spotted something bright red far ahead of us at the edge of the lake. "It's a tent," I said, wanting desperately for that to be true. "It's got to be a tent." It was not a naturally occurring red--not Cardinal Red or Wildflower Red, but Polyester Red or perhaps Ripstop-Nylon Red. And lo! We had a new set for our sights: Ripstop-Nylon Red, here we come!
But there were more moments of false hope to get through first. We came across herd trails or the remains of old wagon trails that would give us brief surges of elation, only to have them peter out or wind in hopelessly wrong directions. At one point we entered a clearing and found artifacts from an old Adirondack camp. A potter for ten years in my early life, making 18th century reproduction stoneware, I immediately spotted a shard from an old salt-fired crock, which I kept, adding to my pack weight, but hey, we were almost there! Then I spotted the door from an old wood-fired stove--Manufactured in Buffalo, NY, it proclaimed in a tidy cast-iron font. Suddenly my eyes could see everything that was old and man-made sticking out of the dirt. A tiny, cylindrical, handblown, green glass apothecary tube--intact--was the next treasure spotted. My husband collects small, old bottles; I handed it over with ceremonious pride.
In the previous century a law was passed pronouncing this portion of the high peaks Adirondacks "Wild New York" and any man-made structures were burned to allow the woods to return to their natural state. We had stumbled upon one such site. And there was a road that led away. We were there! We had made it! Visions of Dorothy and Toto flew to mind. Finally, a yellow brick road, and all we would have to do was follow it.
Only it died out, too. And we were dumped back into the woods, near the lake, at the end of another dead trail, some unknown distance from the campsite. It's difficult to convey how literally spirit-crushing such hopes-proved-false can be. But they were. Are.
And summoning yet another round of we're-almost-theres, we pushed on. And finally, finally, we found the real trail and the first campsite. I wanted to fall to the ground in the fading light and take this gift and set up camp, but unbelievably, Len said, "Let's go a little farther. I'm not crazy about this one."
My husband, the man with two heads who speaks in flaming tongues of fire. What had he just said? Keep going? No, no, surely not. Thankfully (for both of us), he was the one carrying the firearm in his pack and not me. I could be writing an obituary right now, instead of this epistle. But I walked on.
200 yards or so later we reached Ripstop-Nylon Red. And to my horror, it belonged to a life jacket bobbing far too ominously in the water at the front of a capsized canoe. I was sure there was a body underneath. As sure as I have been of anything. It was too creepy, too incongruous, too man-made a thing in the midst of our crazy survival adventure to be anything but a drowned human. I couldn't look at it and couldn't look away. Where were the arms? The bloated legs? The hair, floating above the submerged face? There wasn't any. But I couldn't seem to convince my mind of that no matter how I tried.
We set up camp, filtered water, shed our filthy, filthy clothes and boots and shared our last freeze-dried meal as the mosquitoes also feasted in the attractive glow of our headlamps. Then we fell into our bags--well, onto them, as it was still quite hot--and all this while trying not to hear the sounds of Ripstop-Nylon Red, dead in the water, lapping against the shore.
...Day 4 to follow.
Backpacking: Day 4
I think I've put off writing about this day simply because in the grand scheme of the trip, it was fairly uneventful. It was the culmination of the trip, and yet there are no mighty struggles to recount, no hallucinations that I couldn't escape, no extreme obstacles to overcome.
Unless of course you count our battered feet as obstacles. Did you know that enough moleskin can actually keep a floating toenail in place for seven miles of hiking? And that not enough moleskin (never be stingy!) can actually be worse than none at all?
As we dressed for the day, I was able to finally pop the ever-growing blister on my second toe with the hunting knife. (Note to self: add a safety pin to the first-aid kit for ease of blister popping.) Len's left heel had developed a nasty maw of a thing--formed by a hot spot that became a blister that relinquished its skin to the repeated abuse and turned into what became affectionately known as the "gaping pus-hole." (Len's note to self: apply moleskin before the hot spot becomes a blister, and be sure to apply enough moleskin that it doesn't come loose and abrade the area even more.)
Our carrot-on-the-stick, our main reason for wanting desperately to get out of the woods and into civilization is a magical place called the Keene Valley Lodge, a place we go every year to recharge and reboot (literally). The owners, George and Laurie Daniels are hikers themselves and their Bed and Breakfast is as cozy and relaxing as home, without the need to cook and pick up after yourself, and their breakfasts are...is "legendary" too grand a word? Trust me when I say, if there was any way we could have gotten there on Tuesday, as our reservations stipulated, we would have. The Keene Valley Lodge was one of the enticements that helped get us through the woods, and even after we found the campsite on Day 3 at dusk, exhausted and hungry and beaten sore, we briefly contemplated donning our headlamps and hiking the last seven miles in the dark, just to get to the Lodge in time for breakfast Wednesday morning.
As it would turn out, those last seven miles were covered in record time. Later in the week we calculated our total rough mileage (35 miles--a conservative estimate if you ask me, given all the walk-arounds we had to do) and time spent hiking (17 hours) and arrived at an average rate of 2mph. When bushwhacking, we were probably doing good at .5 mph, but on that last day we hiked seven miles in just under three hours--better than 2.5 mph, a good rate with full packs and shredded feet. We drank from our water bottles while walking. We ate our lunch while walking. We made wardrobe adjustments while walking. If we could have relieved ourselves while walking we would have. Of course, since we were decidedly NOT interested in filtering any more water, we drank little, thereby minimizing effluent discharge and allowing us to stop even less.
The trail on Day 4 was an old logging trail. It was wet, yes, and hilly, yes, but there were bridges, it was wide enough to walk side-by-side, and mostly what we did was rehash the previous day's activity as we walked. Already the experience was fading. Had we really done that??
And telling and retelling ourselves what we had accomplished helped to make it real. I'm convinced that the singularly human desire to pin experience down is the origin of all storytelling: retell it, make it real, study it, learn from it, pass it on.
We did make it out, finally. In the parking lot, Len hugged the vehicle. I stripped off my boots and wet socks and lay on the grass with my feet against a fencepost. But we didn't linger long; the world's best cheeseburger, fries and Coke were calling.
...Thanks for reading. Tomorrow I leave for my two-week stint at Bread Loaf. I'll be reporting in from there.
Unless of course you count our battered feet as obstacles. Did you know that enough moleskin can actually keep a floating toenail in place for seven miles of hiking? And that not enough moleskin (never be stingy!) can actually be worse than none at all?
As we dressed for the day, I was able to finally pop the ever-growing blister on my second toe with the hunting knife. (Note to self: add a safety pin to the first-aid kit for ease of blister popping.) Len's left heel had developed a nasty maw of a thing--formed by a hot spot that became a blister that relinquished its skin to the repeated abuse and turned into what became affectionately known as the "gaping pus-hole." (Len's note to self: apply moleskin before the hot spot becomes a blister, and be sure to apply enough moleskin that it doesn't come loose and abrade the area even more.)
Our carrot-on-the-stick, our main reason for wanting desperately to get out of the woods and into civilization is a magical place called the Keene Valley Lodge, a place we go every year to recharge and reboot (literally). The owners, George and Laurie Daniels are hikers themselves and their Bed and Breakfast is as cozy and relaxing as home, without the need to cook and pick up after yourself, and their breakfasts are...is "legendary" too grand a word? Trust me when I say, if there was any way we could have gotten there on Tuesday, as our reservations stipulated, we would have. The Keene Valley Lodge was one of the enticements that helped get us through the woods, and even after we found the campsite on Day 3 at dusk, exhausted and hungry and beaten sore, we briefly contemplated donning our headlamps and hiking the last seven miles in the dark, just to get to the Lodge in time for breakfast Wednesday morning.
As it would turn out, those last seven miles were covered in record time. Later in the week we calculated our total rough mileage (35 miles--a conservative estimate if you ask me, given all the walk-arounds we had to do) and time spent hiking (17 hours) and arrived at an average rate of 2mph. When bushwhacking, we were probably doing good at .5 mph, but on that last day we hiked seven miles in just under three hours--better than 2.5 mph, a good rate with full packs and shredded feet. We drank from our water bottles while walking. We ate our lunch while walking. We made wardrobe adjustments while walking. If we could have relieved ourselves while walking we would have. Of course, since we were decidedly NOT interested in filtering any more water, we drank little, thereby minimizing effluent discharge and allowing us to stop even less.
The trail on Day 4 was an old logging trail. It was wet, yes, and hilly, yes, but there were bridges, it was wide enough to walk side-by-side, and mostly what we did was rehash the previous day's activity as we walked. Already the experience was fading. Had we really done that??
And telling and retelling ourselves what we had accomplished helped to make it real. I'm convinced that the singularly human desire to pin experience down is the origin of all storytelling: retell it, make it real, study it, learn from it, pass it on.
We did make it out, finally. In the parking lot, Len hugged the vehicle. I stripped off my boots and wet socks and lay on the grass with my feet against a fencepost. But we didn't linger long; the world's best cheeseburger, fries and Coke were calling.
...Thanks for reading. Tomorrow I leave for my two-week stint at Bread Loaf. I'll be reporting in from there.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Pearl S. Buck
"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating."
--Pearl S. Buck, novelist, Nobel laureate (1892-1973)
I do believe there is some mysterious inward drive that makes a human being want to create. But I also think that everyone has that drive to some degree. Unfortunately, not everyone has learned how to channel it. I'm thinking specifically of groups who may experience feelings of alienation from society at large: Adolescents, prison inmates, the mentally ill.
Some get so frustrated that they choose destruction rather than creation. And yet, what is destruction, really, but another aspect of creation? It is the act of creating nothing out of something. Given no other outlets, the creative impulse may take this form. Which is why art programs are so valuable in public schools, prisons, mental institutions and even summer camps.
I have witnessed a young child, previously withdrawn and frustrated, find greater motivation to apply himself when he has been given the tools and the freedom of creative expression. I have seen an 85 year-old woman cry tears of joy when a group of people told her that the poetry she has been secretly writing all her life is wonderful. I have seen the surly, rebellious teenager's eyes light up when he realizes that what he has made with his own two hands is good and has meaning.
Passing the creative spark to another human being is a beautiful, magical moment.
It is an act of communion.
And art is not a luxury. It is not expendable, not something we can "do without." Art is an essential part of being human.
--Pearl S. Buck, novelist, Nobel laureate (1892-1973)
I do believe there is some mysterious inward drive that makes a human being want to create. But I also think that everyone has that drive to some degree. Unfortunately, not everyone has learned how to channel it. I'm thinking specifically of groups who may experience feelings of alienation from society at large: Adolescents, prison inmates, the mentally ill.
Some get so frustrated that they choose destruction rather than creation. And yet, what is destruction, really, but another aspect of creation? It is the act of creating nothing out of something. Given no other outlets, the creative impulse may take this form. Which is why art programs are so valuable in public schools, prisons, mental institutions and even summer camps.
I have witnessed a young child, previously withdrawn and frustrated, find greater motivation to apply himself when he has been given the tools and the freedom of creative expression. I have seen an 85 year-old woman cry tears of joy when a group of people told her that the poetry she has been secretly writing all her life is wonderful. I have seen the surly, rebellious teenager's eyes light up when he realizes that what he has made with his own two hands is good and has meaning.
Passing the creative spark to another human being is a beautiful, magical moment.
It is an act of communion.
And art is not a luxury. It is not expendable, not something we can "do without." Art is an essential part of being human.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Thoreau
"We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will."
-Henry David Thoreau, naturalist and author (1817-1862)
This quote was in my inbox today, as part of my A.Word.A.Day email subscription. I like it.
I think I write a lot about loneliness and belonging--not consciously (for the most part) but it's a theme I can recognize after ten years of writing and looking back over my work. I have come to understand that all people are lonely, no matter how surrounded by others, no matter how bustling their lives. Some people are comfortable with this feeling--embrace it even. Others spend a lifetime trying to avoid feeling lonely, seeking action and activity to keep that desperate feeling at bay.
I believe the biggest part of loneliness is the feeling that one is never quite fully understood. But that is part and parcel of the human condition and the best that we can do is to try and understand one another as a way to keep that loneliness ("longing" might be another apt descriptor) at bay.
In her songs, Tracy Chapman writes a lot about loneliness, belonging and longing. I kept a CD of hers handy during the writing of my most recently completed novel as a mood setter because I wanted those same themes expressed throughout my story.
I also write about poverty, a condition that definitely breeds such feelings. But...the more I think about the rich people I know, the more I understand that they are just as lonely, just as filled with longing...
Maybe Thoreau was right. The more we try to escape it or ameliorate it, the more solidly loneliness is with us, universal to the state of being human.
-Henry David Thoreau, naturalist and author (1817-1862)
This quote was in my inbox today, as part of my A.Word.A.Day email subscription. I like it.
I think I write a lot about loneliness and belonging--not consciously (for the most part) but it's a theme I can recognize after ten years of writing and looking back over my work. I have come to understand that all people are lonely, no matter how surrounded by others, no matter how bustling their lives. Some people are comfortable with this feeling--embrace it even. Others spend a lifetime trying to avoid feeling lonely, seeking action and activity to keep that desperate feeling at bay.
I believe the biggest part of loneliness is the feeling that one is never quite fully understood. But that is part and parcel of the human condition and the best that we can do is to try and understand one another as a way to keep that loneliness ("longing" might be another apt descriptor) at bay.
In her songs, Tracy Chapman writes a lot about loneliness, belonging and longing. I kept a CD of hers handy during the writing of my most recently completed novel as a mood setter because I wanted those same themes expressed throughout my story.
I also write about poverty, a condition that definitely breeds such feelings. But...the more I think about the rich people I know, the more I understand that they are just as lonely, just as filled with longing...
Maybe Thoreau was right. The more we try to escape it or ameliorate it, the more solidly loneliness is with us, universal to the state of being human.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Rescuing the non-Lebanese
Last night my Internet news page showed a picture of an American family trapped in Lebanon holding up signs and passports. It was a very moving picture and I feel for the family. Their ordeal must be terrible and frightening. But as I looked, I couldn't help but think, what about all of the innocent Lebanese civilians who are not able to leave? Are they not trapped, too? Trapped with no embassy to appeal to, no government that can intervene and whisk them away.
Are the Lebanese people surely not as innocent and deserving as all of those non-Lebanese nationals holding up their passorts showing the world that they deserve to leave because they are not from that country? Get me out, they seem to be saying. Take me away. I don't deserve this. This isn't my war.
Well, plenty of Lebanese are feeling those same feelings. And we may not be able to do much from far away, but there is one small and easy thing anyone who is reading this right now can and absolutely should do: sign an Internet petition asking--demanding--that the world recognize that hundreds of innocents--innocents who cannot escape the bombing--are being killed and maimed.
Are the Lebanese people surely not as innocent and deserving as all of those non-Lebanese nationals holding up their passorts showing the world that they deserve to leave because they are not from that country? Get me out, they seem to be saying. Take me away. I don't deserve this. This isn't my war.
Well, plenty of Lebanese are feeling those same feelings. And we may not be able to do much from far away, but there is one small and easy thing anyone who is reading this right now can and absolutely should do: sign an Internet petition asking--demanding--that the world recognize that hundreds of innocents--innocents who cannot escape the bombing--are being killed and maimed.
Monday, July 10, 2006
How to Escape from a Leper Colony
Tiphanie Yanique won the Boston Review's Short Fiction Award with her fabulous story "How to Escape from a Leper Colony" and (lucky) you can read it on-line here.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Interview with Laila Lalami
You can listen to an interview with novelist Laila Lalami at the Wisconsin Public Radio website. If you are pressed for time and want to skip to her portion of the interview (mind you, all the interviews are good and worth listening to) hers begins at about 39:30.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Tackling the Bonus Question
6. When have you felt that you transcended time and space?
Well, there are times when I cultivate such a feeling, and times when it happens without trying. Since the ones that happen on their own are more interesting, I'll mention one of those.
Most recently I think it was when I was in Dominica in February. I was there with my 13 year old daughter, visiting a longtime friend and his wife. They had a new baby who was a little over a month old. She was adorable, and I felt we had an immediate connection. I held her and talked to her and loved on her every chance I had.
Late one night, about a week into the visit, I woke to the sound of someone screaming my name. I knew instantly from the awful despair in the voice that something was wrong with the baby. In the next second, I was upstairs seeing my friend howling with grief over his daughter's limp body, yelling her name over and over. As soon as I touched her, I knew she was not breathing and that life was leaving her body. I said something stupid like, "Give her breath." Then I started to tell him, "Put your mouth over her nose and mouth..." but the first mention had been enough to move him to action and he initiated CPR. With one breath she stirred. With two breaths, she opened her eyes and we started crooning, "Good girl, Amela, good girl. That's right, stay here." We rubbed her limbs which were quite cold and she looked at us with surprise in her eyes. Soon she was alert and nursing at her mother's breast again.
The part that was transcending time and space, though, was how I got upstairs so fast. No one could understand it. His wife, who had run downstairs to get me, was already downstairs when I was upstairs calling, "Where are you?" So, I somehow got out from under my mosquito netting, ran out the door of the room, down the hall, out the front door, left the porch, then took the outside steps two at time (I think) and was inside their apartment before she even had time to call through my window. We must have passed on the stairs, but neither one of us thinks we did. (They weren't wide stairs.) She said to me later, "How did you get up there so fast. Did you fly?" And I wasn't sure. But I do know that I woke instantly from a dead sleep and hit the ground running. (My daughter was in the room with me and she said she was just rubbing her eyes wondering who was yelling when she looked over and saw my empty bed.) Did I fly? Maybe. But somewhere in my brain I knew I was needed immediately and so I arrived just in time.
I've found that I am good at a moment of a crisis. I often take the emergency exit in an airplane because I've learned that when a crisis happens, I'm right there, somehow doing the right thing, without conscious thought. Something overtakes me and it's almost like I'm watching myself act, but not in conscious control of my actions. And the really funny thing is, about an hour after the crisis is over, Mary-the-rock crumbles. I become a bowl of jelly, useless and freaking out with a delayed reaction to the stress of everything.
But at that moment of crisis, I'm your woman.
Well, there are times when I cultivate such a feeling, and times when it happens without trying. Since the ones that happen on their own are more interesting, I'll mention one of those.
Most recently I think it was when I was in Dominica in February. I was there with my 13 year old daughter, visiting a longtime friend and his wife. They had a new baby who was a little over a month old. She was adorable, and I felt we had an immediate connection. I held her and talked to her and loved on her every chance I had.
Late one night, about a week into the visit, I woke to the sound of someone screaming my name. I knew instantly from the awful despair in the voice that something was wrong with the baby. In the next second, I was upstairs seeing my friend howling with grief over his daughter's limp body, yelling her name over and over. As soon as I touched her, I knew she was not breathing and that life was leaving her body. I said something stupid like, "Give her breath." Then I started to tell him, "Put your mouth over her nose and mouth..." but the first mention had been enough to move him to action and he initiated CPR. With one breath she stirred. With two breaths, she opened her eyes and we started crooning, "Good girl, Amela, good girl. That's right, stay here." We rubbed her limbs which were quite cold and she looked at us with surprise in her eyes. Soon she was alert and nursing at her mother's breast again.
The part that was transcending time and space, though, was how I got upstairs so fast. No one could understand it. His wife, who had run downstairs to get me, was already downstairs when I was upstairs calling, "Where are you?" So, I somehow got out from under my mosquito netting, ran out the door of the room, down the hall, out the front door, left the porch, then took the outside steps two at time (I think) and was inside their apartment before she even had time to call through my window. We must have passed on the stairs, but neither one of us thinks we did. (They weren't wide stairs.) She said to me later, "How did you get up there so fast. Did you fly?" And I wasn't sure. But I do know that I woke instantly from a dead sleep and hit the ground running. (My daughter was in the room with me and she said she was just rubbing her eyes wondering who was yelling when she looked over and saw my empty bed.) Did I fly? Maybe. But somewhere in my brain I knew I was needed immediately and so I arrived just in time.
I've found that I am good at a moment of a crisis. I often take the emergency exit in an airplane because I've learned that when a crisis happens, I'm right there, somehow doing the right thing, without conscious thought. Something overtakes me and it's almost like I'm watching myself act, but not in conscious control of my actions. And the really funny thing is, about an hour after the crisis is over, Mary-the-rock crumbles. I become a bowl of jelly, useless and freaking out with a delayed reaction to the stress of everything.
But at that moment of crisis, I'm your woman.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Mountain Voices
If you like southern short stories (and who doesn't?) stop by Ginger Hamilton Caudill's blog and read about the anthology Mountain Voices, then click on the link to buy the book and benefit West Virginia's hard working authors.
Monday, June 26, 2006
My answers...
...to Stephanie's interview questions.
1. Describe your religious upbringing or lack thereof? How does this affect you today?
A: Well, my childhood experience would be closer (on the religious spectrum) to lack thereof. My father considered himself a moralist and a thinker but I don't remember him ever attending church, and my mother was an Episcopalian who only went occasionally. I accompanied her whenever she did go, though. I loved the silence and the ceremony and the singing. These are still my favorite aspects of worship. I don't remember discussions of faith at home, but there was a solemn sort of grace said around the table at special occasions: "We thank Thee, oh Lord, for these and all gifts of Thy bounty".
I always knew that God existed--the notion of God being intricately linked with nature in my mind. I remember finding a driftwood crucifix as a child (not a real one, but a perfectly worn hand-sized piece of wood with upraised arms and even a shadowy face turned sideways) and I kept it for years and years, finding comfort linking its "arms" between my fingers and cupping the base of the cross in my palm. No one ever told me to do such a thing, and to my knowledge I had never seen it done, but it quietly and privately comforted me.
I loved church and God in a very childlike, uncomplicated way when I was young. I believed in a higher power. Whenever it was time to make a wish (blowing out candles, the first star of the night, throwing a coin into a well) my wish was always the same: "I wish for whatever will make me happiest." The logic being that a power high enough to grant wishes would also know best what would make me happiest. Granted, sometimes I would add a gentle suggestion, "And if it's a pony, that would be great." But I never presumed to know.
I still pray in a similar way, although my understanding of "higher power" has changed over the years. But I have always felt innocence, trust, and awe well up inside me when I think of God. I hope I always will.
2. If you could lunch with any historical figure (famous or not), who would it be, where would you have lunch and what would you eat?
I would like to visit Thomas Jefferson at Monticello and eat from the fruits of his gardens and orchards, visit his library. After lunch, he could show me the grounds and some of his inventions. I think he would be fascinating to talk to, on so many levels, as a writer, a revolutionary, a scientist, an inventor, a progressive and even a slaveowner (how did he reconcile that?).
3. How do you nurture yourself throughout the day?
I really don't do it enough. I nurture others. But when I do think about treating myself, it usually involves either getting outside (breeze, birds, sunlight, ahhh) or chocolate (self-explanatory). Books are also a divine indulgence.
4. What were the best and worst jobs you've ever had?
I love any kind of work, so I can't really think of a bad job that I've had. I worked in a fabric store in college and some of the people were kind of gossipy--I think that was the worst thing for me, job-wise. As for the best? Oh, so many, for so many different reasons: the nursing home job taught me a lot about death, dying and dignity (I was 16); Colonial Williamsburg was a good job--very cool people, cool period costume, and I got to make books and talk to groups of people about books; working at Jamestown as a potter rocked--Jamestown Island was amazing after all the tourists left, I could feel the spirits of the early colonists all around me; teaching art to little kids in Hawaii was amazing; I worked in several artists' cooperatives and always loved that; and for the past 15 years or so I have been my own boss both as a writer and co-founder of a marine ecology study-abroad program in Dominica.
5. What is your proudest moment at the workplace? Most humiliated?
I don't have a proudest moment that I can recall. I'm always proud to work and try hard to do work that I can be proud of. My most humiliated moment came when a friend and co-worker of mine found a rant I had written (only for myself) about her. Fortunately, she was mature and took me aside and told me she had read it. I am so grateful she gave me that opportunity. I apologized, and explained that I had been working out frustrations and didn't really feel that way all the time, but it was how I dealt with upsetting things and that I never meant for her to see it. God bless Martha, she was so understanding. I think it made us much closer afterward.
6. When have you felt that you transcended time and space? (Bonus Question)
I'm going to think more on this one before I reply...
Thank you, Stephanie, for such great questions! I knew you would make me think. If anyone else wants to play, guidelines are below. :)
Interview Guidelines
1. Leave me a comment saying “interview me” ONLY IF: I have either met you or exchanged emails with you before, AND if you have a blog.
2. I will respond with five questions. I pick the Q’s.
3. You will update your blog with the answers
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview someone else
1. Describe your religious upbringing or lack thereof? How does this affect you today?
A: Well, my childhood experience would be closer (on the religious spectrum) to lack thereof. My father considered himself a moralist and a thinker but I don't remember him ever attending church, and my mother was an Episcopalian who only went occasionally. I accompanied her whenever she did go, though. I loved the silence and the ceremony and the singing. These are still my favorite aspects of worship. I don't remember discussions of faith at home, but there was a solemn sort of grace said around the table at special occasions: "We thank Thee, oh Lord, for these and all gifts of Thy bounty".
I always knew that God existed--the notion of God being intricately linked with nature in my mind. I remember finding a driftwood crucifix as a child (not a real one, but a perfectly worn hand-sized piece of wood with upraised arms and even a shadowy face turned sideways) and I kept it for years and years, finding comfort linking its "arms" between my fingers and cupping the base of the cross in my palm. No one ever told me to do such a thing, and to my knowledge I had never seen it done, but it quietly and privately comforted me.
I loved church and God in a very childlike, uncomplicated way when I was young. I believed in a higher power. Whenever it was time to make a wish (blowing out candles, the first star of the night, throwing a coin into a well) my wish was always the same: "I wish for whatever will make me happiest." The logic being that a power high enough to grant wishes would also know best what would make me happiest. Granted, sometimes I would add a gentle suggestion, "And if it's a pony, that would be great." But I never presumed to know.
I still pray in a similar way, although my understanding of "higher power" has changed over the years. But I have always felt innocence, trust, and awe well up inside me when I think of God. I hope I always will.
2. If you could lunch with any historical figure (famous or not), who would it be, where would you have lunch and what would you eat?
I would like to visit Thomas Jefferson at Monticello and eat from the fruits of his gardens and orchards, visit his library. After lunch, he could show me the grounds and some of his inventions. I think he would be fascinating to talk to, on so many levels, as a writer, a revolutionary, a scientist, an inventor, a progressive and even a slaveowner (how did he reconcile that?).
3. How do you nurture yourself throughout the day?
I really don't do it enough. I nurture others. But when I do think about treating myself, it usually involves either getting outside (breeze, birds, sunlight, ahhh) or chocolate (self-explanatory). Books are also a divine indulgence.
4. What were the best and worst jobs you've ever had?
I love any kind of work, so I can't really think of a bad job that I've had. I worked in a fabric store in college and some of the people were kind of gossipy--I think that was the worst thing for me, job-wise. As for the best? Oh, so many, for so many different reasons: the nursing home job taught me a lot about death, dying and dignity (I was 16); Colonial Williamsburg was a good job--very cool people, cool period costume, and I got to make books and talk to groups of people about books; working at Jamestown as a potter rocked--Jamestown Island was amazing after all the tourists left, I could feel the spirits of the early colonists all around me; teaching art to little kids in Hawaii was amazing; I worked in several artists' cooperatives and always loved that; and for the past 15 years or so I have been my own boss both as a writer and co-founder of a marine ecology study-abroad program in Dominica.
5. What is your proudest moment at the workplace? Most humiliated?
I don't have a proudest moment that I can recall. I'm always proud to work and try hard to do work that I can be proud of. My most humiliated moment came when a friend and co-worker of mine found a rant I had written (only for myself) about her. Fortunately, she was mature and took me aside and told me she had read it. I am so grateful she gave me that opportunity. I apologized, and explained that I had been working out frustrations and didn't really feel that way all the time, but it was how I dealt with upsetting things and that I never meant for her to see it. God bless Martha, she was so understanding. I think it made us much closer afterward.
6. When have you felt that you transcended time and space? (Bonus Question)
I'm going to think more on this one before I reply...
Thank you, Stephanie, for such great questions! I knew you would make me think. If anyone else wants to play, guidelines are below. :)
Interview Guidelines
1. Leave me a comment saying “interview me” ONLY IF: I have either met you or exchanged emails with you before, AND if you have a blog.
2. I will respond with five questions. I pick the Q’s.
3. You will update your blog with the answers
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview someone else
Sunday, June 18, 2006
A Carnivore's Conscience
There's a great article about the ethics of eating meat (and other alternatives) here.
Here is an excerpt:
"With all the problems facing humanity — war, terrorism, poverty, tyranny — you probably don't worry much about whether it's right or wrong to eat meat. That's understandable. Every society lives with two kinds of moral problems: the ones it's ready to face, and the ones that will become clear or compelling only in retrospect. Animal sacrifice, human sacrifice, slavery, the subjugation of women — many traditions seem normal and indispensable until we're ready, morally and economically, to move beyond them.
The case for eating meat is like the case for other traditions: It's natural, it's necessary, and there's nothing wrong with it. But sometimes, we're mistaken. We used to think we were the only creatures that could manipulate grammar, make sophisticated plans or recognize names out of context. In the past month, we've discovered the same skills in birds and dolphins. In recent years, we've learned that crows fashion leaves and metal into tools. Pigeons deceive each other. Rats run mazes in their dreams. Dolphins teach their young to use sponges as protection. Chimps can pick locks. Parrots can work with numbers. Dogs can learn words from context. We thought animals weren't smart enough to deserve protection. It turns out we weren't smart enough to realize they do."
Here is an excerpt:
"With all the problems facing humanity — war, terrorism, poverty, tyranny — you probably don't worry much about whether it's right or wrong to eat meat. That's understandable. Every society lives with two kinds of moral problems: the ones it's ready to face, and the ones that will become clear or compelling only in retrospect. Animal sacrifice, human sacrifice, slavery, the subjugation of women — many traditions seem normal and indispensable until we're ready, morally and economically, to move beyond them.
The case for eating meat is like the case for other traditions: It's natural, it's necessary, and there's nothing wrong with it. But sometimes, we're mistaken. We used to think we were the only creatures that could manipulate grammar, make sophisticated plans or recognize names out of context. In the past month, we've discovered the same skills in birds and dolphins. In recent years, we've learned that crows fashion leaves and metal into tools. Pigeons deceive each other. Rats run mazes in their dreams. Dolphins teach their young to use sponges as protection. Chimps can pick locks. Parrots can work with numbers. Dogs can learn words from context. We thought animals weren't smart enough to deserve protection. It turns out we weren't smart enough to realize they do."
Friday, June 16, 2006
Stress dreams
I think I must be reaching some sort of inner peace in my dreamlife. Last night I had stress dreams--I've had them all my life at various, busy times--but for the first time ever, they weren't stressful. Let me explain.
In my younger years, my stress dreams corresponded (loosely) to the stresses in my life at the time:
1)In my thirties, I had car crash dreams in which I died, but my children didn't. I was glad they had survived, but devastated that I wouldn't be there to raise them, that they were all alone. For the first time, I feared my mortality--not for myself, but for those small innocents who depended on me.
2) In my twenties, I was most often chased by an angry, hairy, knife-wielding madman when I was wearing the equivalent of big lead boots. To make matters worse, the dream often ended when I had just about completely wriggled under the fence (i.e. reached safety) and he caught my ankle and yanked me back. Brrr!
3) In my teens, I remember a recurring stress dream that tore me up. I was being followed by a three-legged dog who needed help. I desperately wanted to help him, but I couldn't, so I tried to run away, instead. I would run for a mile, swim a river, scale a mountain, and push through a thick forest only to turn around and there that dog still was, quietly wanting help. It's humorous in the retelling, but the dream was awful.
4) In my even younger years I was usually in school, missing some sort of essential thing...like pants. Miraculously, I had left home, gotten on the bus, walked the halls, and made it to my desk without anyone noticing, but suddenly I knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the minute I stood up, all eyes would be on my naked arse. It was mortifying and maddening. Should I stay seated after the bell and draw attention to myself? Stand, be cool, and hope people continued not to notice? Attempt to strategically place my books? Oh, what to do?
Okay, so my stress dreams have clearly evolved. And last night? I was juggling eggs. Okay, not juggling exactly...rather, carrying eggs. But there were way too many to carry easily, so in effect I was juggling them. And dropping them. (Whoops. Splat! Damn.) But the funniest part of this, and why I feel so calm today, is that in my dream I was coaching myself. I was saying things like, "They're just eggs, Mare. Don't worry about it. They cost, what, ten cents a piece? You could drop a dozen if you wanted. It's okay. You're doing the best you can."
Now. Wasn't that nice of me? To calm my dreaming self, within my dream? Nice to know my subconsious is looking out for me. Today, I am at peace. They really are all just eggs.
In my younger years, my stress dreams corresponded (loosely) to the stresses in my life at the time:
1)In my thirties, I had car crash dreams in which I died, but my children didn't. I was glad they had survived, but devastated that I wouldn't be there to raise them, that they were all alone. For the first time, I feared my mortality--not for myself, but for those small innocents who depended on me.
2) In my twenties, I was most often chased by an angry, hairy, knife-wielding madman when I was wearing the equivalent of big lead boots. To make matters worse, the dream often ended when I had just about completely wriggled under the fence (i.e. reached safety) and he caught my ankle and yanked me back. Brrr!
3) In my teens, I remember a recurring stress dream that tore me up. I was being followed by a three-legged dog who needed help. I desperately wanted to help him, but I couldn't, so I tried to run away, instead. I would run for a mile, swim a river, scale a mountain, and push through a thick forest only to turn around and there that dog still was, quietly wanting help. It's humorous in the retelling, but the dream was awful.
4) In my even younger years I was usually in school, missing some sort of essential thing...like pants. Miraculously, I had left home, gotten on the bus, walked the halls, and made it to my desk without anyone noticing, but suddenly I knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the minute I stood up, all eyes would be on my naked arse. It was mortifying and maddening. Should I stay seated after the bell and draw attention to myself? Stand, be cool, and hope people continued not to notice? Attempt to strategically place my books? Oh, what to do?
Okay, so my stress dreams have clearly evolved. And last night? I was juggling eggs. Okay, not juggling exactly...rather, carrying eggs. But there were way too many to carry easily, so in effect I was juggling them. And dropping them. (Whoops. Splat! Damn.) But the funniest part of this, and why I feel so calm today, is that in my dream I was coaching myself. I was saying things like, "They're just eggs, Mare. Don't worry about it. They cost, what, ten cents a piece? You could drop a dozen if you wanted. It's okay. You're doing the best you can."
Now. Wasn't that nice of me? To calm my dreaming self, within my dream? Nice to know my subconsious is looking out for me. Today, I am at peace. They really are all just eggs.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
"Slotty" thinking
Check out Joshilyn Jackson's blog Faster Than Kudzu for a great entry on "slotty" thinking.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Hope for Coral
This article from the BBC gives hope that corals can survive rising ocean temperatures. The world's coral reefs are largely ignored by most, but they are as important to the ocean (and the overall health of the planet) as the rainforests are to land. The diversity of aquatic life (both flora and fauna--in the case of corals, both flora and fauna living symbiotically in one organism) has led many to term coral reefs "the rainforests of the sea."
We will be studying coral bleaching very closely this summer at The Institute for Tropical Marine Ecology to see if another major bleaching event occurs (like last summer). For those of us concerned about reefs (and for those who could care less) this article is very good news.
We will be studying coral bleaching very closely this summer at The Institute for Tropical Marine Ecology to see if another major bleaching event occurs (like last summer). For those of us concerned about reefs (and for those who could care less) this article is very good news.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
What morality is not...
It is not invading a country and killing a hundred thousand of its citizens for something that turns out not to exist.
It is not insisting on the sanctity of a blastula of cells when millions of already born children are starving and dying all over the world.
It is not charging two loving people who happen to be the same sex and want to make a life together with a crime.
It is not hiding behind the flag and never admitting you've made a mistake.
It is not giving tax breaks to the wealthy while you brainwash those who are struggling to make ends meet that it is in their best interests.
It is not controlling the media to spew your particular brand of patriotic religiosity and clogging the airways with hate-mongering extremist views.
It is not calling dissenters unpatriotic for simply wondering if there might not be a better way to do things.
It is not rolling back environmental standards and polluting the earth for the benefit of large corporations.
It is not seeing everything in black and white, regardless of the circumstances.
It is not calling yourself moral when you are anything but.
It is not insisting on the sanctity of a blastula of cells when millions of already born children are starving and dying all over the world.
It is not charging two loving people who happen to be the same sex and want to make a life together with a crime.
It is not hiding behind the flag and never admitting you've made a mistake.
It is not giving tax breaks to the wealthy while you brainwash those who are struggling to make ends meet that it is in their best interests.
It is not controlling the media to spew your particular brand of patriotic religiosity and clogging the airways with hate-mongering extremist views.
It is not calling dissenters unpatriotic for simply wondering if there might not be a better way to do things.
It is not rolling back environmental standards and polluting the earth for the benefit of large corporations.
It is not seeing everything in black and white, regardless of the circumstances.
It is not calling yourself moral when you are anything but.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Learning to critique
This spring I'm teaching a critiquing class. The group meets once a week and we read and discuss work brought in by participants. I bring a timer to keep us on track and to ensure that discussion time is divided fairly. I also offer a writing prompt, week-to-week in case they need ideas to keep them writing. It's been a great class and has made me think a lot about the writing and workshopping process.
Learning to critique the creative work of others is a really valuable life lesson, especially if you are pursuing a creative life yourself. We learn a great deal from having our work critiqued and also from critiquing the work of others.
Here are some of the basic "rules" I have my students follow:
For the reader:
· Do not explain your work. Do not give us “background information” before you read it to us. Let the work speak for itself. The words on the page must do the work--once it is in print, you will not have the opportunity to “set it up” for your readers. After comments you can explain if you feel compelled to do so.
· Understand that a critique of your work is not a critique of you. Because we look at your work and find suggestions for improvement does not mean that you are a bad writer. Most work needs tweaking. Above all, remember that a critique is not personal. You are not being judged. You are not passing or failing. You are workshopping.
· Remember that this is your work. Ultimately it will have only your name on it. As such, it should say what you want it to say. DO NOT take every suggestion offered. This will result in a mish-mash of ideas and styles. I tell my students to think of a critique session as a buffet. Sample everything, yes, but only take seconds of whatever food appeals to you.
For the critiquer:
· Be positive. It is not easy to put creative work before a group. Find something that you like and comment on that before finding fault.
· Offer suggestions for improvement. Phrases such as “have you considered…” and “what if you tried…” go a long way toward making the critiquee receptive to your ideas.
· Do not be afraid to speak up if you disagree with what another critiquer says. You can do this politely, but it is important for the person who is being critiqued to know that what that person says is not agreed to across the board. There is no problem with having a different opinion. We are all writing different things in different styles. There is bound to be some disagreement. It is up to the writer to sort it out, and up to you to speak up if you disagree.
· Honor the author's intent. The best critiquer takes time to analyze what the author is trying to accomplish and frames his or her suggestions accordingly. Be careful not to impose your own personal writing tastes on the critiquee, especially if they run contrary to the writer's vision for his or her piece. [Even experienced workshop leaders have trouble remembering to do this.]
The most useful--and difficult--thing I've learned in more than twenty years of workshopping (ten-plus years in the fine arts and ten years in writing) is how to sort through comments. If a particular reader doesn't get anything of what I'm trying to say and would change virtually everything about my writing, that reader is NOT a good reader for my work. I then take to heart very little of what that particular reader says--he or she simply is not the reader I'm aiming for.
Conversely, if a reader likes every single thing about my piece and wants no changes whatsoever, that person may be a good reader for my ego, but not so good for helping me make the work the best it can be. I appreciate the strokes, but also, get very little that is constructive from the critique.
If, however, a reader responds positively to some things (particularly the things that I, too, like) and has suggestions for changes/adjustments that ring true as I read them, then that person IS a good reader for me and I listen to almost everything that person has to say.
The worst thing we can do to our writing voice is take to heart everything that everyone says and try to make everyone happy.
Learning to critique the creative work of others is a really valuable life lesson, especially if you are pursuing a creative life yourself. We learn a great deal from having our work critiqued and also from critiquing the work of others.
Here are some of the basic "rules" I have my students follow:
For the reader:
· Do not explain your work. Do not give us “background information” before you read it to us. Let the work speak for itself. The words on the page must do the work--once it is in print, you will not have the opportunity to “set it up” for your readers. After comments you can explain if you feel compelled to do so.
· Understand that a critique of your work is not a critique of you. Because we look at your work and find suggestions for improvement does not mean that you are a bad writer. Most work needs tweaking. Above all, remember that a critique is not personal. You are not being judged. You are not passing or failing. You are workshopping.
· Remember that this is your work. Ultimately it will have only your name on it. As such, it should say what you want it to say. DO NOT take every suggestion offered. This will result in a mish-mash of ideas and styles. I tell my students to think of a critique session as a buffet. Sample everything, yes, but only take seconds of whatever food appeals to you.
For the critiquer:
· Be positive. It is not easy to put creative work before a group. Find something that you like and comment on that before finding fault.
· Offer suggestions for improvement. Phrases such as “have you considered…” and “what if you tried…” go a long way toward making the critiquee receptive to your ideas.
· Do not be afraid to speak up if you disagree with what another critiquer says. You can do this politely, but it is important for the person who is being critiqued to know that what that person says is not agreed to across the board. There is no problem with having a different opinion. We are all writing different things in different styles. There is bound to be some disagreement. It is up to the writer to sort it out, and up to you to speak up if you disagree.
· Honor the author's intent. The best critiquer takes time to analyze what the author is trying to accomplish and frames his or her suggestions accordingly. Be careful not to impose your own personal writing tastes on the critiquee, especially if they run contrary to the writer's vision for his or her piece. [Even experienced workshop leaders have trouble remembering to do this.]
The most useful--and difficult--thing I've learned in more than twenty years of workshopping (ten-plus years in the fine arts and ten years in writing) is how to sort through comments. If a particular reader doesn't get anything of what I'm trying to say and would change virtually everything about my writing, that reader is NOT a good reader for my work. I then take to heart very little of what that particular reader says--he or she simply is not the reader I'm aiming for.
Conversely, if a reader likes every single thing about my piece and wants no changes whatsoever, that person may be a good reader for my ego, but not so good for helping me make the work the best it can be. I appreciate the strokes, but also, get very little that is constructive from the critique.
If, however, a reader responds positively to some things (particularly the things that I, too, like) and has suggestions for changes/adjustments that ring true as I read them, then that person IS a good reader for me and I listen to almost everything that person has to say.
The worst thing we can do to our writing voice is take to heart everything that everyone says and try to make everyone happy.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Ashamed to die?
"Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity."
-Horace Mann, educational reformer (1796-1859)
My son turned ten years old about two weeks ago. He's always been a very interesting fellow, definitely a thinker. And for most of his childhood he has said that when he grows up he wants to design video games for a living. (Big surprise, eh? It's the new fireman/racecar driver for young boys.)
But out of the blue, the other day, he said, "You know, Mom, I've been thinking. If I make video games, do you really think that helps the world?"
I had been involved in some task, cooking perhaps, half-listening until I understood what he was asking. I stopped what I was doing and turned to him. "Honestly, honey? No, I don't."
He sighed. "Me neither."
"It might be a fun job, but I doubt it would make the world a better place. You couldn't, say, solve world hunger with a game, could you?"
"No." He smiled at the thought.
"But maybe you could make a whole lot of money doing that, and then use the money to do good things for the world..."
"Yeah, I could. But I'm thinking I might do something else, instead. Like for the planet."
I love watching the seed of moral obligation sprout and grow. It's like seeing the earth being made all over again. I'm not so jaded as many of the over-forty crowd. Today's kids don't make me shake my head and predict dire things. Today's kids give me hope for the future.
-Horace Mann, educational reformer (1796-1859)
My son turned ten years old about two weeks ago. He's always been a very interesting fellow, definitely a thinker. And for most of his childhood he has said that when he grows up he wants to design video games for a living. (Big surprise, eh? It's the new fireman/racecar driver for young boys.)
But out of the blue, the other day, he said, "You know, Mom, I've been thinking. If I make video games, do you really think that helps the world?"
I had been involved in some task, cooking perhaps, half-listening until I understood what he was asking. I stopped what I was doing and turned to him. "Honestly, honey? No, I don't."
He sighed. "Me neither."
"It might be a fun job, but I doubt it would make the world a better place. You couldn't, say, solve world hunger with a game, could you?"
"No." He smiled at the thought.
"But maybe you could make a whole lot of money doing that, and then use the money to do good things for the world..."
"Yeah, I could. But I'm thinking I might do something else, instead. Like for the planet."
I love watching the seed of moral obligation sprout and grow. It's like seeing the earth being made all over again. I'm not so jaded as many of the over-forty crowd. Today's kids don't make me shake my head and predict dire things. Today's kids give me hope for the future.
Friday, May 19, 2006
One week
What a difference a week makes.
I have been reading a book about the laws of attraction. I find it fascinating. Although I'm not very good at describing it, the book is basically about consciously putting out good vibes / feelings as a way to attract them back. It makes sense to me. You feel good, good things keep happening. You feel bad, bad stuff keeps piling on. Do we attract it? I don't know, but I'm game. I'll give it a shot, I think. I read on. The author warns that after you start consciously attempting to put good feelings out, there will be trials that test your ability to sustain the good feelings even when bad things start happening. Sure, sure, trials-schmials I think, no problem.
Enter me. And Wednesday.
The week started out great. I had an out-of-the-blue phone call from a good friend who called just to tell me what a great person he thinks I am. Nice. I had lunch with my co-author who said he just wanted to honor my role in writing his book--he picked up the tab and the food was great. Thank you good vibes. I taught class that night and everything gelled--the students, the work, the lecture. All good. I began to think, "Maybe this stuff really works." I have more good feelings.
Then something happens. I open my email early Wednesday morning to find that in my day job I have been verbally attacked by someone I have spent a lot of time and effort trying to help. I attempt to mollify the individual. It seems to make things worse. I have to run because later that morning, I have two back-to-back doctor's appointments scheduled for my daughters. The first appointment reveals that a case of scoliosis that we had been "observing" has progressed rapidly in the eight months since our last appointment. When the x-ray is pulled up, my daughter and I both gasp. The change is obvious. It needs immediate treatment. That first appointment runs late and we have to dash across town to appointment number two, where daughter number one is found to have a damaged knee that needs x-rays and physical therapy. Every time I speak, people look at me as if I have two heads and am speaking in flaming tongues of fire. I feel like I am trudging through pea soup. I can't get to the work and writing things that are piling up because I am so busy putting out my hair, which is on fire. My son needs his little league pictures and has to be on the field in five minutes, and oh, by the way, he says when we are halfway there, I need that form and a check. Form? Check? By late-night email I get a rejection for said co-authored book after there had been a great deal of interest from an agent I respect very much and had hoped to work with. (The rejection was very classy, I should say, and I appreciated receiving the truth, which allows me to move on.) I'm sure there were many more, smaller things, too, but really, does it matter? I seem to be absolutely following that book's prediction that like attracts like.
Obviously, I need to turn this energy back around, and quick.
I have been reading a book about the laws of attraction. I find it fascinating. Although I'm not very good at describing it, the book is basically about consciously putting out good vibes / feelings as a way to attract them back. It makes sense to me. You feel good, good things keep happening. You feel bad, bad stuff keeps piling on. Do we attract it? I don't know, but I'm game. I'll give it a shot, I think. I read on. The author warns that after you start consciously attempting to put good feelings out, there will be trials that test your ability to sustain the good feelings even when bad things start happening. Sure, sure, trials-schmials I think, no problem.
Enter me. And Wednesday.
The week started out great. I had an out-of-the-blue phone call from a good friend who called just to tell me what a great person he thinks I am. Nice. I had lunch with my co-author who said he just wanted to honor my role in writing his book--he picked up the tab and the food was great. Thank you good vibes. I taught class that night and everything gelled--the students, the work, the lecture. All good. I began to think, "Maybe this stuff really works." I have more good feelings.
Then something happens. I open my email early Wednesday morning to find that in my day job I have been verbally attacked by someone I have spent a lot of time and effort trying to help. I attempt to mollify the individual. It seems to make things worse. I have to run because later that morning, I have two back-to-back doctor's appointments scheduled for my daughters. The first appointment reveals that a case of scoliosis that we had been "observing" has progressed rapidly in the eight months since our last appointment. When the x-ray is pulled up, my daughter and I both gasp. The change is obvious. It needs immediate treatment. That first appointment runs late and we have to dash across town to appointment number two, where daughter number one is found to have a damaged knee that needs x-rays and physical therapy. Every time I speak, people look at me as if I have two heads and am speaking in flaming tongues of fire. I feel like I am trudging through pea soup. I can't get to the work and writing things that are piling up because I am so busy putting out my hair, which is on fire. My son needs his little league pictures and has to be on the field in five minutes, and oh, by the way, he says when we are halfway there, I need that form and a check. Form? Check? By late-night email I get a rejection for said co-authored book after there had been a great deal of interest from an agent I respect very much and had hoped to work with. (The rejection was very classy, I should say, and I appreciated receiving the truth, which allows me to move on.) I'm sure there were many more, smaller things, too, but really, does it matter? I seem to be absolutely following that book's prediction that like attracts like.
Obviously, I need to turn this energy back around, and quick.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Hat of Many Goldfinches
Susan Meyers' excellent poem (perfect for today's lovely spring attitude) can be read at Verse Daily today.
Quote
We either make ourselves happy or miserable. The amount of work is the same.
--Carlos Castenada, mystic and author (1925-1998)
--Carlos Castenada, mystic and author (1925-1998)
Friday, May 05, 2006
Nothing in the World
Check out this interview with Roy Kesey about his forthcoming book Nothing in the World.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
A few words about forgiveness and culpability
And I'm speaking of the Viswanathan publishing scandal, which I am finding especially troubling.
I know she did wrong, no question. But can't we (meaning the people in the business of publishing) examine this a little more closely? Can't we take a minute to wonder if maybe we bear some responsibility for this happening in the first place?
Consider:
1) Ms Viswanathan was 17 years old when a big publisher dangled that $500,000 advance (and some probability of fame) in front of her.
2) In an interview (prior to the scandal) she said she didn't even want to be a writer, she had no plans to pursue it as a career. (Anyone else see a red flag?)
3) The book was bought on the basis of a few chapters. A few chapters!
4) Suddenly, sale complete, she found herself faced with finishing the whole book...this for a young woman who has never written a novel before.
Having written two novels myself, I can testify that about halfway through the process, fear, despair, and a certainty that it will never, ever get finished sets in. Even when I know I've made it to the end of a book once before, and that I can, I still panic, and I'm 40 years old, with an MFA under my belt and no big contract contingent upon my finishing the manuscript.
Did no one involved in this sale think that this was a possibility? Did no one pause to wonder if they were doing the right thing giving a huge advance to an unpublished author who is also only 17 years old?? Was there such a rush to get a piece of The Next Big Thing that they all lost their heads and put a huge load of pressure on a high school student? Sure sounds like it to me.
She can't even go into a bar and order a drink. She's a kid. A kid who screwed up royally, but I challenge you to show me a kid who doesn't have at least one major screw up during his or her teen years.
Did Viswanathan exploit the business, lie and steal? Yes, she did. She panicked and she plagiarized. By all means cancel her book, take it off the shelves, make her pay back her advance.
But an equally valid question is, Did the corporate publishing machine exploit her as a pretty young ambitious female with a foreign name?
I think perhaps they did.
I know she did wrong, no question. But can't we (meaning the people in the business of publishing) examine this a little more closely? Can't we take a minute to wonder if maybe we bear some responsibility for this happening in the first place?
Consider:
1) Ms Viswanathan was 17 years old when a big publisher dangled that $500,000 advance (and some probability of fame) in front of her.
2) In an interview (prior to the scandal) she said she didn't even want to be a writer, she had no plans to pursue it as a career. (Anyone else see a red flag?)
3) The book was bought on the basis of a few chapters. A few chapters!
4) Suddenly, sale complete, she found herself faced with finishing the whole book...this for a young woman who has never written a novel before.
Having written two novels myself, I can testify that about halfway through the process, fear, despair, and a certainty that it will never, ever get finished sets in. Even when I know I've made it to the end of a book once before, and that I can, I still panic, and I'm 40 years old, with an MFA under my belt and no big contract contingent upon my finishing the manuscript.
Did no one involved in this sale think that this was a possibility? Did no one pause to wonder if they were doing the right thing giving a huge advance to an unpublished author who is also only 17 years old?? Was there such a rush to get a piece of The Next Big Thing that they all lost their heads and put a huge load of pressure on a high school student? Sure sounds like it to me.
She can't even go into a bar and order a drink. She's a kid. A kid who screwed up royally, but I challenge you to show me a kid who doesn't have at least one major screw up during his or her teen years.
Did Viswanathan exploit the business, lie and steal? Yes, she did. She panicked and she plagiarized. By all means cancel her book, take it off the shelves, make her pay back her advance.
But an equally valid question is, Did the corporate publishing machine exploit her as a pretty young ambitious female with a foreign name?
I think perhaps they did.
Freak Magnet
Myfanwy Collins' interview about her short story collection, Freak Magnet, can be read here,
Other Voices Blog
I've known about OV for quite some time, but I just found this link via a friend's blog. Clickety. Thanks, Kat!
Monday, May 01, 2006
Finally, some national press...
Last summer, the Caribbean experienced a major bleaching event of its stony corals believed to be a direct result of warming water temperatures. Colonies of Elkhorn corals were some of the worst hit, but all stony corals suffered. In some places, 40% of the corals died. Since this occurs underwater, many people never see or hear about this, but if you want an analogous situation, imagine 40% of the trees in Yellowstone National Forest--especially those that are a hundred years old or more (as many of the dead and dying corals are)--dying in one summer. The people would take note, no?
Researchers have been clamoring over this major bleaching event since it was first discovered last summer, but the mainstream press has said very little about it, due in part to the fact that the Caribbean is a major tourist spot and the island governments don't want toursits to think anything has changed. But not only has it changed, this summer (if current water temperatures are any indication) looks to be just as bad.
You can read about it here.
Researchers have been clamoring over this major bleaching event since it was first discovered last summer, but the mainstream press has said very little about it, due in part to the fact that the Caribbean is a major tourist spot and the island governments don't want toursits to think anything has changed. But not only has it changed, this summer (if current water temperatures are any indication) looks to be just as bad.
You can read about it here.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
On-line Love
Some of you may know this about me, others may not: I met my husband on the Internet.
Now, in the 21st century, this is not a source of shame. In the 1990's, when we first met, it was. I still feel a little embarassed admitting it. The Internet was new, it had a seedy air about it for many people, and there was a prevailing feeling that only desperados went looking for love on-line. (We didn't meet in a chat room, but through an on-line dating service called Webpersonals. I think they've gone belly-up now, but at the time they were thriving and thousands of people were signed up.) I joined the day after my divorce was final, not even seeking a long-term relationship (I'd had one of those, after all, and look how it turned out), but just wanting to ease back into the dating scene slowly, get my feet wet, ten years and three kids after my last attempts. Also, I was living in an extremely small one-stoplight town, and all of the eligible men in my age range could be ticked off on one hand. They were also either highly sought after...or...not. Anyway, my preference was to cast a wide net.
For me, it was a very freeing experience--it was suddenly raining men, and as a result, I was able to be myself. By first connecting anonymously, I had no vested interest in succeeding with one over another, and I had no reason to be anything other than exactly who I am. As a result, I found a man who loves me for all the reasons I want to be loved, a man who knew my cranky side before he met me in person, and who knew exactly what sort of woman he was talking to. Rarely in face-to-face introductions do we show our true selves or see into the heart of another. Often it is hormones that guide us in person...and I can't speak for everyone's hormones, but I can tell you mine will lead me astray every time.
It also turned out to be a very old-fashioned way to connect, despite the new-fangled medium. When I "met" my future husband on-line, we emailed for two weeks before I finally gave him my phone number and then it was another two weeks before we met in person. (He flew down from NY for the day--I was in the mountains of VA--and took me out to lunch at a local winery. Very nice.)
Why am I telling you this now? Because for some time, I've been feeling like the agent search is a lot like that relationship search I embarked on in the '90's. There's the initial connection, the cautious feeling out of the other, then, perversely, the gosh-I-hope-he-likes-me, and the why-doesn't-he-call? But all of that anxiety was what I was feeling when I was too caught up in the process. And oddly enough--just like the cliche says--love only came after I quit trying so hard, quit waiting and hoping, and was just myself, that's when everything clicked. So that's my new strategy with agents. Keep looking, but don't hold my breath, don't wait for "the right one" to call, don't work excessively to impress, and don't attach great hopes to any one until that one proves himself (or herself). What I want is just as important as what he or she wants and I need to find the right fit. True love will come when it comes, and that will be the right time. I'm going to trust the process and surrender.
Now, in the 21st century, this is not a source of shame. In the 1990's, when we first met, it was. I still feel a little embarassed admitting it. The Internet was new, it had a seedy air about it for many people, and there was a prevailing feeling that only desperados went looking for love on-line. (We didn't meet in a chat room, but through an on-line dating service called Webpersonals. I think they've gone belly-up now, but at the time they were thriving and thousands of people were signed up.) I joined the day after my divorce was final, not even seeking a long-term relationship (I'd had one of those, after all, and look how it turned out), but just wanting to ease back into the dating scene slowly, get my feet wet, ten years and three kids after my last attempts. Also, I was living in an extremely small one-stoplight town, and all of the eligible men in my age range could be ticked off on one hand. They were also either highly sought after...or...not. Anyway, my preference was to cast a wide net.
For me, it was a very freeing experience--it was suddenly raining men, and as a result, I was able to be myself. By first connecting anonymously, I had no vested interest in succeeding with one over another, and I had no reason to be anything other than exactly who I am. As a result, I found a man who loves me for all the reasons I want to be loved, a man who knew my cranky side before he met me in person, and who knew exactly what sort of woman he was talking to. Rarely in face-to-face introductions do we show our true selves or see into the heart of another. Often it is hormones that guide us in person...and I can't speak for everyone's hormones, but I can tell you mine will lead me astray every time.
It also turned out to be a very old-fashioned way to connect, despite the new-fangled medium. When I "met" my future husband on-line, we emailed for two weeks before I finally gave him my phone number and then it was another two weeks before we met in person. (He flew down from NY for the day--I was in the mountains of VA--and took me out to lunch at a local winery. Very nice.)
Why am I telling you this now? Because for some time, I've been feeling like the agent search is a lot like that relationship search I embarked on in the '90's. There's the initial connection, the cautious feeling out of the other, then, perversely, the gosh-I-hope-he-likes-me, and the why-doesn't-he-call? But all of that anxiety was what I was feeling when I was too caught up in the process. And oddly enough--just like the cliche says--love only came after I quit trying so hard, quit waiting and hoping, and was just myself, that's when everything clicked. So that's my new strategy with agents. Keep looking, but don't hold my breath, don't wait for "the right one" to call, don't work excessively to impress, and don't attach great hopes to any one until that one proves himself (or herself). What I want is just as important as what he or she wants and I need to find the right fit. True love will come when it comes, and that will be the right time. I'm going to trust the process and surrender.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Over the Edge
This is a great book, especially if you are a hiker and have ever considered hiking in the Grand Canyon. It describes all the recorded deaths in the canyon, their causes, how they might have been prevented, and what can be learned from them. It's a fascinating read and I guarantee you will learn something.
I, for instance, had no idea how prone the canyon was to disastrous flash floods--it's how much of it was formed, even. And what's worse, the rain that causes the flood can be happening more than 20 miles away. You can be sitting down in a bone dry culvert, in bright sunshine, when a roar like an approaching freight train begins and you have seconds to scramble to safety before a rolling wall of mud and debris engulfs you.
I also didn't know that some people approach the edge and just fall over into it from vertigo, or from some other sort of mysterious attractive force that makes people flirt with death. Some people have even died in the old cliched picture-taking way: "That's it...one step more, back up, back up..." Boom.
Oh, and that tourist-stop-dead-body-attraction that I mentioned in my previous post? That's a picture of it, there in the lower right of the cover.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Grand Canyon, The
Our trip to the Grand Canyon was amazing. Backpacking in the canyon is a completely different experience from standing at the edge and snapping pictures. As grand as it is from the rim, you still can't imagine the true vastness of the place until you have hiked down inside it...spent the night under an equally vast sky, filled with stars...and then hiked back up and out.
Our trip started as we hiked down the Grand View Trail (carrying far too much stuff--we'll go lighter next trip, promise) to Horseshoe Mesa, which was itself a daunting, 2,000-foot, downhill hike for two winter-pale northerners fresh out of their cocoons. But from Horseshoe Mesa we still had to hike down another 2,000 feet to Cottonwood Creek where we had been told we could find water and several flat places to pitch a tent (yes, we had a permit).
But somehow we missed the turn-off for the shortcut to Cottonwood Creek. (In the continuing saga of dumb-luck-stories that is my life, this turned out to be a good thing, as a "shortcut" that involves a 2,000 foot altitude change with a 40 pound pack on one's back down a steep gravel path is not a happy shortcut.) But this meant we had to drop three miles down the back side of the Mesa without another human in sight. (How quickly "no one around" can go from inducing a calm, peaceful state to causing out-and-out panic really would be an amazing timeline. Someone should do a study.)
Our water supply was quickly dwindling. Hikers in the canyon must diligently replace body fluids lost from the sweat of exertion, the heat, and even from the low humidity. It is possible to become dangerously dehydrated in the Grand Canyon, even without sweating, and not sweating wasn't an option for us. The canyon's 7% average humidity was responsible for preserving the body of a hapless hiker whose mummified corpse became a tourist stop for more than sixty years before the body suddenly disappeared in the 1970's. And we passed several conspicuous piles of tin cans left over from miners and prospectors who had tried to conquer the canyon in the 1800's (an era when man's dominion over nature was believed to be a biblical imperative). The cans were rusted, but completely intact, with the method of opening obvious to the point of being able to picture the miner cranking away at his stubborn tin with a pocket knife.
Contrary to what most people believe, the temperature at the bottom of the canyon is much hotter than the temperature at the rim. About 40 degrees hotter, on any given day. And three-quarters of the way into our first day of hiking, we started to ration water to make sure we would have enough. Seems reasonable, doesn't it? But we learned later that this is not a good plan. The rule of water in the Grand Canyon: If you save it, you might not make it. It turns out the dividing line between "I've got a powerful thirst" and "I'm speaking gibberish and walking off alone into the desert because I think I've found a good shortcut" is a very fine one, and it can happen much faster than you would think. Never save your water for later. Many a delirious hiker's remains have been found with a half-full water bottle that--if he had but consumed it--would have given him the strength and the presence of mind to locate the water source that was often just over the next rise. As a Park Service Ranger put it to us the following day, "In the Grand Canyon you don't hike to water, you hike from water."
[More tomorrow.]
Our trip started as we hiked down the Grand View Trail (carrying far too much stuff--we'll go lighter next trip, promise) to Horseshoe Mesa, which was itself a daunting, 2,000-foot, downhill hike for two winter-pale northerners fresh out of their cocoons. But from Horseshoe Mesa we still had to hike down another 2,000 feet to Cottonwood Creek where we had been told we could find water and several flat places to pitch a tent (yes, we had a permit).
But somehow we missed the turn-off for the shortcut to Cottonwood Creek. (In the continuing saga of dumb-luck-stories that is my life, this turned out to be a good thing, as a "shortcut" that involves a 2,000 foot altitude change with a 40 pound pack on one's back down a steep gravel path is not a happy shortcut.) But this meant we had to drop three miles down the back side of the Mesa without another human in sight. (How quickly "no one around" can go from inducing a calm, peaceful state to causing out-and-out panic really would be an amazing timeline. Someone should do a study.)
Our water supply was quickly dwindling. Hikers in the canyon must diligently replace body fluids lost from the sweat of exertion, the heat, and even from the low humidity. It is possible to become dangerously dehydrated in the Grand Canyon, even without sweating, and not sweating wasn't an option for us. The canyon's 7% average humidity was responsible for preserving the body of a hapless hiker whose mummified corpse became a tourist stop for more than sixty years before the body suddenly disappeared in the 1970's. And we passed several conspicuous piles of tin cans left over from miners and prospectors who had tried to conquer the canyon in the 1800's (an era when man's dominion over nature was believed to be a biblical imperative). The cans were rusted, but completely intact, with the method of opening obvious to the point of being able to picture the miner cranking away at his stubborn tin with a pocket knife.
Contrary to what most people believe, the temperature at the bottom of the canyon is much hotter than the temperature at the rim. About 40 degrees hotter, on any given day. And three-quarters of the way into our first day of hiking, we started to ration water to make sure we would have enough. Seems reasonable, doesn't it? But we learned later that this is not a good plan. The rule of water in the Grand Canyon: If you save it, you might not make it. It turns out the dividing line between "I've got a powerful thirst" and "I'm speaking gibberish and walking off alone into the desert because I think I've found a good shortcut" is a very fine one, and it can happen much faster than you would think. Never save your water for later. Many a delirious hiker's remains have been found with a half-full water bottle that--if he had but consumed it--would have given him the strength and the presence of mind to locate the water source that was often just over the next rise. As a Park Service Ranger put it to us the following day, "In the Grand Canyon you don't hike to water, you hike from water."
[More tomorrow.]
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Doreen Baingana
I met Doreen last year at Bread Loaf and found her to be a delightful conversationist (and beautiful, as well). Her recent book Tropical Fish: Stories Out of Entebbe is a fabulous read and one I highly recommend. The Monitor has a profile of Doreen here.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Laila's a Fulbright Fellow!
Over at moorishgirl.com my good friend Laila Lalami has just learned that a) she's won a Fulbright Fellowship to live and study in Casablanca and b) the new paperback cover art for Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits is done. Good news all around--the cover is beautiful!!
Abide with Me
Elizabeth Strout's newest book Abide with Me is such a wonderful, redemptive read. When I finished it, I was sad to see my time with the characters end, so real had they become to me. I highly recommend it.
Blue Peninsula
I've just ordered this intriguing book by Madge McKeithen, which I've had recommended to me by too many people to count. I am so looking forward to reading it!!
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Orion
I absolutely LOVE Orion Magazine. Every issue is important, with fabulous writing and amazing photographs. Check it out. They are doing good work and telling important timely stories. I can't recommend it highly enough.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Ups and Downs in the Arts
I've been an artist for all of my adult life. For the most part, I am used to feeling naked in front of people who are critically assessing my work. I've completely absorbed the most important maxim an artist / writer can learn: REJECTION ISN'T PERSONAL, or R.I.P. as I like to think of it. I've drawn it in through my pores until I truly believe it. I do.
So what I'm wondering is this: Why is it still so painful? I know the agent / editor / publisher isn't looking at me and sizing me up, only to find me unworthy. So what is it? Is it the hope that we've built around a particular chance for publication? (This, in and of itself, is an annoying trait--each new agent expresses an interest and I think, "Could this be the one? Will this be true love?" Blech, but there you go.)
Could it be that not hoping would be better all around? But what are writers, if not a hopeful bunch? I mean, really, why sit alone in a room, cranking out words for a stranger to (perhaps) read at some future time? Why? Our innate storytelling genes? Well, maybe if we were gathered around a campfire after a hunt I'd buy that, but writing is storytelling once removed. It isn't that immediate gather-round-my-children-and-you-shall-hear experience of the stortyteller. It's more of a please-oh-please-oh-pretty-please-
take-this-book-home-with-you-curl-up-with-it-and-love-it experience.
I don't really know where I'm going with these musings, just throwing out questions. Here's one: How do you deal with rejection?
So what I'm wondering is this: Why is it still so painful? I know the agent / editor / publisher isn't looking at me and sizing me up, only to find me unworthy. So what is it? Is it the hope that we've built around a particular chance for publication? (This, in and of itself, is an annoying trait--each new agent expresses an interest and I think, "Could this be the one? Will this be true love?" Blech, but there you go.)
Could it be that not hoping would be better all around? But what are writers, if not a hopeful bunch? I mean, really, why sit alone in a room, cranking out words for a stranger to (perhaps) read at some future time? Why? Our innate storytelling genes? Well, maybe if we were gathered around a campfire after a hunt I'd buy that, but writing is storytelling once removed. It isn't that immediate gather-round-my-children-and-you-shall-hear experience of the stortyteller. It's more of a please-oh-please-oh-pretty-please-
take-this-book-home-with-you-curl-up-with-it-and-love-it experience.
I don't really know where I'm going with these musings, just throwing out questions. Here's one: How do you deal with rejection?
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
It takes a village? No, it takes a world.
My cousin and her husband are in the process of adopting a son from China. They have two Chinese daughters already, and it is rare to find a boy for adoption, and only if he has health or developmental issues. Pierce is a handsome, wise-looking fellow and his new parents are proving themselves true citizens of the world. Congratulations, Holly and Richard!
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Dominica
Well, I'm back from my trip to Dominica. The island was lovely, the people gracious and kind. My youngest daughter went with me, too, and got her first taste of Dominica. It was her first time snorkeling, and although she was nervous, she turned out to be a natural. I would wax poetic more about the island, but somehow it feels wrong to do so. Halfway through our visit there, the beautiful new baby of the couple we were visiting (old friends) was taken gravely ill. It seems more fitting to talk about lovely little Amela instead.
She was born almost two months ago, with lovely cafe mocha skin and deep blue eyes that appear to be very wise. Her hair is the silkiest thing these hands have ever touched; it curls softly all over her head. She is bright-eyed and watches everything around her, often with a knowing, skeptical stare. Occasionally, a corner of the room becomes utterly fascinating and she convinces me to watch it, too.
She likes good conversation, preferring to be spoken to directly; she listens intently, focusing on her companion's mouth and then returning with a comment of her own, moving her mouth and tongue with gentle coos. She will be a great communicator or a beautiful singer, and with her whole body she tells you that she wants to be there already.
She also wants to smile--does so in her sleep--but has yet to form the genuine article, even though it tickles ever so lightly at the corners of her mouth. She is almost there--smiling with her eyes, especially at her parents: her mother who loves her so fiercely and completely, her father who can hardly bear to put her down.
Amela, beautiful girl, loves the palm trees in her yard. The light breezes of the afternoon make her lift her face and turn toward them. She favors the clicking fronds of palms, the beautiful singing of her mother and the heartbeat of her father.
Amela. There are many, many people wishing for your return to health, praying for you, sending you the best of all possible wishes, dreaming of the day we may have the chance to hear you sing and see you smile.
She was born almost two months ago, with lovely cafe mocha skin and deep blue eyes that appear to be very wise. Her hair is the silkiest thing these hands have ever touched; it curls softly all over her head. She is bright-eyed and watches everything around her, often with a knowing, skeptical stare. Occasionally, a corner of the room becomes utterly fascinating and she convinces me to watch it, too.
She likes good conversation, preferring to be spoken to directly; she listens intently, focusing on her companion's mouth and then returning with a comment of her own, moving her mouth and tongue with gentle coos. She will be a great communicator or a beautiful singer, and with her whole body she tells you that she wants to be there already.
She also wants to smile--does so in her sleep--but has yet to form the genuine article, even though it tickles ever so lightly at the corners of her mouth. She is almost there--smiling with her eyes, especially at her parents: her mother who loves her so fiercely and completely, her father who can hardly bear to put her down.
Amela, beautiful girl, loves the palm trees in her yard. The light breezes of the afternoon make her lift her face and turn toward them. She favors the clicking fronds of palms, the beautiful singing of her mother and the heartbeat of her father.
Amela. There are many, many people wishing for your return to health, praying for you, sending you the best of all possible wishes, dreaming of the day we may have the chance to hear you sing and see you smile.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Million Writers Award
It's time to make your nominations. To be eligible, the story must have appeared on-line during 2005, and it must be at least 1,000 words. Make your nominations here.
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