ASHES

"Everyone else can leave, but not you."

This week's New Yorker introduces a strong new voice in fiction. Ashes, a story by Cristina Henriquez enters the consciousness of the reader harshly. In the middle of her shift at the Casa de la Carne, the narrator, Mireya, is informed that her mother has died suddenly. She finishes the shift before calling her brother to get the details. At this point, I feel like I am on foreign soil, both geographically and emotionally. I'm not sure who is more heartless, Mireya's employer or the stoic daughter with whom I'm being asked to empathize. But the prose is sharp and concise and I'm still reading. Lucky for me.

This story rewarded me for my time in the way that only the best fiction does. It started with a blank and unknown heart, and then illuminated it so brightly that I felt like I had walked the streets of Panama City with Mireya, worked a few mind numbing shifts at the Casa de la Carne, and then gone home where a shiftless and unfaithful boyfriend named Armando waits for her to provide him with supper. It soon becomes obvious that the only meaningful connection Mireya has is with her mother.

"Everyone else can leave, but not you," her mother told her once, and now it seems that she has renegged on her own bargain. By the end of the story, even Mireya's taciturn response to her mother's death is seen for what it is: a reflection of the grief that ultimately derails her life. In rapid succession, she loses her job, and pummels Armando in the street when she sees him with another woman.

In our final image of Mireya, she is alone with her mother's ashes, but she is "looking out on what she can see." As bleak as the scene appears, there is something particularly hopeful in it that outward vision. Hopeful is also the way I would describe the future of this new writer, whose first collection of short stories will be released in September. I, for one, will be watching for it.

11 THINGS TO DO ON THE 4TH OF JULY

1. Light a sparkler. Or better yet, be a sparkler.


2. Barbecue something, maybe even a tofu hot dog.


3. Be a good citizen. Smile, let someone go in front of you in traffic, turn down the music when the neighbors are sleeping.


4. Kiss someone who loved their country enough to become a Veteran.



5. Kiss someone who loved their country enough to protest an injustice.



6. Sit in the backyard with friends and family and enjoy the day. Don't have any friends or family? Look for the house with the most cars around it, and join the party. Chances are no one will notice.



7. Celebrate water. Go to the beach. Run through a sprinkler. Conserve.



8. Do one thing to make your country a better place.


9. Improve the national literacy rate. Find a nice spot and read something.


10. Relax


11. Celebrate freedom, but don't be naive about it or ever take it for granted. The folks who brought you the 4th of July weren't and didn't.


All photographs by Ted Lukac

SEARCHING FOR GOOD NEWS ON A SUNDAY IN JULY

CATEGORY: Good vs. Evil

I had an old friend named Marie LaPorte, who died just shy of her ninetieth bithday a few years ago. Marie was one of the pure souls I've met in my life, a relentlessly positive person, who never encountered a situation that couldn't be improved by a little humor. At the restaurant where Marie used to have breakfast every morning, they used to save a page from an old newspaper for her. Then while all her friends buried their heads in their morning papers, she read hers. Due to a printer's error, the page was blank. "It's the only paper that's not filled with bad news," Marie said, as she returned it to the proprietor for safekeeping every day.

I spent the morning trolling through about ten newspapers on-line in search of five pieces of good news to share; and I'm beginning to think Marie was right. If the battle between Good and Evil is being waged in newspaper headlines, then Good's in big trouble. All I could come up with was three pieces to share.

1. The Live 8 concert, was reported world wide. Though a few cynics tried to knock it for various reasons, most praised it for raising both money and awareness about poverty in Africa, and providing some great entertainment in the process.



2. The city of Portland, Oregon has had successfully and dramatically reduced carbon emissions while booming economically proving once and for all that good environmental policies and a strong economy are not mutually exclusive.

3. The Toronto Globe and Mail has a great multi-media piece called AIDS in Africa: A Turning Point. (I couldn't figure out how to link it directly, but if you go to the website, you should be able to find it.) It doesn't whitewash the tragedy of AIDs in the sub-Sahara; in fact it asks you to take an up close and personal look at its face, but it's full of hope. And hope, wherever you find it, is the best kind of news there is.

The scarcity of good news has left me feeling pretty depressed so if anyone has any to share or a positive link to post, I'd love to hear from you. Meanwhile, the next time I go searching for good news, maybe I'll try my friend Laura's bathroom wall.

FIVE THOUGHTS ON: Tom Cruise

CATEGORY: Hmmm...sanity vs. madness maybe?

At least once a week something comes along that completely changes my life. This week, it was Technorati. (I'd provide a link but I'm sure everyone in the known universe discovered it long before I did--or at least knows how to find it.) Technorati's fun for a lot of reasons, but one feature that particularly intrigues me lists the most commonly discussed issues on the internet.

Now we all know there's a few significant issues going on in the world right now--wars, famine, nuclear proliferation, global warming to name a few. There's even a few amazingly good things happening, though they're much less talked about, and off the top of my head, I can't come up with one.

But what are people talking about? Tom Cruise. That's right. For weeks it's been Tom and Katie, Tom's appearance on Oprah, Tom's expert psychiatric advice to Brooke Shields. Oh, and don't forget, Tom helpfully reminding Matt Lauer that he shouldn't shoot his mouth off about things he's doesn't understand.

So having railed against the overabundance of all things TOM for the past two weeks, I now find that I have all these unauthorized opinions on the subject roaming around in my head. Pardon me while I release them.




1. As I learned that in communications class, it's always best to start with the positive, so here goes: Even in a landscape of glittering white perfection, your teeth stand out. I also really loved your performance in "Born on the Fourth of July".

2. I know Middle-age is a bitch--especially for people who make their living, at least in part, on their good looks. And I understand; I really do. But standing on chairs? Making inane comments about anti-depressants? There's got to be a better way...

3. Now this Katie Holmes--she looks like a nice girl, and hey, if you're happy, great. But honestly, it's not the first time in human history that anyone's ever fallen in love. It's not even the first time you've--well, we won't get into that. All I'm saying is that all this jumping around has got to stop. We're getting tired of this relationship just watching it. How must Katie feel?

4. I also understand about the need to market a product. Namely your new movie, "War of the Worlds." And not just that, you're marketing yourself, too--the movie star TOM CRUISE, whose inner life may or may not have anything to do with anything you've said and done in public lately. But seriously, I think you should have been a little more polite to Matt Lauer.

5. Hmmm...Marketing a product. Marketing yourself...And the whole world is talking about it...Maybe Tom's a freaking genius after all.

BEST OF THE BLOGS 6/24 - 7/1

So what were the five best things written on blogs in the past week? It's an intriguing question, but straight out of the box, let me admit I haven't got a clue.. And what's more, neither does anyone else in the known world. There are so many blogs floating through the sphere at this point that trying to find the five best posts would be something akin to trying to name the five best thoughts anyone had on the planet this week.

In fact, I visit so many blogs and invite so many diverse voices inside my head in the course of a week that these may not even be the best things I read. What they do represent is five things that stayed with my scattered brain after my mouse pressed me relentlessly onward. And in this age of pervasive A.D.D. and virtual wandering, anything that sticks to the brain has got to worthwhile.

1. The always intriguing Sarah Weinman's thoughts on the BTK killer. Chilling is the word.


2. The following quote which I found on Postcards from the Imagination and promptly transcribed into my notebook:

"My self-confidence comes from the fact that I have discovered my dimensions. It does not behoove me to make myself smaller than I am." Edith Sodergran, Swedish Poet

And while you're there, do a little scrolling and read the excerpt from the Jorie Graham poem.

3. The wonderful Dave Pollard, who aspires to no less than saving the world has a great piece on "Business Advice for Young People and their Parents" which is more like life advice for everyone. You'll need to print and read since it deserves much more of your attention than a typical blog post.



4. Dan Wickett's blog. Yes the whole thing. It's new, it's good, and anything coming from Dan is a must-read for anyone who is even mildly interested in contemporary literature.

5. Train to Chennai. Hey, we all love a train ride, and this particular one written by a blogger called mangs will take you from Outrage, through Indignation and all the way to that rare destination called Justice.


Meanwhile, if anyone sees the woman pictured above, will someone please tell her to come out of her study and head for the beach that's only a mile down the road. She's looking awfully pale.

MORE LITERARY GAMES & QUIZZES

I recently lost a couple days of my life to The Guardian's Original Fiction, but these stories made it worth my while. There's definitely a lot more going on in them than there is in my life.

The only problem was choosing what to read first. So many of my favorite writers had stories there that I had to once again consult first lines. Here's five I started with, partially chosen by who'd written them (more about that later) and partially by the hook. If you haven't seen the Guardian yet, you can make a more unbiased decision. Pretend for a moment that you're an editor and these stories have come in over the transom. Which do you read? Which do you dismiss out of hand?


1. Before I met Tim, who in spite of everything I'm about to tell you woul be my best friend for the next four or five years--my mother warned me on the way over to my grandmother's house that I had to be nice to him.

2. It was a fine summer morning, a day predicted to beat all heat records.

3. He was in the taxi with the French woman he'd met that afternoon.

4. Every morning at 7:30 Edmund Fenton left his apartment in the East 60s and headed for Central Park with his German shepherd, Baldur.

5. Lisa noticed one of the boxes of old records had been moved from one corner of the garage, leaving a square of light colored cement.


Numbers 1 provides the classic draw, the unanswered question. What's wrong with Tim? And why do they become friends anyway? It's even more efficiently accomplished in number 3: Exactly where is the narrator going with this fascinating French woman?

Numbers 4 provides a more subtle and atmospheric mystery. A creature of habit is obviously about to encounter something very much outside his routine. So what the hell is it? And how will the aristocratically named Baldur react?

Number 5 is even more subtle, its question less prepossessing than the others: Who moved the records and why? Am I about to sacrifice an hour or two of my time to find out? But I like the immediate insertion of a character, and the visceral feel of the garage, painted in a few quick strokes--the square of light colored cement, the boxes of outdated items.

As for number 2, it's not much in the way of opening sentences if you ask me. But it's followed by a killer second sentence so if I were an editor, I would definitely stick with it.

This is the order in which I would--and did--read them: 1-4-3-5-2. Though the first lines played their part, my choice was hardly pure. I had read all the authors before--as have most avid readers, and my feelings about their work obviously colored my selection. If you haven't turned to the Guardian yet, your first line choice will be a lot more valid than mine.

Now for Part Two of my little game--to be played only after you've completed Part One. As I've said, all these stories were written by well known authors.

Can you match the following authors to the first lines above?

A. Richard Ford
B. Patricia Highsmith
C. Annie Proulx
D. Donna Tartt
E. Colm Toibin

And finally, Part Three: see if you can match the titles with the first lines.

A. "Hoofboots and Bow Ties"
B. "The Ambush"
C. "Famous Blue Raincoat"
D. "Pretty Boy"
E. "Man's Best Friend"

Now go to The Guardian and see how well you've done. And while you're there--well you're readers. You know what to do.

AN INTERVIEW WITH CARRIE KABAK!

Carrie Kabak is a former children's book illustrator. Born and raised in the United Kingdom, she lived in Bolton, Lancashire, then in South Wales, the West Midlands, Worcestershire, Herefordshire and Shropshire, and spent a lot of time in France, Switzerland and Ireland. She now lives in Kansas City, Missouri. Carrie and her husband share five sons, two labradors and a couple of cats. Her first novel, Cover the Butter, has been garnering great reviews, and was a Book Sense Pick for the month of June.


P.F. This novel seems to take on both sides of domesticity--the charm and comfort it provides, and the trap it sometimes sets for the women who create it. Was that your
intention?

C.K. The protagonist in Cover the Butter, Kate Cadogan, used her home as a refuge, a domestic haven to escape reality. I believe domesticity can be enormously rewarding and the nurturing involved provide as much job satisfaction as any other career. But—there were too many elements missing in Kate’s life to complete the picture, so in the end, she came to the conclusion that her house was essentially a self-inflicted prison. It took her a long time to realise this, as too many emotional clamps and the dogged control of a narcissistic mother prevented her from escaping.

P.F.: The most powerful relationships Kate Cadogan has seem to be with other women, whether it be the largely negative relationship with her mother, or the support and continuity her friends provide. Do you think that's how it often is for women?

C.K.: Kate Cadogan’s most powerful relationships were certainly with other women, but then again, she had a boorish, sexually peculiar husband, and an ineffectual father, so no wonder! Personally, I think some problems can only be resolved with members of the same sex, and conversations are often far more intimate. However, men can make excellent best friends, too, and I’m sure many negative relationships with the male species can be equally powerful or traumatic.

P.F.: You have a lot of projects going. Is this an especially creative time for you? Can you inspire us with your work habits?

C.K.: I made the decision to concentrate on writing, which meant no more illustrating, as I did have far too many projects going! I wouldn’t advise anyone to work like me. I have a very bad habit of working until 4am, sometimes all night, not wanting to lose the thoughts in my head. It’s not healthy!

Bleary-eyed, I’m now completing my second novel: TARTS AND SINNERS. It features the end of one year and the beginning of another in the lives of Annie Ruddock, age 58, (vicar's wife, in love with a cross-dressing bell ringer;) Jane Frobisher, age 46, (who’s obsessed with chickens, and her husband's having an affair with a woman who looks like Prince Charles’ Camilla;) and Fiona Wiggins, age 23, (who despairs having lost her virginity, and is obsessed with the Fifties.) Mostly set in Tutton Longfield, United Kingdom, is an interwoven tale told from three different points of view.


P.F.: I'm interested in the diary format you chose to use for your novel. Did that help the story flow for you or was it a challenge? Are you a diarist yourself?

The diary format was a challenge, but it helped with the flow and kept the book
organised. No, I’m not a diarist, and dear God, my life is far from organised.

P.F.: You are an accomplished illustrator as well as a writer. Like your novel, your
illustrations are exceptionally detailed. Do you believe that it is through details that the larger picture emerges?


C.K.: Absolutely. I was sure words could be used like a paintbrush, but with writing, I could climb inside the picture too. And live in it. As I write, I enjoy showing a story, creating the atmosphere, but when I’m telling, I imagine the reader is my best friend. I love writing in first person, present tense, so I can really get inside the protagonists headhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif.

P.F.: You grew up in the U.K. and now you live in Missouri. How do you think the coming of age story you tell in your novel would be different if you set it in the U.S.?

C.K.: Gosh, I don’t know—I’ve only lived here for six years, and I’m still learning about my adopted country and its people and society. That would be an interesting question for readers of Cover the Butter!

To learn more, visit Carrie's website.

DEALING WITH J.A.W.S. (Jerks at Work)

Photograph by Richy! via flickr


Can you guess which one of these waitresses is the Jerk at Work? I can't, but one thing I know for sure, at least one of these innocuous looking women makes life hell for her co-workers. Why? Once again, I'm not sure, but there's some kind of scientific principle in effect, as reliable as the laws of gravity, that says there has to be a Jerk at Work.

Category: Day to day survival

Oh my God, I was so excited when I found this article in The Economist (courtesy of Arts and Letters Daily. As a crazed poet and writer by day I've never read an economics rag in my life. And as a waitress by night, I'm too busy to scrapping for pennies to think about the bigger picture. ) But Jerks at Work, now that's a phenomenon I've been studying for years, mostly on an involuntary basis.

As soon as I read the article, I immediately invented an acronym for it: JAWS, and I think it's pretty damn apt, because Jerks at Work take a bite out of your ass on a daily basis. But please, don't hate them for it. They're just doing their job, and besides, they were probably just Born to be a Jerk. Really, there should be support groups. In fact, I think all those pharmaceutical companies who are bleeding us dry should get to work on a medication for this problem.

Just think of the profits involved! People wouldn't just buy the anti-jerk pill for themselves. Unsuspecting bosses would swallow it in morning coffee on a daily basis. Hell, this could be bigger than Tic Tacs. And after Peter Kramer wrote a book about the new wonder drug, there would be no limits to its uses.

The funny thing is that just this very morning, a co-worker and I were discussing the JAWS syndrome. And while we're not Harvard researchers or anything, I think our scientific insights were pretty profound. Call it the Waitress Theory of Relativity:

If we somehow managed to get rid of all the JAWS who are currently making us miserable, then someone whose never done a nasty thing in the past, would be required to turn Jerk. It has something to do with nature abhorring a vaccuum, or something like that. Thus it's better to hang onto our present Jerks, or at least a couple of them, because who knows? If they vanished, one of our most beloved friends--or even we ourselves must be forced into the role of designated Jerk.

But seriously, greater minds than ours are at work on the problem. From the aforementioned article in The Economist:

In a study of over 10,000 work relationships at five very different organisations, Tiziana Casciaro and Miguel Sousa Lobo, academics at Harvard Business School and the Fuqua School of Business respectively, found that (given the choice) people consistently and overwhelmingly prefer to work with a “lovable fool” than with a competent jerk.

Now that's what I call an interesting study. And I have to say that in most cases, I agree with the majority. I'll go with the lovable fool over the competent jerk any day. Or at least on most days. In fact, it pretty much depends on degrees. Exactly how foolish are we talking here? Jerks, too, definitely come in grades from 1-10. There are also situational Jerks--you know the type. Get them alone, and they're not all that bad. But put them with a couple of their Jerk cohorts, and they flare up like a roman candle. And then again, if EVERYONE in the workplace was a lovable fool, you might have a lot of fun, but nothing would ever get done. At that point, some previously inoffensive individual be required to step up and play the Jerk. See what I mean about the Waitress Theory? Those Harvard researcher dudes definitely need to have a chat with some of my friends...

SO WHAT EXACTLY IS A MEME?

Image from PostSecret

Yeah, I've seen them around, but am not quite sure where they originated--or what the word means. (Sorry for flaunting my ignorance and I promise to go directly to Dictionary.com as soon as I put up this post.) Anyway, I was so excited when Sinead Gleeson at Sigla passed me the meme baton. If you haven't read this on-line magazine from Ireland, please stop what you're doing and hit it right now. It's fun, it's provocative, and they even published one of my poems! Yay, Sigla!

You’re stuck inside Fahrenheit 451. Which book do you want to be?
I recently had a little contest on my Waitress blog. The idea was to name a book that changed your life, and everybody who entered won. (I was never much into competition.) At any rate, one of the winners selected Little Women, and her reasons reminded me of how wonderful it had been to inhabit that book, that imaginary household. So if I had to memorize a book and live inside it, I'd have to become the fifth sister in the March family. Who knows? Maybe the ever wise Marmee could even straighten my ass out and convince me to make something of myself.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
I named my first child after Gabriel Oak in Far From the Madding Crowd, so what does that tell you? But seriously, Sinead took all the best one. I was so in love with Heathcliffe that I spent years looking for him. Unfortunately, all the Heathcliffes I found weren't just romantically tortured, they were seriously whacked out. That's when I started to go for the upstanding citizen types like Mr. Darcy. But once again, I came away disappointed. My Mr. Darcys were never quite as nice as Jane Austens.
Though I live for books and frequently find life inside a book cover more rewarding than the trials of the so-called real world, when it comes to men, my husband is way better than any of my literary crushes.


The last book you bought is?
Edges by Leora Skokin-Smith, a little gem of a book. Highly recommended. And in the same order I also got, Meditations from a Movable Chair by Andre Dubus. I haven't read it yet, but anything by Dubus has got to be good.


What are you currently reading?
Baker Towers by Jennifer Haigh. Great storytelling and a lot of insight into the way that small town life enriches and crushes all at once.


Five books you would take to a deserted island

I love this question!
1. If I was stuck on a desert island, I'd need some spiritual perspective, so I'd probably pack Meister Eckhart, from Whom God Hid Nothing.

2. Since I can't fall asleep without reading a novel, I'd take The Brothers Karamazov. It's so long and deep that no matter how many years I was stuck on that island, I'd always have my bedside reading.

3. Mary Oliver's New and Selected Poems.

4. Czeslaw Milosz's Crossing the River. I've read these poems over so many times, I might as well have been on a desert island with them.

The Kabir Book: 44 of the Ecstatic Poems of Kabir, translated by Robert Bly. My copy is so old and battered that the price on the cover is $3.95. You can barely get a cup of coffee for that price now, and I've been feasting on Kabir's ecstasy since I was fifteen. Talk about a bargain. In fact, I love these poems so much, I have to share one right now:

Inside the clay jug there are canyons and pine
mountains, and the maker of canyons and pine
mountains!
All seven oceans are inside, and hundreds of millions
of stars.
The acid that tests gold is there, and the one who
judges jewels.
And the music from the strings no one touches, and
the source of all water.

If you want the truth, I will tell you the truth:
Friend listen: The god I love is inside.


Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?
I'm going to pass the meme to writers Laura Wellner and Tsipi Keller, two very different writers who both have a lot of interesting and original things to say.
And to my friend, Rona, because over the years, we've pssed everything from boyfriends to clothes to gossip to poetry back and forth. Why not a meme?

THE MOST SUBLIME ACTIVITY ON EARTH

Photograph by Anna Marie Panlilio "Homesliced" via flickr

CATEGORY: Various forms of bliss

Just posted my poem "Tango Junkie" on my other blog, and it made me feel kind of nostalgic for an activity I don't do as much as I used to. When I was about twelve, the first thing I did when I woke up was turn on my tinny sounding stereo, and leap out of bed. My mother says I never simply walked out of my room. I danced out. And she could tell my mood by the energy of the dance.

I danced as I moved around the house thinking about boys. I danced as I pondered the poems I wanted to write, and later, when responsibility crashed down on me (or tried to) I danced as I cleaned the house or held a colicky baby in the middle of the night. (Babies have a natural affinity for dance.)


I'm quite sure that if I live to be 100 as I hope to (there being so many things on this wonderful earth that I've yet to do) I'll be dancing. Dancing with my walker. Dancing in a wheelchair. Moving my baby finger to the music if that's the only thing I've got left to shake.

Tomorrow's Sunday, and whether you worship within the walls of a church, mosque or temple, or whether you just worship in a field or on the beach or in your own little room, whether you dance like a sufi, or kneel on your prayer mat, or sing in a choir,I hope you worship. For one thing, worship reminds us of our place in the world. It informs us of both our incredible importance and our absolute lack of it. And done right, worshipping something greater than ourselves--whatever that may be-- just feels good.

DEAD FISH AND POETRY

CATEGORY: Reading and Writing

Photograph by "Codfisch" via flickr
What does much of contemporary poetry have to do with the fish pictured above?

1. It's dead.
2. It doesn't smell all that good.
3. (And most important) the soul left the body long ago.

First of all, let me make one thing clear: I'm not saying I have all the answers--or that my poetry is any better than anything else out there. As a poet living in the year 2005, I'm eating at the same cafeteria as everyone else. What I am saying is that I haven't been feeling all that nourished by a lot of the stuff that's being served up.

All right, maybe I'm exaggerating; maybe I'm out to lunch (always a possibility.) Maybe contemporary poetry is alive and well, thank you very much. The evidence, however, says otherwise. Exhibit A: ain't nobody reading it. Nobody, that is, except card holding members of the Poet's Club.

Now I'm sure that having a little elite club is a lot of fun. Making rules, screening members, telling little insider jokes and stories that no one else gets--it's gotta be a real hoot. But there's one problem: that kind of shit is anathema to poetry. Absolutely kills it, and extracts the soul with surgical efficiency.

And yet I believe the desire, the hunger, the need for poetry is as strong as ever. It's just that the potential audience has been fed so many dead fish, they've stopped showing up for dinner. Give them a poem by Mary Oliver or Czeslaw Milosz, something that lifts them up, spins them around, and drops them on the ground feeling a little more enriched than they were before they entered the poetry cafeteria. My guess is that they'll be lined up with trays in hand, looking for more.

So what's the problem with (a lot of) contemporary poetry?

1. The battlefield is thick with snobs, exclusive members of the Dead Fish Club to which the uninvited need not apply. And basically, you can't put poetry and snobbery in the same room without having a fight break out. Or put more simply:

Poetry expands.
Snobbery contracts.

Make a choice.

2. Now, I've got nothing against making friends; likeminded poets have always done that. But for my money (which as any one who'se seen the balance in my checkbook lately can tell you, ain't much) these folks are way too cliquish. They're s busy slapping the right backs, stroking the right egos, and giving each other prizes they've forgotten what it's all about. In other words:

Cliques exclude.
Poetry's got the door wide open.

Make a choice.



2. A lot of these poet people are way too cool for their own good. Or put into another equation:
Poetry is white hot.
Dead fish are as cool as it gets.

Make a choice.

3. Great poetry arises from great souls. I have no equation for that, but if anyone finds one, please let me know.

IS THERE HOPE FOR A REVIVAL OF TRUE, NUTRITIOUS, SOUL SUSTAINING POETRY?

You know what? I think there is. And that hope is the web. It's democratic, it's white hot, it's a worldwide explosive convergence of souls.

SWIMMING IN AMAZEMENT

"The Lesson" by Natalie d'Arbeloff (see sidebar for link) Her description of this work:

It is not a dream
A giant blue bird appears
And follows Augustine everywhere.

The giant bird sits in the bathtub with Augustine.She says:
What is the meaning of this?
The bird answers:
You are forgetting to be amazed.
The figures are reflected in the mirror.

A tiny crystal ball sits on a ledge behind a gold frame. Looking through the frame you can read the message:
Don't forget.

CATEGORY: Religious and Poetic Ecstasy

Because it's summer, and the sky is particularly brilliant today, we need to talk about swimming. And we need to talk about amazement. To that end, I bring you Polish poet, Adam Zagajewski, one of the voices I turn to when I need to soar.

ON SWIMMING

The rivers of this country are sweet
as a troubadour's song,
the heavy sun wander westward
on yellow circus wagons.
Little village churches
hold a fabric of silence so fine
and old that even a breath
could tear it.
I love to swim in the sea, which keeps
talking to itself
in the monotone of a vagabond
who no longer recalls
exactly how long he's been on the road.
Swimming is like prayer:
palms join and part,
join and part,
almost without end.

Adam Zagajewski

THE MORNING QUESTION or HOW DO YOU SPEND YOUR DAYS?

CATEGORY: HUMAN EVOLUTION

Originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

Photograph by Ted Lukac

We begin life thinking that time is something solid, something we can measure with clocks and calendars, something we can manage, use, save, waste or master, according to our inclinations. But somewhere along the way, we discover that the endless summer of childhood is a whisper we almost missed, a breeze that disappeared as soon as it arrived for adults.

Thus begins the quest to make time behave as it should--or to "use it wisely," as my elementary teachers used to warn. In parent teacher conferences, they always said I didn't, that I was staring out the window when I was supposed to be learning my time tables. What they didn't understand was the visions I was storing up as I stared into the trees at the edge of the playground, the ragged sky beyond them.

I wonder if those old teachers would be impressed to know I have spent my life trying to heed their advice--though not with much luck. Despite my best efforts to use, manage and master my hours, I remain the child who is caught looking out the window when important lessons are being taught.

Still, I am dazzled and inspired by Ben Franklin--especially for the schedule that was the framework for such an amazing life. When I remember to do so, I ask myself his question in the morning: What good shall I do today? Quickly followed by the writers version: What good shall I write today?

It has yet to turn me into Ben, Jr., but each morning when the sun rises, I get another chance to try again.



Benjamin Franklin's "Scheme of Employment for the Twenty-four Hours of a natural Day"

(From B. Franklin's Autobiography)
The Morning Question,
What Good Shall I do This Day?
5 - 7 Rise, wash, and address Powerful Goodness;Contrive Day's Business and take the
Resolution of the Day ; prosecute the present Study : and breakfast?

8-12 Work

12-1 Read, or overlook my Account, and dine.

1-6 Work


6-9 Put things in their Places, Supper, Music, or Diversion, or Conversation,
Examination of the Day.

Evening Question: What Good have I done to day ?

THE LINK BETWEEN DEPRESSION AND CREATIVITY

CATEGORY: SANITY VS. MADNESS

(Image from PostSecret)

After Peter Kramer wrote the groundbreaking and highly readable Listening to Prozac, millions of depressives who'd been suffering to various degrees for years were convinced that SSRIs could not only relieve their melancholy, it could alter their personalities. Hell, it might even make them richer and more sexually attractive in the bargain. (Look what just talking about them did for Peter Kramer!) In many ways, the drugs proved to be the miracle that Kramer touted. But not a panacea. Not a cure. Sometimes they stopped working. Thus, the phrase "Prozac poop out" was born. And sometimes the side effects were worse than the disease.

There were even side effects to writing about them. One that afflicted Kramer was a question that was thrown at him wherever he went" What if Van Gogh had taken anti-depressants?" In fact, he heard the question or a variant of it so often, and was so annoyed by it, that he wrote an entire book in response. About Depression is a fairly interesting read, but it's basically an article expanded to book length. After reading it, I would summarize his answer to the question this way:

Depression is an illness, dammit--not a romantic state of mind. And like diabetes or epilepsy or any other disease, it should be treated.

As someone who is familiar with both depression and creativity, I agree. And yet, no one can deny the connection between the melancholic temperament and the urge to create art. The way I see it, it's as simple and logical as a mathematical equation. It goes something like this:

Look too deeply into the human condition and you're gonna get a little bummed.
Spend too much time in the depths of melancholy, you start looking for a way to claw your way out. That's when you pick up pen, paint brush, saxophone, and start to howl.

And then, there's what I call the "artist's lifestyle equation:"

Spend most of your days alone with your "work," a product that the world does not know it needs, and doesn't hestitate telling you so and you're gonna get pretty damn depressed--even if you weren't before.

That's the life of the artist. It's the proverbial vicious cycle--and somewhere in the middle of the cycle lies the gift, large or small, which the artist gives to the world, or just to herself.

So what if Van Gogh had taken anti-depressants? He probably would have enjoyed life more--though its obvious from his swirling ecstatic visions that in his highs, he experienced the kind of bliss that few know. But if he'd had access to Prozac, he might have been more fun at parties, maybe would have even lived longer. But would he have been less creative? I don't think so. I don't even think it would have prevented him from cutting off his ear. (There are always bad days.) For one thing, as I said before, Prozac has its limitations. It mitigates but doesn't cure. And besides, once you've known the depths, the insight stays with you. The insight and the urge to show and tell what you've seen.

Speaking of depression, apparently Nick Hornby, (one of my personal favorites) has recently penned a novel about the subject. I haven't read A Long Way Down yet so I can't comment on it. All I can say is that if Hornby hadn't previously experienced the affliction he was writing about, yesterday's review by Michiko Kakutani in the NYT
would definitely give him an opportunity to do so. Apparently, the novel is about a group of depressed people who've gathered on a rooftop to commit suicide. The reviewer calls it "a maudlin bit of tripe," and repeats the phrase "sappy and predictable" a couple of times just to make sure we get it. Ouch. Pass the Prozac, or at least a double shot of Jack Daniels.

Like I say, I haven't read the book so I'm in no position to disagree with her criticism. What I can disagree with is the blithe way with which she dismisses suicidal depression. Why don't these people just go get counselling or take anti-depressants? Kakutani wants to know. Well, for one thing, Michiko, people who are that depressed frequently feel so hopeless that they don't have the will to pick up the phone. And secondly, that shit doesn't always work. Just goes to prove that sometimes even highfalutin literary critics can ramble on like Dr. Phil. Err, what was that she said about sappy and predictable?

BECAUSE IT'S SUNDAY

Category: Religious and Poetic Ecstasy

From the DIGHA NIKAYA translated by Maurice Walshe:

Put away all hindrances, let your mind full of love pervade one quarter of the world, and so too the second quarter, and so the third and so the fourth. And thus the whole wide world above, below, around and everywhere, altogether continue to pervade with love filled thought, abounding, sublime, beyond measure, free from love and ill will.

UNHAPPY WOMEN

Category: Sanity vs. Madness (See 'This is a blog about...")

Edmund White has a piece entitled "My Women" in this week's New Yorker which I found particulary unsettling. The following paragraphs, in particular, hit a nerve:

From my mother I learned just how violent and unquenchable a woman’s loneliness can be. She had been sheltered excessively by her husband and then, midway through her life, they divorced, and she was forced to earn her own living. It was as if after hobbling around with bound feet she were suddenly unbandaged and told to become a marathon runner. She made her way professionally, and she took pleasure in that success, but she spent her evenings suffering beside a silent phone, drinking highballs and listening to the same sad record. Watching her, I came to think of men as monsters with absolute power, the darlings of the Western world, and of women as their unfortunate victims.

Unhappy women! How many of them I’ve known. Sniffling or drinking with big reproachful eyes, silent or complaining, violent or depressed—a whole tribe of unhappy women have always surrounded me.

Why was I, who consider myself a happy woman, so disturbed by White's vision of female misery? Because, if I'm honest, I have to say, I've seen the "unquenchably lonely" creature he describes in the mirror a few times. I've drunk her "highballs;" I've listened to her sad records; I've stared through her reproachful eyes at some poor man who wanted nothing but to escape my needs. Not often or even recently, but I've been her--and she terrifies me as much as she scares the men who are the recipient of those reproaches.

Violent. Depressed. Unquenchably lonely. She is the poet who penned Ariel and then put her head in the oven, and also the one Anne Sexton tried to ward off with her poems, but who won in the end. She is the one who lost the ability to look outward, because the fire within was so consuming.

Unhappy woman. Lonely woman. Woman with her highballs and her sad records and her silent phone and worst of all, those reproachful eyes. I would like to disown you, to say I'm not like you and never will be. But I can't--not entirely.



Meanwhile, in the Reading and Writing department, I've recently posted about The Perfect Job for a Writer on my other blog. Obviously, I'm still searching for it. Any suggestions?

IF GOD WERE A NOVELIST...

CATEGORY: Reading and Writing

One of my favorite novels is Felicia's Journey by William Trevor. And for one who reads as avidly--and sometimes as recklessly--as as a food addict at an all you can eat buffet, it's not easy to name favorites. Though Trevor is more acclaimed for his short stories, this novel moved me more than any of his shorter pieces. It is that rare work of fiction that lingers in the mind and heart long after the book has been returned to the shelf. Maybe it's folly to believe that a novel can actually change us, but I don't think so. I believe that a book like Felicia's Journey, which almost sings with compassion for its tragically flawed characters, one of whom is a serial killer, might actually expand our capacity for mercy.

Another such book of mercy is The Bright Forever by Lee Martin, which I finished last night. This novel also deals with
the worst among us--a man who chooses to act out his own pain and rejection by murdering a child. Outside the pages of novels, we frequently refer to such men as "monsters," disowning their darkness by casting them out of the human family. But Martin will have none of our distancing. He makes us look directly into the face of his killer, and what we see is something as ordinary as bread, as familiar as the stranger who smiled at us in the hardware store this morning, or the one who startled us in the bathroom mirror when we caught a glimpse of ourselves in the middle of the night.

Told from multiple viewpoints, The Bright Forever probes the consciousness of both the "good people" and those who do great evil. He finds more disparity between their circumstances than in their hearts' capacity to hold darkness. In his refusal to turn away from or give up on any of his characters, Martin, like Trevor before him, has given us an idea of the kind of book God would write if he were a novelist.

HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHAT TO READ?

CATEGORY: Reading and Writing

Okay, let's play school. I'll be the teacher and you'll sit in one of those little desk/chair combo units with your knees folded close to your chin and be the students.
Ready? Well, so am I. I've got my horn rims on and my chalk in hand and I'm about to write your assignment on the virtual blackboard:

Go get a copy of The New Yorker's latest fiction issue (June 13 and June 20th). Inside you'll find three stories by new writers, all looking fairly interesting. Don't read them. At least not yet. See the real crux of this assignment is finding out how readers make their choices.

First look at the titles in the table of contents. We've all heard about the importance of a catchy or apt title. So here they are:

"Haunting Olivia" by Karen Russell

"An Ex-Mas Feast" by Uwem Akpan

"The Laser Age" by Justin Tussing

Which would you turn to first? I placed them in the order that they appealed to me by title alone (which also happens to be the order they appear in the table of contents.)

Then, if you're anything like you're hornrimmed teacher, you next turn to the Contributor's page to find out a little bit about the author before you make your decision. There you'll find:

Karen Russell is working on a novel and a short story collection.

Uwem Akpan is a Jesuit priest from Nigeria.

Justin Tussing is a graduate of the Iowa Writer's Workshop and has a novel that will be published in February.

On that basis, I'm going with Akpan. An African Catholic priest? I'm expecting a unique voice, an opportunity to learn more about an underrepresented continent and maybe even some moral vision.

Then there is the final test. I read the first line of each story, and see which pulls me in first.

From "Haunting Olivia": "My brother, Wallow, has been kicking around Gannon's Boat Graveyard for more than an hour, too embarrassed to admit he doesn't see any ghosts.

From "An Ex-Mas Feast": "Now that my eldest sister was twelve, none of us knew how to relate to her anymore."

From "The Laser Age": "These days high schools look like pastel hued laboratories."

So here's the questions for the take home exam:

1. Which did you choose?

2. Why did you make your choice? Was it the title, the author, or the first line that influenced your decision?

3. Now's the hard part. Or the pleasurable part. Depends on how much you love to read. Read all three stories, and tell me if the one you were initially attracted to
turned out to be, in your estimation, the "best" of the three?

If anyone's willing to play, I'll be happy to turn over the horn rimmed glasses and the pointer, even my chalkboard, and squeeze myself into one of those desks. As always, your insights will be my teachers.


And speaking of reading choices, several readers have come back with their all time favorite books--and more importantly, the reasons why they loved them for MY FIRST LITERARY WAITRESS CONTEST. Anyone looking to rekindle a love affair with an old classic, or hoping to find a new summer read would be advised stop by.

SAM BINNIE WINS ORANGE PRIZE FOR SHORT FICTION

I'm sure there's no conspiracy involved here, but a woman with a man's name has also taken the Orange prize for short fiction. That's right, a twenty-three year old employed by Penguin named Sam Binnie won the award for her first published short story. I was about to pen a self-righteous diatribe about the stronghold that men still have on the literary world, when I decided it might be best to read the story first. One brief reading of "The Dress" immediately put my escalating paranoia to rest. If a man had written this story, he would have to be so totally attuned to the female psyche that no one could ever claim sexism in the choice.

The second time I read simply for pleasure. And this story about a woman's life told through short vignettes about the dresses she wore provides many pleasures--from the hopeful, but cautionary description of the dress she wore at seven, to the sad and yet ultimately luminous chapter that describes the garment she wears at forty-five. Clearly, both Sam and Lionel deserve to be read by men and women alike.

A WOMAN WITH A MAN'S NAME TAKES THE ORANGE PRIZE

Lionel Shriver has won the Orange Prize for her novel, 'We Have to Talk about Kevin'. I find this interesting for a couple of reasons:

1. 'Kevin' isn't just a book literary people like. It's a novel that actual flesh and blood readers might also want to to give up a few hours of their life for. It has a fascinating premise: what happens when an ordinary couple give birth to a child who turns into a teenage psychopath? It also has a couple of crowd pleasing "Hitchcockian twists".

2. Lionel Shriver was born Margaret Ann, but as a teenager changed her name. Now, I'm not attributing her success to the name change, because as I've said, she's obviously earned it the old fashioned way--by writing a great book. However, with a recent study showing that women read books written by both sexes equally, while men tend to stick to work written by their own, writing under a man's name is a wise career move. If the study is accurate, that means Lionel automatically would have twice as many potential readers as Margaret Ann. In 2005! Hmmm...maybe I should consider a name change. I'd consider Patrick Francis, but that happens to be the name of my ex, and I doubt he wants to loan it out--especially to the likes of me. How about George Sand, Jr.?

CUT GLASS AND OTHER SUBJECTS

I remember the first time I read a Tessa Hadley story in The New Yorker. It had sexy and unique characters (including one glamourous woman named Helly who I can still envision), insight, betrayal, and an ending that left me startled and enamored and wanting more. As it turned out, I got my wish. The "story" was actually an excerpt from Hadley's novel, Accidents in the Home, which I read as soon as it was released. And thoroughly enjoyed.

Thus, I was excited when I saw that Hadley's name in the table of contents in the June 6th issue of The New Yorker. The intriguing title, "A Mouthful of Cut Glass," further whetted my appetite. Unfortunately, that was where the excitement ended. This story about a couple from the seventies introducing one another to their parents was overly long and too uneventful for my blood. Neither the mildly interesting main characters, Sheila and Neil, nor their blandly flawed families, nor anything about the situation, sufficiently rewarded me for the time it took to read it. It begged the question: why should I care? And the answer is that I didn't. Or not enough. Sorry, Tessa. I'll read you again, but I won't be looking for the novel, from which I suspect this story is excerpted.

For another take on this story, check out Grendel's review on Earth Goat. In fact, I intend to head on over there right now myself. I wanted to read it as soon as it was posted, but didn't want to let it color my own review.



STORIES THAT WIN CONTESTS vs. THE REAL THING


The best story I read last year was "Runaway" by Alice Munro. In a lot of ways, I wish I could name something else, something less predictable, something I might even introduce to a few new readers. But to quote Woody Allen, "The heart wants what it wants," and in my case, the heart can't deny Munro.

I not only remember the story, I remember where I was sitting in the house when I read it, and exactly how the light slanted across my Mexican tile floor, I remember the light in the story, too--fairly grey throughout, tragically golden at the end. I also recall the curving road between the narrator's house and the home of the story's protagonist, a woman who wants to leave her abusive husband but in the end, cannot bring herself to do so. That road, at once desolate and luminous, is one I have traveled often since I read the story. I remember, too, the chill that passed over me when I reached Munro's stunning ending. Immediately, I had to go and search out the nearest human being, and make him sit down in the very same spot where I had entered Munro country and read it.

"Runaway" is mysterious and multi-layered and beautiful. It is the best thing that a short story can be, a life eclipsed into a few short pages. And yet, I wonder if Munro were an unknown writer, and she forked over ten or fifteen bones to enter one of the many short story contests that offer $1000 prize and publication in some prestigioius journal, whether she would have a chance to win.

The reason for my doubt is this: despite its strength, "Runaway" is also traditional, realistic fiction. There are no particularly quirky characters strutting through the landscape, and the language, while lovely, never shows off or calls attention to itself. It serves the story rather than vice versa. In other words, "Runaway" has little in common with the kind of fiction that usually wins contests.

Not that I'm blaming the judges who have taken on the job of sifting through hundreds of competently written stories in search of one gem. No wonder the one that is most overtly "original" or iconoclastic is frequently the one selected. After reading coming-of-age or adultery stories till the mind freezes over, I, too, would probably seize upon the one that is simply different.

And yet, for this reader, the fact remains: there is nothing more original than a genuinely true voice.


While we're on the subject of stories that make the hair on the back of your neck stand up and salute (not to mention contests), over at I'M REALLY NOT A WAITRESS, I've instituted the first Literary Waitress Contest. Tell me about a book you didn't just admire, but actually loved in 500 words or less. You won't believe the prizes offered.




Meanwhile, "The Hero Speaks," a new excerpt from my novel, RACE POINT, was posted on line at VerbSap yesterday.

THE TRUTH IS OUT

Yesterday, I was included in Lit Blogger IV, an e-Panel which was posted on the Emerging Writer's Network. In the interview, Dan Wickett managed to wheedle the truth out of me about my split personality. (Okay, he didn't wheedle a bit, I just spilled it.) But it's true. The wine sipping, poetry loving, full-of-her-own-high-minded-ideas proprietor of this site is also the loud mouth, gum snapping waitress who serves up coffee and conversation over at I'M REALLY NOT A WAITRESS. Though how long I will keep both blogs going, I'm really not sure. As anyone who's ever tried to keep one knows, a blog is like one of those jealous boyfriends who freak if you want a night out with the girls. What? You don't want to see me today? Who is the guy? I'll break him in two...

Well, in my case, there is someone else. My alter ego. My split self. And sometimes she talks a helluva lot louder than the chick who tends the Garden. (In fact, I think her voice has slipped into this post. The Gardener who was going on about Meister Eckhart yesterday would clearly never use the word chick)for instance.

So, read the interview! Not just because it contains hidden insights into my mental health or the lack therof, but it also contains interviews with nine other bloggers, whose excellent sites you may or may not have visited.

Meanwhile, I'm blaming the waitress for coming in here, changing the template to this blog, and somehow erasing all the links I worked so hard to set up in the process!

THE HIGHEST WORK OF ALL

One thing I don't think people talk about enough is that art--or specifically literature--if it's worth anything at all, is a thing of the soul. It may be witty, dazzlingly original, it may be a page turner; but if it doesn't in some way unlock the mystery of what it means to be alive on this earth, what's the point? We may enjoy it, we may admire it, but if we don't need it, it's just taking up space on a very crowded book shelf. With something like 400,000 books a year being published, I for one, only have time for the books I need.

What I found most interesting about Spengler's quote which I featured in the post called "the beautiful and the good" was his emphasis on the artist, not the art. In his view, it doesn't matter so much that the characters in a novel are humble or good or courageous, but that their creator is those things. A writer in possession of those rare virtues can enter the darkest regions of the human heart intrepidly. His or her own goodness cannot help but illuminate the night.

The mystic, Meister Eckhart, said this:

"A person who wishes to produce anything good should be like a man who draws a circle. Let him get the center in the right place and keep it so that the circumference will be good. In other words, let a man first learn to fix his heart on God and then whatever he creates will have virtue. But if a man's heart is unsteady, even the great things he does will be of little value."

And he also said this:

I never ask God to give himself to me. I ask him to purify, to empty me. If I am empty, God by his very nature is obliged to fill me.

How to be pure? By steadfast longing for the one good. How to acquire this longing? By self-denial. Self-knowledge is the way, for creatures are all nothing. They come to nothing through lamentations and bitterness.



Was he talking to writers and artists? To those who have ears to listen, the answer is clear.

WHAT CAN A GREAT POEM DO?

It can enlighten.
It can terrify.
It can make you see ordinary objects that you pass by daily in an entirely different way.
It can exalt.
It can remind you of everything you already know, but forget on a daily basis.
It can shake you.
It can transform you.
It can make you stop.
It can demand you begin.
It can make you say yes.
It can send a loud NO! screaming through the labyrinths of your soul.

For a poem that does all of the above, watch this film. Not coincidentally, it was written by my favorite poet.

THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE GOOD

I read this article by Spengler in Asia Times quickly, which is clearly not how it is meant to be absorbed. For any writer, musician or artist who is concerned about the impact of his or her work on the species--if indeed we aspire to having an impact--it raises some salient, stimulating and provocative points.

I don't agree with everything in "Why the Beautiful is not the Good" but I am grateful to Spengler for rasing the discussion--and particularly for this insightful paragraph:

"Of all the Catholic writers, J R R Tolkien understood this point perhaps the best. His high-Elven master smith Feanor created the Silmarils, three jewels of astonishing beauty, and went to war when they were stolen. His defect was exceeding pride in the work of his hands. The tragedy of the Elves to some extent is the tragedy of the artists. Ultimately it is the virtues of the humble Hobbits rather than the magnificence of the Elves that will prevail. Music, like science, offers mere potential for good; the good is sui generis. For art to serve the good, the artist must first be good. Benedict XVI, as noted, stated that "reverence, receptivity and humility" characterize the musician whose art exalts rather than confuses the listener. Religion can engage art as its servant only after it has converted the artist."

LAST NIGHT I FELL IN LOVE

Last night I fell in love with an old Jewish man by the name of Leo Gursky. I fell in love with his "apartment full of shit," and the poor ruined body he exposes before an art class just because he wants to be seen before he dies. I fell in love with his stained underwear, and his childhood friend, Bruno, who weeps easily, and has hair like dandelion fluff, and with his tenacious devotion to a girl who married someone else fifty years earlier.

Last night something happened that hasn't occurred in a while, but it's the thing that keeps readers cruising, searching, questing with the same battered hope that propels singles in and out of bars. I opened a book and fell in love. To anyone who's read it, you probably recognize the character I'm talking about, and have situated his novel home. It's 'The History of Love,' a novel I previously suspected of being overhyped and overpraised. Well, this morning, still slightly drunk on Leo Gursky, I'm here to say it's neither.

The author, Nicole Krauss is not only young, beautiful, and married to literary luminary, Jonathan Safran Foer, she's also freaking brilliant. Tell me; is life fair? Well, we won't get into that. But the thing is, I'm so in love with Leo that envious as I may be, I begrudge his creator nothing.

"This History of Love" is a wonderful story, narrated by a wonderful character in a strong, clear voice; it is also the best kind of book a writer can read. Only fifty pages into it, I wanted to leap out of my bed at 2 a.m. and go to my computer to work on my own neglected novel.

Fifty pages into it and already gushing? you say. And you're right, of course. I should wait until I finish the book before I start spouting opinions. But unfortunately, people in love are not known for their prudence.

Undoubtedly, there will be more on this subject later.

THE TYRANNY OF THE PERFECT MARRIAGE

Over a lunch of peanut butter crackers and chocolate (the dark kind with lots of anti-oxidants in case you're worrying about my nutritional status) I read Jonathan Franzen's new story, "Two's Company" in the May 23rd edition of the New Yorker. A short piece, it was almost as tasty as my chocolate--and in its own cunning way just as dark.

The story focuses on Pam and Paul, the perfect couple. Not only are they madly in love and highly compatible, they're writing comedic scripts together in L.A. "at the combined age of 43." They sell their first pilot when they're only 27, and an eight figure deal soon follows. (Call me naive,but I didn't know there was such a thing. But then again, I exist in the world of lit mags that pay mostly in honorariums or free subscriptions.)

Soon, however, the perfection of their marriage becomes a tyranny, and Pam (the more talented or just more market-savvy partner) the chief tyrant. When she decides to make a show called "Two's Company" to celebrate (or cash in) on their putatively flawless partnership, she can't allow that the fictional husband might be even momentarily attracted to a busty bimbo named Kimba. (Nice alliteration, huh?)

As if to prove that the laws of testosterone are more powerful than his wife's script, Paul promptly begins to fantasize about the young star of the show. When Pam finds out he's met the girl for coffee, she summarily ends the marriage. Apparently for her, it's perfection or nothing.

Is it possible to thoroughly enjoy a story and be irritated by it at the same time?
Apparently so. I closed the magazine, filled with admiration for what Franzen was able to accomplish with a few deft strokes, but irritated as hell by the way he's backed his characters into a corner. Especially Pam. Can't a female character ever be strong and talented--and still be human, too?

Just asking.

P.S. While I was searching for a link to the story, which I didn't find, I came across a great blog called Earth Goat. For an entirely different take on this story, check it out.


TODAY IS GRACE


I did not know the work of Israeli novelest, Batya Gur, who died earlier this week of cancer, but in this quote, spoken just before her diagnosis, she reminded me of what I'm always in danger of forgetting:

"I view life as a journey of initiation for death. A person lives, suffers, dies. All the rest is grace. And love is grace. Writing is grace."

THE SHIRTS OFF OUR BACK

Yesterday I found this quote from an interview with writer Ali Smith, which immediately demanded a place over my cluttered desk:

"Stories can change lives if we're not careful. They will come in and take the shirts off our backs. Tell the right stories and we live better lives."

What a wonderful way to describe the power of story: as something with the ability to strip you naked and leave you rattled inside your own skin. Whether you've been the victim of a robbery that leaves you more impoverished than you were before, or a gift with the power to transform your life--well, that depends on the book you chose to open.

Frequently, we shy away from discussing the impact that stories have on their readers, and perhaps for good reasons. Historically, such assessments have led to book bans and burnings. A book that fed the dark side (in someone's estimation) was not simply a book to be put aside, it was a book to be destroyed, forbidden, turned to ash. And the freedom, in which art thrives,was often destroyed with it. No, we don't want to go back to that. We never want to go back.

But our aversion to censorship doesn't mean that both readers and writers don't have a responsibility to create stories that exalt human consciousness, rather than debase it. When we open a book and read those critical first pages, deciding whether the narrative holds our interest, let us also consider if this is a story we want to enter our bloodstream, our heart, the thoughts and actions we carry forward after closing it.

If this is indeed a world of meaning, rather than an empty universe in which to do little more than act out shallow survival skills, then every conversation we participate in, every film we allow to wash over us in the dark, every book we open in the sanctuaries of our bedrooms, is an invitation: Come in. If we are choosey about who we allow in the front door of our house, shouldn't we be even more careful about who we invite into that hall of mirrors: our mind?

When my sons, Gabe and Josh were small boys, I undertook a project with them. Each night before bed, I would read a chapter from a classic novel. while they sprawled Huck Finn, Oliver Twist, and David Copperfield.

But the novel that we all remember when we talk about that time was Hugo's masterpiece, Les Miserables.
The boys loved the hero's superhuman strength so much that I once caught them playing a game they called "Jean Valjean" in the back yard, pretending to save one another from beneath a fallen carriage.

But it was Jean's goodness and humility that made the three of us weep together through the closing pages of the novel. And it is those moments when we cried for the unheralded death of one good man, that subtly changed us, that whispered to our blood, and whisper to us still, inviting us into the better life that Ali Smith describes.

'A SECOND LIFE'

Great piece in today's Times about Henri Matisse's 'second life'. Of course, the man himself never fails to fascinate, but in some ways, the concept of the second life intrigues me even more. What exactly is a second life? For anyone who had ever survived a potentially fatal illness,little explanation is necessary. It's the gift years. The ones that were never promised to you, as we, in the stupor of ordinary days and familiar landscapes, seem to believe years are supposed to be. In other words, 'a second life' is a bright morning with the blinders off. It's existence deepened and enlivened by its very fragility.

Knowing the joyfulness and the exuberance of his work, it is not surprising that Matisse was a man who would take full opportunity of the gift years, producing the marvelously free work that consumed his final thirteen years.

The piece contains some terrific quotes from an artist who was not only a master with a paintbrush, but clearly had earned an honorary doctorate in the art of life as well:

"When I find something is not going well, I look in some satisfying corner and find I have no reason to complain."

"I am told that Chinese teachers taught their students that when you want to draw a tree, feel as if you were climbing it..."

And in response to a critic who said he was too old for erotic art: "If my feelings of freshness, of beauty, of youth remains the same as it was 30 years ago in front of flowers, a fine sky or an elegant tree, why should it be different with a young girl?"

LIVING IN THE 'LARGENESS'

In this morning's Guardian, several prominent writers, thinkers, and scientists share their thoughts about faith. They range from unique testaments of belief to a rather poetic description of agnosticism. This, from Jeanette Winterson, about"living in the largeness" particularly spoke to me:

If the religions agree on anything, it's that God is not containable and finite, and that what we know is always very partial and biased. So I am looking for something outside of all that. Part of our challenge and our glory is to live in that largeness.



And speaking of living in the largeness, one of our greatest living poets will turn 100 this summer. Stanley Kunitz may need a walker to get around; his speaking voice may be too weakened to permit public readings. A personal assistant might even feel compelled to stop him in the middle of an interview with a reporter from the New York Times to ask if he's feeling afraid. But the poems go on: vigorous, mighty of voice, intrepid as ever. In honor of his impending birthday, I wanted to print my favorite one here.
But Kunitz has penned so many transcendent poems, choice was impossible. Thus, I made my pick based in part on brevity:

THE QUARREL

The word I spoke in anger
weighs less than a parsley seed,
but a road runs through it
that leads to my grave,
that bought-and-paid-for lot
on a salt-sprayed hill in Truro
where the scrub pines
overlook the bay.
Half-way I'm dead enough,
strayed from my own nature
and my fierce hold on life.
If I could cry, I'd cry,
but I'm too old to be
anybody's child.
Liebchen,
with whom should I quarrel
except in the hiss of love,
that harsh, irregular flame?

A POEM GOES TO IRELAND and THE PERILS OF CYBERSPACE

Truly, good things happen through blogging. One example? Since I have tons of poetry floating around my house in various forms--some in loose sheaths, some in various computer files, others stored precarously in my head where it occasionally tumbles loose at odd moments, I decided I would organize it on a blog. Thus, Waitress Poems was born--the name chosen largely because it was the first phrase I typed in that wasn't already taken. For the most part, I was doing it as a way of organizing the poems, grouping them together and seeing how they looked on the screen. I never particularly expected anyone to take notice. But take notice someone did--specifically Sinead Gleeson, the editor of one of my favorite on-line journals. Thus, my poem, Smokers, snaked its way from the bottom of my drawer to the virtual pages of this month's edition of Sigla. Ah, life is good, and blogging makes it even more exhilarating.

Except when it doesn't...In a lot of ways, creating a weblog is a lot like going out on the playground in your new pair of red Keds and your flashiest smile on the first day of school. The more you reveal about yourself, the more likely you are to find kindred spirits. And also the more likely you are to attract a recruit from the burgeoning army of lonely misfits who mistake virtual intimacy for the real thing. In a cautionary tale, also from this month's, Sigla, Karina Westermann relates a particularly harrowing account of Cyberstalking.

CHOOSE 3 with Ginger Strand

"Booklist" calls Ginger Strand's "Flight," "a finely wrought novel about the back-and-forthness of life." Set in Michigan, "Flight" centers on Will Gruen, an aging commericial pilot coping with his impending retirement and the aftermath of 9/11, even as his family spirals apart in unravelings of their own. Told in multiple points of view, "Flight" follows one family through an increasingly askew wedding weekend that looks back on four decades of sweeping cultural change.

Ginger Strand has published fiction and nonfiction in a variety of places, including The Iowa Review, The Believer, The Gettysburg Review, and the New England Review. She has received residencies from Yaddo, the MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and the Sewanee Writers Conference, and has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. "Flight" is her first novel.

To learn more, visit her website.

P.F.: Will Gruen is such a wonderful, nuanced character. Though your novel is told in multiple points of view, he is clearly the heart of the novel. Was that your intention or did he simply emerge as the strongest character?


G.S.: It wasn't my intention, in fact, but those patriarchs do have a way of taking over, don't they? Seriously, I simply found as I wrote that having Will take a more central role worked for the story. I was interested in getting at how family stories are never one individual's story--the traditional novel viewpoint--but rather a combination of overlapping stories that echo and bounce off one another. As I shaped Will's character, I began to see him as someone whose life history, for better or worse, had shaped his family's trajectory, so it was easiest to tell all the stories using his as the center point.

Also, I felt that Will's career could be used to reflect macrocosmic changes in American culture--in the way Americans live and work and relate to each other. Books about young people can be wonderful, and can build a kind of affection for their characters, but frankly, I always find older people more interesting. They have more stories to tell, more experience to draw on, and you can begin to see how their lives have been defined by social and cultural forces. Leopold Bloom is far more interesting than Stephen Dedalus, no?

P.F.: 'Flight' deals with the Vietnam war's continuing impact on a veteran and his family a generation after it was fought. How does that perspective differ from the fiction that was written twenty years ago? What can it add to our understanding of what that war meant and how it altered lives?


G.S.: I am a huge fan of the work of writers like Jayne Anne Phillips and Tim O'Brien, who both write very powerfully about the effect of the Vietnam War on those who lived through that era. I was a small child when the war ended, but it hung over my very early years in a strange way. My father did not go to the war, but he knew many people who did, and many of them died. My parents began by believing the president and then slowly turned against the war. Sometimes I think the "cynical slacker" image of Generation X comes partly out of that formative experience of helplessness--we became aware of politics at a point when they were very divisive and fraught.

I wanted to consider how Vietnam influenced not just the generation who lived through it, but subsequent ones too. Not only that, but it affects everyone's relationship to current events. For Will, the experience of 9/11 can't help but bring back emotions and feelings about his Vietnam experience that he may not have dealt with then. And I think that happened in our culture as a whole: Vietnam tends to rear its head in times of national trauma, as evidenced by the brouhaha about Senator Kerry's war medals during the election. So in writing about it today, we must address a less immediate experience, but one that has additional historical resonances.

P.F.: 'Flight' like many recent "post 9/11" novels forces its characters to confront a world that is not nearly as solid as they believed it to be. Do you believe that fiction has a role in helping people to live with that reality?


G.S.: Solidity is always an illusion. Fiction helps us see that. And that's really what I was trying to write about in "Flight." We have this way of looking at our lives as narratives, progressing neatly through beginning, middle and end, neatly wrapping up with a moral and--preferably--a happy ending. But life doesn't work that way. We move forward, we're pulled back, we move forward again, never certain what's going to happen, or if we've chosen the right path. We just have to do the best we can. Books have always helped me to embrace that, whether fiction, poetry, epic, or good nonfiction.

I don't really like happy endings anyway. They're too pat. I'm the sort of person who finishes a Jane Austen novel and thinks, "That's cute, but what about next month, when she finds out he snores?" Happy endings, like solidity, are fine and dandy, but they're really just resting points, not endings at all. So enjoy them! But the only real ending in my opinion is an ending like that in Samuel Beckett's novel "The Unnameable": "In the silence you don't know, you must go on; I can't go on; I'll go on."

KACEY KOWARS ON ANDRE DUBUS

The following is excerpted from a much more exhaustive consideration of Andre Dubus and his work, written by radio interviewer, Kacey Kowars. Being a devotee of Dubus and a huge fan of Kacey Kowars' insightful interviews with writers, I asked for permission to post an abridged version here. But if you cherish the work of Andre Dubus as much as I do, don't stop here. Return to the work. Dubus' life may have been cut short, but he left us so much. Then visit Kacey Kowars' website and listen to the interviews with Andre Dubus III. While you're there, you might want to catch Kacey's recent interview with Lee Martin. I've already exceeded my book budget for the month, but I couldn't help myself. After I listened to the interview, I went immediately to Amazon to order my copy of THE BRIGHT FOREVER.

Andre Dubus, the master short story writer, toiled in relative obscurity during much of his lifetime. Though known primarily for his stories, Mr. Dubus also wrote essays and novellas. His only novel, THE LIEUTENANT, was published in 1967. Though publishers clamored for novels, Mr. Dubus wrote what his stories asked of him. Sometimes the story wanted to be seven pages, sometimes twenty; ocassionaly the story turned into a novella.

I remember vividly the winter I discovered Andre's work. I bought a copy of THE TIMES ARE NEVER SO BAD at a small bookstore in Bexley, Ohio. I read the collection of stories with a growing sense of awe at what I was reading. I felt that Andre had been following me around, taking notes on my faults and shortcomings. I went back to the beginning and read all of his books, starting with SEPERATE FLIGHTS, the original book published by Godine that contained WE DON'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE.

In the fall of 1984 I wrote Andre a letter, telling him how much his work meant to me, and how I had shared his books with my friends. I sent the letter to David Godine in Boston, not expecting a reply. On February 5, 1985 I returned home from work to find a solitary letter in my mailbox. I took the letter inside my house and saw it was sent by Andre Dubus from his home in Haverhill, Massachusetts. The letter was three pages long, and would be the first of many letters that Andre and I exchanged from 1985 until his death in 1999.

No one gets off easy in the world of Andre Dubus, for this is the essence of what life is; we must suffer the consequences of our behavior,for that is the only pathway to true joy. It is interesting to note that Andre Dubus was a man that loved life. He was a sensous man who took in all that life had to offer. He loved women, he loved his children, and he loved writing. Not necessarily in that order. He was a man who lived in a wheelchair the last thirteen years of his life. He had much to feel sorry for himself about, but he would not go there. He preferred to teach us how to live with his storytelling. He loved his characters. He was interested in their lives and what happened to them.

Andre Dubus deserves a wider reading audience. A good place to start is his COLLECTED STORIES published by Godine in 1988. Tune in to my website, www.kaceykowars.com, to hear an in-depth interview with Andre Dubus lll. In part one we discuss HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG. In part two we discuss the work of his father, including WE DON'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE.

CHOOOSE 3 with Martha O'Connor

Martha O'Connor delves into the dark side of human nature, the intensity of female friendship and the possibilities of redemption in her literary debut, The Bitch Posse. The novel, which sold in only four days, has been garnering the kind of praise and attention that most first novelists fantasize about, including comparisons to the likes of Joyce Carol Oates, Alice Sebold and Donna Tartt.

By turns a department store clerk, waitress, latte-maker and eighth-grade teacher, Martha O'Connor now lives and writes fiction and poetry full-time in Marin County, California, with her husband, award-winning novelist and short story writer Philip F. O'Connor, and their children.

To learn more about Martha and The Bitch Posse, visit her website:

www.marthaoconnor.com


P.F. There are few bonds as intense as those between teenage girls, and few girls seem to escape those years without being singed by their heat.You've done an amazing job of conveying the fierce closeness and the pain that so many of us block out or forget as we reach adulthood. How were you able to access those emotions so convincingly?

M.O: As you probably can guess, I had some very strong friendships in high school, friendships that often got me through each day. And we don't often form relationships that intense and free as adults. I remember, though, what it was like, and I've gotten emails from readers in their thirties saying, "I thought no one remembered but me." So I know I'm not the only one who's felt this way.

While I was writing this novel, Amy, Rennie, and Cherry became my closest friends. They let me into their world, their thoughts, their experiences, and I used their language to transcribe what happened to them. The story just flowed out of me. That's never happened to me with a book before; it was truly a magical experience.

P.F. Your erotic scenes are very fresh and gorgeously written--enough to earn a nomination for the Henry Miller award. Did you experience any trepidation in writing so frankly, or did the words flow as naturally as they seem to?

M.O.: I realized early on that if I was going to explore these characters' lives honestly (particularly Rennie's), I would have to turn off all the censors. I just let the words pour out of me, and didn't think much about what people would say. Actually, I was convinced that no US publisher would have the balls to touch this book, so once I got to a certain point I said to myself, Hey, I can do anything! No one's watching.

In the end, I'm not a huge fan of the "fade the sex scene to black" approach. Sex is an extraordinarily powerful part of the human condition, yet many writers turn away. I find that studying each moment of the sexual experience is tremendously interesting. Not titillating~INTERESTING. We can gain so much insight into characters by watching the emotions and thoughts brought up during sex.


P.F.: 'The Bitch Posse' has been called "a dark novel," and it certainly tackles dark themes and events. But in the end I find it very hopeful and illuminating. Can you speak a little about that?

M.O.: You absolutely hit the nail on the head. In the end the novel is about redemption. None of us is perfect, and some of us make major mistakes and hurt other people. But we're all redeemable. I really believe that. And those human connections, like Amy, Rennie and Cherry have as part of The Bitch Posse, are sometimes the only things making life bearable, a lot of the time. It can be a really lonely and frightening journey, this Life thing. You have to do it all by yourself. But if you have people you can be REAL with, it's not so bad.

IRISH LIT, A NEW WORD, AND HOW I GOT MY NAME

One of the first things my parents told me when I was a tot was that I was Irish, and anyone who wore orange on St. Paddy's day, or in any other way impugned our ancient tribe, was to be considered an enemy for life. Little did I know that after a lifetime of defending the Hibernian honor, on my first trip to Ireland, I would be promptly disabused of the notion of my Irishness. I might have "the head of an Irishman," I was informed, but I was, in fact, a yank.

"You mean I'm not Irish?" I asked the gentleman who was the bearer of this earth shattering revelation. I was utterly crestfallen. Might as well have been told that my ma was not my ma.

"With all due respect, miss, you're not," he said, kindly laying a reassuring hand on my arm. (The ancient tribe is nothing if not kind.)

So okay, I'm not Irish. I'm a yank with the head of an Irishman (I think that means I look the part.) In any case, I am, like much of the world, a huge fan of the literature. Obsessed is actually a more accurate word for it. But then I am not a person of tepid interests; for me, it's obsession or nothing--another quality I blame on the heart of an Irish woman that beats inside my yank clothing.

To promote my obsession, I'd like to pass on a couple of great links that I've discovered:

The first is a fairly exhaustive catalogue of Irish writers created by the author of 'The Fabulist', Philip Casey, with brief bios, list of works, and links to websites: Irish Writers On Line



And then there is Sigla, an eclectic webzine, filled with reviews, commentary on all manner of subjects, poetry, and an intriguing new genre of flash fiction for the A.D.D. generation: short stories told in twenty-five words or less.

It was through Sigla that I was introduced to the new word of the day: Shitegeist. Now is that a great word or what? First writer to use it in an original sentence wins a beer at the local pub on me.

Oh yeah, almost slid away without confessing to the truth about my name. Patry Francis. Now that's a name with a rather nice sound to it if I do say so myself. The only thing is it's not my real true name. It's a name I picked up through a precipitous marriage at 19. In fact, the name may have been part of the motivation for the marriage. I know it sounds dumb, but I was nineteen, okay? The name on my birth certificate is Doody. Fodder for creative teasing from my classmates since grade one. In high school, when I researched the name and found that Doody actually derived from the more taunt-resistant O'Dowd, I tried to persuade my father to change it back. But Dad was proud of his name, however--another Hibernian quality, I suspect; and he wouldn't hear of it.

Now, after years of successfully burying my name, I find myself oddly nostalgic for it, and almost as proud of it as Dad was. It is a moniker that is truly mine in a way that Francis never will be no matter how many things I publish under that by-line. And it's more than just a name, it's an identity. The identity of a dispossessed Irish woman, and a yank. We're a feisty lot, us Doodys...With a name like that, I guess we'd have to be.