"[Louie Zamperini's] ears leaned sidelong off his head like holstered pistols, and above them waved a calamity of black hair that mortified him."
Lauren Hillenbrand in Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption, page 8.
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
May 14, 2012
April 12, 2012
Ephemera: On Writing
My historic preservation work requires a dedicated file cabinet in which I can sort without inflicting harm on my parents' paperwork. I have enough file cabinets if only I will free myself from the dozens of file folders (marked TO FILE) that contain quick hand-written notes: a word, a phrase, a sentence, an idea too valuable to pass over.
I'm now going to transfer those quick notes onto this blog so I can pitch the paper and free up a file cabinet. You'll find factoids, dialogue, excerpts, notes to myself, brilliant ideas from other people on a variety of subjects.
Today's subject is writing because the plurality of notes in the first file that came to hand this morning concerned writing.
[Side note: I've cited sources when available. Otherwise, either I wrote it or I was in the room when somebody else said it, and I thought I'd remember forever who that was.]
*****************************
**"You can say the most radical things if you couch them in the most conservative of terms."
**"The role of the artist is to hold the complexity."
* * "[I] feel about writing the way a struggling designated hitter once told me he felt about batting: 'I think too much at the plate. I ought to be just stupid up there.'
'Just see the idea and hit it' is my motto. Roy Blount, Jr., Now, Where Were We?, p. 172
**[Probably a summation rather than a direct quotation]: "A story is a sequence of actions in which a sympathetic character confronts a complicated situation which the [main, sympathetic] character struggles with and then solves." John Franklin, Writing for Story, the book to read if your plot is a tangled mess. The first time I read it, I understood little. The next time I read it, two years into working on Grace, Franklin's ideas let me access the rhythms of plotting.
*This next statement may be mine; however, if you know an alternate source, please advise:
"What's sensible,
what's wise,
what's prudent,
what's orderly,
what's the normal way of doing things --
but
sensible is not always kind;
prudent is not always merciful;
wise is not always blessed;
orderly doesn't always get the job done."
*******************
And now to the question of whether you should pursue a degree in writing? Here are four (out of roughly 100) reasons I'm convinced that the low-residency M. F. A. in Creative Nonfiction program at Goucher College saved my soul as a writer.
*Lisa Knopp showed me what was beautiful about my writing, thus empowering me to write more beauty.
*Leslie Rubinkowski wrote here and there, on, say, page 83 or 104 or page 178 of my manuscript, "This seems rather important. Maybe it should come sooner?" (Yeah. Like in the first chapter if not the first page.) Without her, my book would be slithering around without a skeleton/structure capable of holding it upright.
*Philip Gerard remarked on the strength of my book's themes but added, "Somehow you have to pull all of these themes together."
It took two years and 10 or 15 major revisions, but I ended up with a second chapter that fulfilled exactly that requirement.
*Lee Gutkind struggled to mentor me when I could hardly put two consecutive thoughts together the semester during which my husband, who had an aggressive, terminal cancer, underwent a stem cell transplant. His kindness and friendship then and later, when I was putting together the original mentoring program for the Creative Nonfiction Foundation, were life-giving.
By the way, an essay I wrote for my first Goucher workshop in August 1998 became my thesis manuscript and was picked up by Crown Publishing, a division of Random House, in January, 2000, eight months before graduation. The lectures, conversations, friendships, mentors and shared bottles of wine allowed me to write a book I could love, 2003's Grace: A Memoir, which received a Best Book of the Year award from the National Federation of Press Women.
April 1, 2012
Folking Around
I'm up to my eyebrows in achieving the designation of Certified Community Scholar from the Folklife Program of the Kentucky Historical Society.
What, may you ask, is a Certified Community Scholar? It's a person who has participated in the 7 weeks of intensive training put on by the Kentucky Folklife Program and presented a final project showing the development of a chosen folklife project along with a completed interview and complete documentation.
We meet, the 20 to 25 of us, each Monday evening at the African-American Culture Center, listen to lectures, watch videos, discuss our projects, and eat. The eating is particularly important, because each dish, prepared by whichever members of the group chose to bring something that week, is indicative of, important to, and/or reflective of the communal life of the cook. (Last week, for instance, one of the chefs, a woman who moved to Louisville from New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina, offered up a variety of sausage available only in New Orleans; she said on trips home she buys in bulk and freezes enough to last until the next visit.) The food is important, because we need nourishment within the rush of choosing projects, doing interviews, detailing the critical elements of the final project, photocopying forms, figuring out how to get the interview onto a CD, writing out descriptions of artifacts and questions we bring to observing them, and regaling each other with stories of success, failures, confusion, delights, and wonders seen and heard.
(I wish you could have been there last week to hear a lifelong church member out of the free church tradition describe what she observed at the first Roman Catholic church service she'd ever attended. Especially delightful was her description, and the reaction of the Roman Catholics in the class to her description, of the incense that somebody twirled around the church to make it smell good, she guessed.)
A 60-minute recorded interview is tomorrow's assignment. Mine is as yet undone. I've managed to acquire an excellent microphone that plugs into my computer, courtesy of my friend Shanda; and this morning I walked through a couple of practice "Testing one-two-three"s, accompanied by the usual frenzy of "where did the darned thing go?", followed by "why can't I hear it?" Actually, I could hear my voice, but only with my ear an inch from the laptop's speaker, and only the intonations of my voice, by which I mean not the words. I burned the test recording onto a CD, hopped into my Jeep, put the CD into the sound system and - O, happy day - there was my voice, clear and plenty loud.
With the recording issues settled, I called Albert, my friend and colleague in the Third Friday iterary group. I did an off-the-cuff interview with him three weeks ago. Now, some time before three o'clock tomorrow afternoon we're doing a follow-up. For this second interview I'm required to have prepared questions and the recording device.
To come up with questions, I first considered my own desire to preserve the history, lore, and habits of this (or any) literary group in Kentucky. (The quick answer? I was an English major. We love this stuff.) Next I wrote out ten or twelve questions that I think future researchers may bring to the study of this particular form of performance art. Finally, I came up with some questions specific to Albert, and his work, and why he takes part in Third Friday, and what is his last name.
I must take with me a form that Albert and I must both sign allowing the historical society to use this interview in whatever way, shape, or form best serves the public. Very important, those signatures. So important that I'm going to stop writing and go photocopy the forms now, so I'll be ready to roll when Albert calls to say he's available.
As an aside, I was interested to see in a video about a well-known folklorist that even the most experienced of us find it unsettling to embark on interviewing a new person. Driving to his destination, he said he wished he could turn around and forget the whole endeavor. Interesting, yes? Especially when you know that a famous theologian -- oh, you know the one I mean-- German -- famous - wrote all those books - Barth, perhaps?- said that when he went to call for the first time on a parishioner, he walked around the block repeatedly trying to get up the courage to knock on the door. As seminarians, we thought it was something special about our profession.
Wrong. Our timidity wasn't related to our profession but to the human instinct to avoid -- well, what is it we're actually wanting to avoid? Stepping into the territory of someone else's personal life, whether spiritual or professional or otherwise? Reduced to its essence, is the problem a fear of the unknown? Ois it something more obscure, some atavistic desire to avoid strangers?
Oh, the mysteries.Oh, the adventure. Oh, the fun.
What, may you ask, is a Certified Community Scholar? It's a person who has participated in the 7 weeks of intensive training put on by the Kentucky Folklife Program and presented a final project showing the development of a chosen folklife project along with a completed interview and complete documentation.
We meet, the 20 to 25 of us, each Monday evening at the African-American Culture Center, listen to lectures, watch videos, discuss our projects, and eat. The eating is particularly important, because each dish, prepared by whichever members of the group chose to bring something that week, is indicative of, important to, and/or reflective of the communal life of the cook. (Last week, for instance, one of the chefs, a woman who moved to Louisville from New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina, offered up a variety of sausage available only in New Orleans; she said on trips home she buys in bulk and freezes enough to last until the next visit.) The food is important, because we need nourishment within the rush of choosing projects, doing interviews, detailing the critical elements of the final project, photocopying forms, figuring out how to get the interview onto a CD, writing out descriptions of artifacts and questions we bring to observing them, and regaling each other with stories of success, failures, confusion, delights, and wonders seen and heard.
(I wish you could have been there last week to hear a lifelong church member out of the free church tradition describe what she observed at the first Roman Catholic church service she'd ever attended. Especially delightful was her description, and the reaction of the Roman Catholics in the class to her description, of the incense that somebody twirled around the church to make it smell good, she guessed.)
A 60-minute recorded interview is tomorrow's assignment. Mine is as yet undone. I've managed to acquire an excellent microphone that plugs into my computer, courtesy of my friend Shanda; and this morning I walked through a couple of practice "Testing one-two-three"s, accompanied by the usual frenzy of "where did the darned thing go?", followed by "why can't I hear it?" Actually, I could hear my voice, but only with my ear an inch from the laptop's speaker, and only the intonations of my voice, by which I mean not the words. I burned the test recording onto a CD, hopped into my Jeep, put the CD into the sound system and - O, happy day - there was my voice, clear and plenty loud.
With the recording issues settled, I called Albert, my friend and colleague in the Third Friday iterary group. I did an off-the-cuff interview with him three weeks ago. Now, some time before three o'clock tomorrow afternoon we're doing a follow-up. For this second interview I'm required to have prepared questions and the recording device.
To come up with questions, I first considered my own desire to preserve the history, lore, and habits of this (or any) literary group in Kentucky. (The quick answer? I was an English major. We love this stuff.) Next I wrote out ten or twelve questions that I think future researchers may bring to the study of this particular form of performance art. Finally, I came up with some questions specific to Albert, and his work, and why he takes part in Third Friday, and what is his last name.
I must take with me a form that Albert and I must both sign allowing the historical society to use this interview in whatever way, shape, or form best serves the public. Very important, those signatures. So important that I'm going to stop writing and go photocopy the forms now, so I'll be ready to roll when Albert calls to say he's available.
As an aside, I was interested to see in a video about a well-known folklorist that even the most experienced of us find it unsettling to embark on interviewing a new person. Driving to his destination, he said he wished he could turn around and forget the whole endeavor. Interesting, yes? Especially when you know that a famous theologian -- oh, you know the one I mean-- German -- famous - wrote all those books - Barth, perhaps?- said that when he went to call for the first time on a parishioner, he walked around the block repeatedly trying to get up the courage to knock on the door. As seminarians, we thought it was something special about our profession.
Wrong. Our timidity wasn't related to our profession but to the human instinct to avoid -- well, what is it we're actually wanting to avoid? Stepping into the territory of someone else's personal life, whether spiritual or professional or otherwise? Reduced to its essence, is the problem a fear of the unknown? Ois it something more obscure, some atavistic desire to avoid strangers?
Oh, the mysteries.Oh, the adventure. Oh, the fun.
January 30, 2012
Art Project 52-4. The Sketchbook Project
I started late and was controlled by the instruction to stay dry: "Your book should be finished at least 48 hours before mailing" to allow all of the paints and glues to dry. I needed a quick-dry medium to begin with that would allow me to do a backgrounds without having to wait for each page to dry. Thus the decision to use colored felt-tip pens.
The pens weren't enough in themselves, which is why I added bits of photographs. Somewhere in that process, I realized I needed to add text in order to make sense for other people of what was obvious to me. That's the reason for the black lettering, which, in the best tradition of any kind of art, reached a conclusion that surprised even me.
WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SCRIBBLE LIKE THIS?
WAS IT THE SUN, HURLING ITS GOLD UPON YOU?
WAS IT THE ENDLESS NUMBER OF SHADES OF GREEN?
WAS IT THE EAGLE,
OR WAS IT THE EARTHWORM?
WAS IT YOUR HEART, POUNDING, ROLLING LIKE A WHEEL ACROSS CONTINENTS AND TIME?
WAS IT THE SHADOWS ------- OR THE RULES?
PERHAPS PERMISSION CAME FROM THE STEADFAST AFFECTION OF OTHERS OR
FROM YOUR OWN LOVE OF LANGUAGE AND OF
COLOR.
THE GREATER GOOD
DEPENDS UPON -------- FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION.
MY BRITISH GRANDMOTHER SIGNED LETTERS XXXOOO.
X. O.: STRUCTURES THAT BRIDGE THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US.
DID YOU ASK PERMISSION TO BUILD, TO SCRIBBLE, TO BE FREE,
OR DID YOU CLAIM PERMISSION AS YOUR BIRTHRIGHT?
January 26, 2012
Art Project 52 -3 - In Which I Write an Essay
Last week's artist project: writing an essay with a maximum of 600 words to submit for possible publication in one of four books to be published this year by the Tending Your Inner Garden program founders, Deb Engle and Diane Glass.
I'm sharing the first paragraph of the essay, which will appear in the Winter volume.
Deadline for the second book is February 15. If you want to take part but the thought paralyzes you, the best trick I know for breaking through resistance is to decide to write for ten minutes a day. That's all you need: ten minutes a day.
I'm sharing the first paragraph of the essay, which will appear in the Winter volume.
Deadline for the second book is February 15. If you want to take part but the thought paralyzes you, the best trick I know for breaking through resistance is to decide to write for ten minutes a day. That's all you need: ten minutes a day.
The Onset of Winter by Mary Cartledgehayes
Nearly three years ago, Maureen called from South Carolina to tell me that her sister Terry, my friend of 35 years, had a malevolent sarcoma on her left arm. Chemotherapy might be called for. “And” (note: in medical conversations, and often precedes a full-on kick to the head) “she may have her arm amputated.”
January 2, 2012
Hellloooo, 2012
2011 was capped off by my annual meeting with Dick Clark to welcome the new year. He was on the television in my bedroom, where I was snug as a bug, keeping my right arm still and allowing the muscles and ligaments to recover.
While I was in South Carolina, I met my friend Brian for coffee, and we talked about the New Year's Eve we spent in Times Square with our friend Susan Malavet. Cold? Oh, Lordie, it was brutally cold. We'd have frozen, no doubt, if not for Susan, who lived north of the city and was the veteran of numerous New Year's Eves in New York City.
The most amazing aspect of being there is the other-worldly / one-world feeling you get when you visit the Mona Lisa or when you see Charles Dickens' name inscribed in a visitors' log at Shakespeare's birthplace, both of which I've done. It's equal parts awe -- I'm part of something so much larger than myself -- and also of connection -- not to the artist but to the millions who've joined in admiring the work.
The next most amazing aspect was that within twenty minutes Susan, Brian, and I were the only people left on the street. I don't know where all of those people went, or how they got away so quickly. If they'd all flowed to Grand Central Station, they'd all flowed out of it again by the time we arrived there to catch a train. The night is a masterpiece of civic planning and foot-traffic flow.
And here we are with a whole new year,all bright and shiny, just waiting for us to pitch in and make something of it.
I'm beginning a new series of large art pieces this year involving bridal gowns (and perhaps additional garments) and narrative.
I'm also planning a number of smaller pieces. Rather than making 365 pieces of art, though, as I did last year, I'm going to complete 52 pieces of art (painting, collage, quilt, fiber art, assemblage) in 2012. Yep, that's one a week. Twenty or so pieces are already off to a good start; at least a dozen more are right at being finished and just need me to push through that final "what the hell do I do now?" stage.
My other major art project for 2012 is to learn how to operate all of the bells and whistles on my Nikon camera.
And then there's that book project. It's a very fine project, indeed, but I won't be working on it until the repetitive stress injury to my elbow heals.
Finally, I'm still researching preservation techniques and still working on Step One, which is to halt the damage to paper records, photographs, and ephemera from my parents' house.
For the record, the Year of the Rabbit continues until February 4, when the Year of the Dragon begins. Other dragon years are 1928, 1940, 1952, 1964, 1976, 1988, and 2000. If any of those are your birth year, you can expect an especially propitious time of it. The rest of us can expect the usual sun and rain falling on the just and unjust alike.
While I was in South Carolina, I met my friend Brian for coffee, and we talked about the New Year's Eve we spent in Times Square with our friend Susan Malavet. Cold? Oh, Lordie, it was brutally cold. We'd have frozen, no doubt, if not for Susan, who lived north of the city and was the veteran of numerous New Year's Eves in New York City.
The most amazing aspect of being there is the other-worldly / one-world feeling you get when you visit the Mona Lisa or when you see Charles Dickens' name inscribed in a visitors' log at Shakespeare's birthplace, both of which I've done. It's equal parts awe -- I'm part of something so much larger than myself -- and also of connection -- not to the artist but to the millions who've joined in admiring the work.
The next most amazing aspect was that within twenty minutes Susan, Brian, and I were the only people left on the street. I don't know where all of those people went, or how they got away so quickly. If they'd all flowed to Grand Central Station, they'd all flowed out of it again by the time we arrived there to catch a train. The night is a masterpiece of civic planning and foot-traffic flow.
And here we are with a whole new year,all bright and shiny, just waiting for us to pitch in and make something of it.
I'm beginning a new series of large art pieces this year involving bridal gowns (and perhaps additional garments) and narrative.
I'm also planning a number of smaller pieces. Rather than making 365 pieces of art, though, as I did last year, I'm going to complete 52 pieces of art (painting, collage, quilt, fiber art, assemblage) in 2012. Yep, that's one a week. Twenty or so pieces are already off to a good start; at least a dozen more are right at being finished and just need me to push through that final "what the hell do I do now?" stage.
My other major art project for 2012 is to learn how to operate all of the bells and whistles on my Nikon camera.
And then there's that book project. It's a very fine project, indeed, but I won't be working on it until the repetitive stress injury to my elbow heals.
Finally, I'm still researching preservation techniques and still working on Step One, which is to halt the damage to paper records, photographs, and ephemera from my parents' house.
For the record, the Year of the Rabbit continues until February 4, when the Year of the Dragon begins. Other dragon years are 1928, 1940, 1952, 1964, 1976, 1988, and 2000. If any of those are your birth year, you can expect an especially propitious time of it. The rest of us can expect the usual sun and rain falling on the just and unjust alike.
December 7, 2011
Lost!
I've always known this to be true, and yet here it is, in my face once more. You give yourself over to organization for a day, a week, ten days; and the house is lighter, and your spirits lift, and then you reach for the one thing you need -- in order to complete the ONE IMPORTANT ITEM on today's To Do list -- and the damned thing is gone.
Not gone-gone,
as in you took care of it
and therefore can stop thinking. Gone is
precisely what it is not. Gone-ish
is precisely what it is.
doing you no good, because it's not the what
that's in question but the where.
Where? Here, a moment ago.
Here, in my hands. I carried it
into this room to place an address label
or stuff a photograph into the envelope
or a twenty dollar bill.
Of all the wheres it might be, here is where
it is not. The remainder of the afternoon,
crafted around tasks intended to follow
the placing and stuffing, has drizzled its way
to some other lame pursuit, the pursuit of that
which once was here, where it belonged,
before this tidied order was created.
The errands, and I, are at a standstill,
derailed by early success.
Not gone-gone,
as in you took care of it
and therefore can stop thinking. Gone is
precisely what it is not. Gone-ish
is precisely what it is.
doing you no good, because it's not the what
that's in question but the where.
Where? Here, a moment ago.
Here, in my hands. I carried it
into this room to place an address label
or stuff a photograph into the envelope
or a twenty dollar bill.
Of all the wheres it might be, here is where
it is not. The remainder of the afternoon,
crafted around tasks intended to follow
the placing and stuffing, has drizzled its way
to some other lame pursuit, the pursuit of that
which once was here, where it belonged,
before this tidied order was created.
The errands, and I, are at a standstill,
derailed by early success.
May 11, 2011
Fibonacci 96. The Little Dog
The Little Dog
1 Laramie /
1 needs
2 a kneecap
3 replacement. Donations are
5 accepted.Cash or checks only.
1 Laramie /
1 needs
2 a kneecap
3 replacement. Donations are
5 accepted.Cash or checks only.
May 4, 2011
Fibonacci 95. Tranquility
Tranquility
1 Twilight-blue /
1 sky. /
2 Sliver of /
3 moon. Good evening. /
1 Twilight-blue /
1 sky. /
2 Sliver of /
3 moon. Good evening. /
May 3, 2011
Fibonacci 94. Just War Theory
Just War Theory
1 I
1 once
2 heard a
3 lecture on Just
5 War Theory. "Just" as in
8 righteous. "Just" as in the narrow way along
13 which people of faith can walk into war without putrefying their immortal souls.
21 Laughter has no part in it, nor does partying in the streets. Prayer is a companion. I don't recall the rest.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
1 I
1 once
2 heard a
3 lecture on Just
5 War Theory. "Just" as in
8 righteous. "Just" as in the narrow way along
13 which people of faith can walk into war without putrefying their immortal souls.
21 Laughter has no part in it, nor does partying in the streets. Prayer is a companion. I don't recall the rest.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
May 1, 2011
Fibonacci 93. The End of bin Laden
The End of bin Laden
1 Death/
1 inevitably/
2 arrives with/
3 surprise in its/
5 bag of tricks. Long illness/
8 or sudden death makes no matter; the surprise/
13 has power. The night my father died, Mother said, "It's just so sudden"/
21 and then snorted in amusement at her silliness. "What am I saying? He's been sick for twenty years."
We haven't been/
34 looking for Osama bin Laden anywhere near that long, and yet long enough that the attempt to kill him became more real than the prospect of his death. We've been after him since 1998,/
55 and today, May 1, 2011, shortly after 10:30 p. m., the news broke. Ding, dong, bin Laden's dead. The caves of Pakistan coughed him out, and then somewhere a gun coughed. Supposedly, a head shot.
President Obama's press conference will begin soon, but meanwhile I'm told the body is in U. S. hands in Afghanistan. Amen.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
Fibonacci 92 Catching Up
Catching Up
1 I
1 remain
2 behind. Family
3 emergencies interfere with
5 thought and also blogs. We
8 settled back down, and I finished two projects
13 I began in December, 2009, which took a toll of its own. Besides,
21 bits always remain to be done, don't they, like when you get a haircut and tendrils are left slightly too long.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
1 I
1 remain
2 behind. Family
3 emergencies interfere with
5 thought and also blogs. We
8 settled back down, and I finished two projects
13 I began in December, 2009, which took a toll of its own. Besides,
21 bits always remain to be done, don't they, like when you get a haircut and tendrils are left slightly too long.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
April 30, 2011
Why people got up at ungodly hours to watch the royal wedding. Fibonacci 92.
Why people got up at ungodly hours to watch the royal wedding
1 I /
1 wasn't /
2 going to /
3 watch the wedding /
5 live, but at five my /
8 eyes spontaneously opened. What else but to grab /
13 a blanket, turn on the telly, and start to read the text messages /
21 somebody sent me. She asked if I remembered when we both got up at five a. m. on the day of the marriage of Charles and Diana.
34 Yes, I do. My friend was younger than I and sleepy and not completely sure why this was important but then the bride emerged and we watched the glass carriage rush the girl too soon /
55 to the altar. Being a kindergarten assistant is not, as it happens, the best preparation for the harsh light of royal marriage. But that was then, and today was a new morning, with two educated adults meeting as equals. They seemed giddy with the joy of an excellent adventure. Someone I know teaches third grade, where the boys
89 made tophats and the girls flowerdy hats. Devin was to take a mug to high school, for today they were having tea and cookies in English class. Everyone was giddy, here and there, giddy with the sunshine in London and the monstrously creative hats; with the colors, the horses, the carriages; the Archbishop of Canterbury in his most solemn tall gold wedding hat; the queen, impeccable in daffodil yellow; and then William and Kate as she was until today, now Catherine, confidently promising to love and clearly pledging to protect each other. We're not all royalists, but many of us know love, and so we wake up (even without an alarm clock) on days like this.
1 I /
1 wasn't /
2 going to /
3 watch the wedding /
5 live, but at five my /
8 eyes spontaneously opened. What else but to grab /
13 a blanket, turn on the telly, and start to read the text messages /
21 somebody sent me. She asked if I remembered when we both got up at five a. m. on the day of the marriage of Charles and Diana.
34 Yes, I do. My friend was younger than I and sleepy and not completely sure why this was important but then the bride emerged and we watched the glass carriage rush the girl too soon /
55 to the altar. Being a kindergarten assistant is not, as it happens, the best preparation for the harsh light of royal marriage. But that was then, and today was a new morning, with two educated adults meeting as equals. They seemed giddy with the joy of an excellent adventure. Someone I know teaches third grade, where the boys
89 made tophats and the girls flowerdy hats. Devin was to take a mug to high school, for today they were having tea and cookies in English class. Everyone was giddy, here and there, giddy with the sunshine in London and the monstrously creative hats; with the colors, the horses, the carriages; the Archbishop of Canterbury in his most solemn tall gold wedding hat; the queen, impeccable in daffodil yellow; and then William and Kate as she was until today, now Catherine, confidently promising to love and clearly pledging to protect each other. We're not all royalists, but many of us know love, and so we wake up (even without an alarm clock) on days like this.
April 23, 2011
The Good Stuff Rescue League. Fibonacci 91.
The Good Stuff Rescue League
1 I /
1 hereby /
2 elect myself /
3 president of The /
5 Good Stuff Rescue League. Our /
8 motto: Save the landfills.
Dumpsters worldwide cry out /
13 for your support: "Enough with the lamps, patio furniture, cedar chests, car batteries, /
21 text books, fake Christmas trees, heirlooms from your grandmother, wastepaper baskets, lawn mowers, digital whatevers, wicker baskets, wall hangings, et cetera."
1 Take /
1 your /
2 good stuff /
3 anywhere but Goodwill /
5 Industries, where, up the street, /
8 good stuff meets trash compactor after several weeks /
13 on the shelf.(I could do that myself and save on gas money.)
1 We're
1 having
2 our first
3 membership drive today.
5 Sign up, and you'll get
8 a certificate on copy paper suitable for framing.
13 Oh, picture frames! Dumpsters don't want those, either, nor dog beds nor bicycles.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
1 I /
1 hereby /
2 elect myself /
3 president of The /
5 Good Stuff Rescue League. Our /
8 motto: Save the landfills.
Dumpsters worldwide cry out /
13 for your support: "Enough with the lamps, patio furniture, cedar chests, car batteries, /
21 text books, fake Christmas trees, heirlooms from your grandmother, wastepaper baskets, lawn mowers, digital whatevers, wicker baskets, wall hangings, et cetera."
1 Take /
1 your /
2 good stuff /
3 anywhere but Goodwill /
5 Industries, where, up the street, /
8 good stuff meets trash compactor after several weeks /
13 on the shelf.(I could do that myself and save on gas money.)
1 We're
1 having
2 our first
3 membership drive today.
5 Sign up, and you'll get
8 a certificate on copy paper suitable for framing.
13 Oh, picture frames! Dumpsters don't want those, either, nor dog beds nor bicycles.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
April 20, 2011
Last Night's Storm. Fibonacci 90
Last Night's Storm
1 Nearly /
1 midnight /
2 when I /
3 learned a new /
5 vocabulary phrase: "rain-wrapped tornadoes." Where
8 and when did this arise? How can I
13 not have heard of them before? And why? If the universe
21 wants to wrap a tornado in protective batting, why can't it be bacon, or the bodies of the BP Oil, Bank
34 of America, investment brokers who profited highly while screwing middle America? A chicken for every pot would work, too.. Enough with destruction and the Wall Street pigs secretly sucking the public tit dry.
1 As
1 an
2 early Methodist
3 woman said -- perhaps
5 Sojourner Truth -- "Now I don't
8 want any man to die." Just stop, now.
by Mary Cartledghayes
1 Nearly /
1 midnight /
2 when I /
3 learned a new /
5 vocabulary phrase: "rain-wrapped tornadoes." Where
8 and when did this arise? How can I
13 not have heard of them before? And why? If the universe
21 wants to wrap a tornado in protective batting, why can't it be bacon, or the bodies of the BP Oil, Bank
34 of America, investment brokers who profited highly while screwing middle America? A chicken for every pot would work, too.. Enough with destruction and the Wall Street pigs secretly sucking the public tit dry.
1 As
1 an
2 early Methodist
3 woman said -- perhaps
5 Sojourner Truth -- "Now I don't
8 want any man to die." Just stop, now.
by Mary Cartledghayes
Pile-ons. Fibonacc 87. Revised April 20, 2011
Ordinarily, I wouldn't make a separate post of a revised fibonacci, but I made the changes immediately prior to the reading at Day's Espresso here in Louisville on Friday night,and I know they brought forth an entirely different response in the listeners. I tightened the line with 89 words and revised the final line.
Pile-ons
1 get /
2 into trouble /
3 when we expect /
5 life to be a straight /
8 line. Remember, there are no straight lines in /
13 nature. Rather, there are pile-ons and forest fires and orgies of mass movement; /
21 there are fight and flight and paralysis; twisting stream beds, fractal-ed coastlines, wild-hair branches leaping out from the otherwise tidy white azalea bush./
34 Why do we think disasters should happen in logical fashion, at discrete intervals, with allowances for us to catch our breath?
Was the earthquake not enough? Must there be aftershocks as well, and a /
55 tsunami, and nuclear power plants' electrical systems destroyed, and increased nuclear levels on the Atlantic coast after a disaster on the Pacific? Can we not be allowed time and space to bury or cremate our dead? Can the ocean not cough up their bodies?
And to make it personal, must the little dog be grounded /
89 for ten days because of a dislocating kneecap that pops out of place each time she squats and lifts her right back leg. She's funny on painkillers, like your funniest friend with a buzz on. Her minor disability is contemporaneous with my fellow's emergency surgery for a gall bladder turned enemy, and then the doctor said "gangrene" and I didn't breathe for three days. That morning I learned a beloved friend was dead. That midnight, I burst the wall of a tire driving home in the exhaustion. /
1 Nature /
1 does /
2 not live/
3 in a straight /
5 line. Nature and life are /
8 a pile-on orgy, a forest fire earthquake tsunami /
13 clusterf*#k. In response, be of good cheer. Choose one task. Do it well.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
April 14, 2011
Curves. Fibonacci 87. Revised April 20, 2011
Curves
1 We /
1 get /
2 into trouble /
3 when we expect /
5 life to be a straight /
8 line. Remember, there are no straight lines in /
13 nature. Rather, there are pile-ons and forest fires and orgies of mass movement; /
21 there are fight and flight and paralysis; twisting stream beds, fractal-ed coastlines, wild-hair branches leaping out from the otherwise tidy white azalea bush./
34 Why do we think disasters should happen in logical fashion, at discrete intervals, with allowances for us to catch our breath?
Was the earthquake not enough? Must there be aftershocks as well, and a /
55 tsunami, and nuclear power plants' electrical systems destroyed, and increased nuclear levels on the Atlantic coast after a disaster on the Pacific? Can we not be allowed time and space to bury or cremate our dead? Can the ocean not cough up their bodies?
And to make it personal, must the little dog be grounded /
89 for ten days because of a dislocating kneecap that pops out of place each time she squats and lifts her right back leg. She's funny on painkillers, like your funniest friend with a buzz on. Her minor disability is contemporaneous with my fellow's emergency surgery for a gall bladder turned enemy, and then the doctor said "gangrene" and I didn't breathe for three days. That morning I learned a beloved friend was dead. That midnight, I burst the wall of a tire driving home in the exhaustion.
1 Nature /
1 does /
2 not live/
3 in a straight /
5 line. Nature and life are
8 a pile-on orgy, a forest fire earthquake tsunami /
13 clusterf*#k. In response, be of good cheer. Choose one task. Do it well.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
1 We /
1 get /
2 into trouble /
3 when we expect /
5 life to be a straight /
8 line. Remember, there are no straight lines in /
13 nature. Rather, there are pile-ons and forest fires and orgies of mass movement; /
21 there are fight and flight and paralysis; twisting stream beds, fractal-ed coastlines, wild-hair branches leaping out from the otherwise tidy white azalea bush./
34 Why do we think disasters should happen in logical fashion, at discrete intervals, with allowances for us to catch our breath?
Was the earthquake not enough? Must there be aftershocks as well, and a /
55 tsunami, and nuclear power plants' electrical systems destroyed, and increased nuclear levels on the Atlantic coast after a disaster on the Pacific? Can we not be allowed time and space to bury or cremate our dead? Can the ocean not cough up their bodies?
And to make it personal, must the little dog be grounded /
89 for ten days because of a dislocating kneecap that pops out of place each time she squats and lifts her right back leg. She's funny on painkillers, like your funniest friend with a buzz on. Her minor disability is contemporaneous with my fellow's emergency surgery for a gall bladder turned enemy, and then the doctor said "gangrene" and I didn't breathe for three days. That morning I learned a beloved friend was dead. That midnight, I burst the wall of a tire driving home in the exhaustion.
1 Nature /
1 does /
2 not live/
3 in a straight /
5 line. Nature and life are
8 a pile-on orgy, a forest fire earthquake tsunami /
13 clusterf*#k. In response, be of good cheer. Choose one task. Do it well.
by Mary Cartledgehayes
Anniversary. Fibonacci 88.
Anniversary (April 14)
1 One /
1 year /
2 ago today, /
3 the surgeon shot /
5 blue dye into my breast /
8 prior to removing a chunk of it and /
13 also two blue-dyed healthy lymph nodes. A nurse had both offered and recommended
21 Valium. It was my first time to take it, and we got along famously. I was amused by everything, especially the
34 race through the halls to surgery. I recently learned that after surgery they asked what I'd like to eat, and I replied, "Orange jello with whipped cream." (Where do such decisions come from?) I offered a spoonful to Michael, a sweet act of generosity by a happy, heavily drugged fool.
1 One /
1 year /
2 ago today, /
3 the surgeon shot /
5 blue dye into my breast /
8 prior to removing a chunk of it and /
13 also two blue-dyed healthy lymph nodes. A nurse had both offered and recommended
21 Valium. It was my first time to take it, and we got along famously. I was amused by everything, especially the
34 race through the halls to surgery. I recently learned that after surgery they asked what I'd like to eat, and I replied, "Orange jello with whipped cream." (Where do such decisions come from?) I offered a spoonful to Michael, a sweet act of generosity by a happy, heavily drugged fool.
April 9, 2011
Death and Gangrene Fibonacci 85
Death and Gangrene
1 In
1 an
2 act of
3 deliberate overstepping,
5 today in the face of
8 death and gangrene, I threw out Michael's final
13 pack of cigarettes and all of the ashtrays and all his lighters, too.
1 As
1 I
2 said to
3 my late husband
5 in January, 1999, the next
8 time I see a cigarette in your hand,
13 I'm driving to the nearest airport and taking the next plane out, regardless
21 of destination. By then I'd watched Fred nearly die twice. I refuse to take part in slow, ugly suicide by cigarette.
1 I
1 can't
2 control a
3 single soul,
5 but that doesn't mean I
8 will watch my life go up in smoke.
1 In
1 an
2 act of
3 deliberate overstepping,
5 today in the face of
8 death and gangrene, I threw out Michael's final
13 pack of cigarettes and all of the ashtrays and all his lighters, too.
1 As
1 I
2 said to
3 my late husband
5 in January, 1999, the next
8 time I see a cigarette in your hand,
13 I'm driving to the nearest airport and taking the next plane out, regardless
21 of destination. By then I'd watched Fred nearly die twice. I refuse to take part in slow, ugly suicide by cigarette.
1 I
1 can't
2 control a
3 single soul,
5 but that doesn't mean I
8 will watch my life go up in smoke.
The Salvific Import of Poetry Fibonacci 84
The Salvific Import of Poetry
1 If /
1 you /
2 begin to /
3 lose your mind /
5 in a doctor's /dentist's/ ER
8 waiting room, try this trick.
Write a poem.
13 It can be the finest poem written in the last eight centuries if
21 you're that kind of person. I'm not pursuing best on such occasions; I simply need a task that keeps me fro
34 chewing off my leg at the ankle and fleeing into the brilliant sun. So I say, Write a poem. You can always find paper; and somebody will "loan" a pen or pencil out of
55 their own boredom.
Why might this work?
From the first syllable, you are in command. You control flow, the rhythm, pace. You control the poem's very skeleton / structure. You own the decision of what it will become in the moment when you own nothing else but a passion to hear that nobody's dying today.
1 If /
1 you /
2 begin to /
3 lose your mind /
5 in a doctor's /dentist's/ ER
8 waiting room, try this trick.
Write a poem.
13 It can be the finest poem written in the last eight centuries if
21 you're that kind of person. I'm not pursuing best on such occasions; I simply need a task that keeps me fro
34 chewing off my leg at the ankle and fleeing into the brilliant sun. So I say, Write a poem. You can always find paper; and somebody will "loan" a pen or pencil out of
55 their own boredom.
Why might this work?
From the first syllable, you are in command. You control flow, the rhythm, pace. You control the poem's very skeleton / structure. You own the decision of what it will become in the moment when you own nothing else but a passion to hear that nobody's dying today.
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