Chekhov

For my birthday, M. is taking me to see Tom Stoppard's adaptation of Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard. Last year, we saw the Classic Stage Company's rendition of The Seagull (not to be confused with the production that was on Broadway, which I also wanted to see). Sometimes I still walk around the house imitating Dianne Wiest as Arkadina bellowing, god-like, "I am not Jove."

If you're into the Chekhov, apparently CSC's Uncle Vanya (with that handsome Brooklyn couple Maggie Gyllenhaall and Peter Sarsgaard) has been extended until March 8.

2009 Reading Queue

I'm approaching the end of that wonderful tome Middlemarch and finding myself agog at the huge number of books I've acquired over the past few years and have not yet read. The culprit for many of them is Housing Works, where I can find used books for $0.50-$1.00, as well gifts from many folk who know a good book gets my little heart aflutter. Here are some books I hope to read in the coming year (in no particular order):

1. Absurdistan
2. War and Peace (the new translation)
3. Aspects of the Novel
4. Kafka on the Shore
5. Germinal
6. Three Lives, by Gertrude Stein
7. The Golden Notebook, by Doris Lessing
8. The Emperor's Children, by Claire Messud
9. Best American Short Stories of 2008, ed. by Salman Rushdie (already reading)
10. Midnight's Children
11. Satanic Verses (I think it might be a Rushdie year for me...)
12. Natasha, by David Bezmogis

I'm realizing now this list doesn't include many books sitting patiently, quietly, waiting to be plucked off the shelf and to receive little bends and cracks in their spines. I think this will be a good year.

Garden of Earthly Delights

Well, it has been eons since I've written anything here. Since I last wrote, I've gotten married, been to Spain, changed day jobs, spent two weeks in Wilmington, DE for work, and...whew. That's enough of an update on the personal end of things.

Tonight, M. is taking me to Martha Clarke's Garden of Earthly Delights. On our honeymoon, we gaped at Bosch's masterpiece in the Prado, but had to jostle with the expected swarm of tourists to enjoy all its bulbous glory. Now we are going to see this dance based on the painting, originally performed in 1985 and now resurrected for your viewing pleasure. The website has a fun feature where you can click on each part of the painting's triptych and gaze at all Bosch's details, both glorious and horrible. (Click on "the painting".) Enjoy!

Blame Frida

Sometimes I look to visual art for writing inspiration. I have a stack of little Dover Fine Art Stickers for several painters (Kahlo, Klimt, etc.) that I'll randomly select and stick in my notebook and then write whatever comes to mind. Here's what spewed forth from Kahlo's "The Little Hart".

The little hart fled through the dark wood, hips hobbled by multiple arrows thrust in her body. Wind licked blood trickling down her fur, drying in spots, mingling with sweat in others. Brush crunched underfoot and she was conscious only of her labored snorts of breath and the thought that They were out there, waiting for her to collapse in exhaustion, ready to saw her limbs apart for their great spring feast.

Her antlers had only recently grown so long and majestic and she lowed at the thought of them being carved off and used as tools to separate her flesh from her skin. Or worse, as mere decoration, her head mounted on a wall as a show of might and extravagance.

A bird twittered in a tree and she realized she had stopped running, was actually stumbling. She looked up at a broken tree branch, jutting from the trunk she leaned against. Above, a blue patch of sky.

Then, a whistle, a swift thrust of sharp in the soft part of her arching throat. A buckling of the knees, the underbrush against her cheek, then nothingness.

Reading at Telephone Bar

National Grammar Day!

In case you were dreadfully unaware, this Tuesday is National Grammar Day. Here is an interesting rebuttal to the whole concept. Hooray for descriptivists!

The Boarder

I just got my contributor copies of Western Humanities Review, which includes my short story "The Boarder". It's a lovely magazine with some beautiful etchings from the Saltgrass Printmakers. Ever since I made my first print at the Vermont Studio Center, I've been especially keen on the art form.

Hungry Hungry Writers (AWP on Day 1)

Last week I attended the AWP conference. I'm probably eons behind other blogging attendees in reporting about my experience, but here's a bit about the first day.

Neophyte that I am, I exhausted myself on that first day, attending panels and readings and wandering the book fair from 9 am - 10 pm, buying way too many books and magazines way too early (no strategy-- none). I went to a panel on putting together short story collections, in which Steve Almond called short story writers "poets of the prose world". He gave fresh, honest advice about not letting agents or editors shove gimmicks on your collection (which appeared to make some other panelists shift uncomfortably in their seats). As such, deciding on where your commitment is and what your aesthetic may be before seeking representation may be helpful in staying true to your art. Noted.

After the panel, my grumbling stomach led me to room of pastry, bagels, and coffee. AWP attendees were heaping cheese danishes and pineapple slices onto little white plates. "What a pleasant surprise!" I said to a fellow writer as we munched on. Half-way through my raisin bagel, a Hilton security guard came in and asked if we're from the writing conference, with a look of disdain at all the AWP badges. "This isn't for you! It's for another group." he lamented. "Get out before my manager sees you." Twenty odd writers then scurried off with their half-eaten food. I felt like a coyote.

One of the readings I went to that day was the National Book Foundation's "5 Under 35" . One question posed during the Q&A was how the writers are able to stay motivated to write despite mounting obligations to other things (jobs, children, compulsive self-googling). Two recent mothers chirped that less time for them means becoming more efficient with the spare hour left for writing-- that they actually get more done. And while that's encouraging, I had to admire Amity Gaige's honest response: that she wishes she had more time to think and to wonder.

Perhaps more AWP stuff at a later time (jobs, wedding planning, and actual fiction writing may delay the next post...not to mention compulsive self-googling).

AWP

I'll be attending the AWP conference here in NYC this month. I've never been to the AWP and I hear it can be a bit of a madhouse. As I understand it, there will be more attendees this year than ever before. Hope I survive the crush of the crowds!

Corduroy

It's getting to be finals season, and I find myself tiring of business casual. I wore corduroy pants to work today-- corduroy being a fabric near and dear to my heart-- and walking around the unusually quiet English department reminded me of a piece I wrote back at McGill on a similar topic.

Silliness aside, I'm thrilled because I just got an e-mail from The Western Humanities Review informing me that my short story "The Boarder" has been accepted for publication! Hooray!

autumn books

It took me most of the semester to read Halldor Laxness's Independent People and all its Icelandic digressions on sheep guts and merchant cooperatives; it took me four days to read Dreams and Stones by Magdalena Tulli. But then, they are very different works. Even more different is Mile End, by Lise Tremblay, which I reread while in the thick of Laxness's novel.

How to put them all together? They do share a thread.

Independent People is the grandest in scope, putting rural Iceland and the stubborn shepherd Bjartur in an epic frame, with violent ghosts haunting sheep, World War I a distant event in the periphery, and America a destination to which a young, ambitious son escapes (and, we are told, dies). It is through Bjartur's son and daughter that we see a yearning for cities (the mysterious glories of Reykjavik never revealed)-- a tugging away from the rustic life Bjartur clings to, though conditions for the sheep and shepherds are so grim (we read of constant summer rain, green snot, heaps of snow, ring worms, and tuburculosis) it can hardly be described as pastoral.

The other two works are slender and focus their energies on those urban tugging forces. At first I thought Dreams and Stones was a novel, but it is difficult to call it that. A treatise on cities and imagination? One hundred pages of generalizations, punctuated with wonderful specificity? A long prose poem, perhaps-- a poetic myth. Trees vs. machines. City vs. countercity (our conceptions of cities). Does she say that memory = water? Or that water = oblivion? Or was there a more complex equation? There was an archaeological bend to it: dreams as stones. Stones as building blocks. Buildings, stones, as representations of our elusive dreams. Something concrete to dig our fingernails in.

There is no specific character in Tulli's work. A city emerges. Then groups of people. Workers and builders are of different classes. Our imagined Paris, Belfast, Hong Kong, New York. The A of the Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The mythic quality of the book complements Laxness's epic; the subject matter works well with the next and last book.

Mile End is set in Montreal. The obese narrator buries her anger under her layers of "yellow fat," drinks Southern Comfort in large glasses, and hovers toward psychosis as a mediocre pianist at a ballet school. Paris and New York are mentioned as stand-ins for other forces, influences on the Quebecquois city. So cities here have characters too, but the narrative, the characters are specific again. The language is more simple than Tulli's and Laxness's works and the underlying anger of the book seems to compel a quick read like a gust of hot air, whereas Bill Johnston's translation of Tulli's book requires a careful chewing of sentences. Laxness's book, finally, is sprawling and wonderful, but may send one's imagination careening to other places in multiple digressions (not always a bad thing). Read slowly and enjoy.

My Favorite New Toy 2

The other day I stumbled upon a new fun toy: World Cat. Whereas last year I was obsessed with Duotrope's Digest, my new favorite diversion is seeing how many libraries carry obscure and not-so-obscure publications. It even tells you how far away the libraries are from a chosen zip code. Someone in Brisbane could be reading the Mass Review or Gender in Archaeology right this second. Wow!

Fantastic Women

Last week M. & I went to a Tin House reading at the PPOW gallery in Chelsea. The evening was themed around women and the fantastic, with readings by Lucy Corin, Kelly Link, Shelly Jackson, and Samantha Hunt. The art work in the gallery, by Julie Heffernan, was most stunning, with pale female figures (self-portraits) in enormous fruit-or-flower headdresses and elaborate skirts made of animal carcasses. (I found the dead octopus especially charming.)

Whoever planned the minutia of the event thought of everything: magenta lilies filled the room with an almost-too-sweet-but-just-right scent; mini cupcakes frosted in a range of creamy pastels and dotted with bright pink, blue, and yellow sugar globs filled our mouths with delicious devil's food. Heffernan's work is, naturally, on the cover of Tin House's Fantastic Women issue. More events like this should be had. More.

The Massachusetts Review

It's in my hands and it's lovely. The Fall 2007 issue of The Massachusetts Review arrived in the mail yesterday, with my story "Skitter" on pages 364-369. Sweet!

northbound escape

I'm skipping town for 2.5 weeks, escaping New York's hot damp stinky breath till just before Labor Day. It's exciting because I get to show M. around Montreal (where its in the blessed 70s) and then get down to work for two weeks at the Vermont Studio Center.

In other news, my story "Skitter" is said to be forthcoming this October in the Fall issue of The Massachusetts Review. Naturally, paranoia prevents me from being more sure about that, but when I'll have it my hands I'll be a very happy lady.

F-train Scene

It smells like Port Authority when we get on the train at Jay Street-Borough Hall. We were waiting for 20 minutes after getting off the A to transfer to the F. A carefully-enunciated announcement warned we would have to get back on the A/C and switch trains at the dreaded Hoyt-Schemerhorn Station and an orange-vested MTA worker had been barking the same- "No F-train, no F-train- transfer to the G at Hoyt-Schmerhorn"- waving his arms and indicating we should move to the other side of the platform like a bunch of large-eyed, dumb cattle. No signs had been posted anywhere indicating the change of service (not that that's so unusual) and people huff and scuffle.

Then, like a ghost, the F-train slips into the station, and all who'd waited on the platform roll their eyes and shake their heads. We get on and I sniff the air suspiciously. A woman (seated) with shaggy red hair and dirt streaked all over her face chatters about Chinese takeout to someone I can't see. Had she been in a fire, I wonder? Why was her face covered in soot? M. and I find a seat nearby and I try not to stare. Just another New York night. But I can't help it. She must've had the longest day.

Her eyes are made up. Despite the heat, she is in a black fur-lined coat, black pants, and black boots. The coat is open and she is wearing nothing underneath, revealing pale cleavage and tummy rolls. She is talking to no one (this much is now obvious).

Another woman, perpendicular to us with brown curls piled atop her head and black square-rim glasses, pulls on a thin sweater and apologizes to the man beside her for poking him with her sharp elbow.

"Cold?" he asks with a warm smile.

"Freezing."

He says he is hot. She says she is envious. He touches the top of her arm, laughing lightly, saying he's always too hot. She smiles upon the contact and I wonder whether she hasn't flirted in years and whether she wants to sidle up to his overheatedness.

"Good night," she says, getting off at Bergen Street. The man smiles to himself and gets off at the next stop.

The redhead in the fur coat remains on the train, ordering tuna salad from the banana at her ear. Then she puts the banana down and picks up a teddy bear in her lap (had this been her conversation partner all along?), and gives it tender kisses on the snout.

changes

M, a.k.a. my betrothed, has a new blog called Zoned-In. It's all about hot topics in urban planning (adaptive re-use, congestion pricing, and the like) and makes for good, hearty reading (not that I'm biased).

In other (saddish) news, I've resigned from my post at 55 Words. It was a fabulous year; I'd missed being on the editing side of things since working on Scrivener at McGill and working with Rosemary on this project was a great way to jump back into the publishing fray. Seeing what people could do (and attempted to do) with such a restriction in form was a treat. Alas, I decided it was time for the guest stories to be received by a fresh set of eyes (not mention I've become greedy with my free time as I focus more on the novel). I'm looking forward to seeing how 55 Words evolves. I think every writer, particularly long-winded writers, should try their hand at the 55-word story.

A Splash of Color

Yesterday, at the last moment, we decided to run out and catch the fireworks. We'd procrastinated because of the rain, then made a mad dash for the car, careening through the damp streets of Brooklyn till we hit the inevitable congestion on the BQE. Of course, little amateur shows abounded, afar in Red Hook and the like, which provided entertainment along the way. On the radio, Susan Cheever talked of the electricity that crackled between Margaret Fuller and Nathaniel Hawthorne and Thoreau (coincidence?). We parked in Williamsburg, beneath many a gawking loft party, and shuffled in the drizzle to Kent Avenue, along the water. The big show had already begun, rumbling and growling over the water, red lights reflecting off Manhattan windows, smoke curling in the sky. A little boy cried for ice cream and a larger girl played with a whoopie cushion. There were, as M. puts it, the three H's of the neighborhood: the Hipsters, the Hasids, and the Hispanics, some entranced and many playing, ignoring the smiley face explosions, the green cubes, saving their awe for bigger, sparklier numbers...

Oh, I've added a bit of color to my website, via some photos I've taken over the last couple of years. I plan on changing up the photos every now and again. Let me know what you think.

Misc Updates

I've finally put up two papers from my days at Teachers College, both from a course I took in Interactional Sociolinguistics this past fall.

I'm also in the process of reconsidering the design of my website. I'm actually considering adding some color (gasp!), though something stubborn inside me wants me to stay true to the simple black and white. Any comments and suggestions on that one much appreciated.

Finally, I've got quite a backlog of arty tidbits to report on, hopefully by the end of the week.

La Gloire de mon père, par Marcel Pagnol

This is the story of a precocious French youngster at the turn of the 20th century. He teaches himself how to read and his mother fears his head will explode. Subsuqently, his family goes to the countryside for the summer (bien sur) and the central story builds around his school-teacher-father and boasting-uncle's big hunt in the mountains--and whether our little protagonist can join in on the bloody glory. I'm generally a fan of stories involving precocious children; the humor and charm of this short novel (see especially the section on nose picking), combined with the bucolic setting (the mountains! the herbs! the birds! the goats!), makes this a lovely (albeit mildly sentimental) choice for summer reading.