Nature's Pernicious Power

Georgia O'Keefe - Black Mesa

As usual, I am woefully late to the party—that is, the celebration for National Women's History Month. But to tell you the truth, I haven't felt much like writing. My mind has been hyper-focused on the natural disasters that literally swallowed much of Japan, and the ensuing meltdown at its nuclear power plants that is sure to have horrific lingering effects.

Maybe it seems so surreal that I'm not yet able to wrap my mind around it. I have read that the earthquake was so large that it may, in fact, have shifted the earth’s axis four inches, and the main island of Japan eight feet. I simply cannot fathom the enormity of these earthly violent convulsions, nor can I imagine the monstrosity of an ocean swell that sweeps away entire towns. Not even as I watch the constant, streaming video of these images can I believe it. I'm beginning to feel like a grotesque voyeur, helplessly viewing someone else's nightmare.

But Japan's nightmare belongs to us all. It reminds us of the fragility of life, of our inability to ever have complete control over all things. We may be able to predict certain Acts of God, and perhaps even mitigate some of the damage, but domination of a force of nature is unlikely. As the disaster deepens, and radioactivity from the second most-dangerous leak in history threatens to contaminate Japan's food-chain and water resources, there will be far reaching consequences. 

My—our—deepest sympathies go out to the Japanese people. There are ways, though, for us to help. The American Red Cross is accepting donations to aid Japan's earthquake and tsunami victims. You can also donate via text message: text REDCROSS to 90999 to give $10 for the Japan earthquake and Pacific Tsunami. Also, The Japan Earthquake and Tsunami Relief Fund has been launched by Global Giving. Its funds will be distributed to a variety of relief organizations helping victims of this disaster. 

Pondering all of this during a month that celebrates women's history in America, I think of Georgia O'Keeffe, who revolutionized modern art with her vivid paintings. Her work is pure, stark and startling, evoking the power and emotion of the natural world. Much like Mother Nature herself.

O'Keefe- Red Hills with Flowers

Nobody sees a flower - really - it is so small - we haven't the time - 

and to see takes time like to have a friend takes time. 

~ Georgia O'Keefe

******

March 16, 2011 UPDATE:  Some amazing bloggers are organizing to help the people of Japan. Rach (from Rach Writes) spent a year living in Japan, and has teamed with a group of writers who will soon be holding an auction to raise funds for those affected by this disaster. If you are interested in participating, please visit Rach for more info on WRITE HOPE for Japan.

"Friday Night Frolic" - Yodelayheehoo!

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He'd been playing his whole life. He "couldn't live without it," he told Derek Richardson in an interview back in 1999, seven years before his death at the age of seventy-two. He had realized his biggest dream and sung for the first time at the Grand Ole Opry just two weeks prior. By then he was known as the "Pavarotti of the Plains." An accomplished guitarist, singer and songwriter. A yodeling cowboy. Slim Whitman's chummy and chubby doppelganger.

He sure had come a long way from that shy kid who'd climb trees and sing only to the wind.

Strumming what's known as roots music since he was eleven, at the age of sixteen he shared  local club bills with fourteen year old Buddy Holly, who lived sixty miles north of the older musician, up Highway 87—a straight shot from Lamesa to Lubbock—at the southern edge of the Texas Panhandle.

Nine years later, Buddy would be killed in a plane wreck.

Had he imagined what if? If he had played Holly's final concert in Clear Lake, Iowa? If he hadn't refused to change his style? If he had chosen to leave Texas, lured by rock'n'roll and dreams of celebrity and riches? If he'd been chartering planes? If he'd been on the Beachcraft that hit the frozen, snow-covered cornfield outside of Clear Lake in the early morning of February 3, 1959?

His name was Don Walser. And to wonder would have been a luxury. Walser had stayed in the Panhandle, sidelined his music aspirations to raise a family in the dusty plains, high winds and boundless horizons of the northwestern Texan sky. He'd grease gears as a mechanic and work as an auditor for the National Guard. At night, he'd scrub his hands with powdered Boraxo, pick out the grime from under his nails, and leave his small ranch house to play local clubs with The Texas Plainsmen. Or he and his band might gather at a radio station and bang out a few numbers for its listeners.

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Walser wouldn't sign a record deal for another thirty-five years after Holly's death.

But all of Texas had known him anyway. If he'd not put family before fame, he might easily have been just as much a household name as Holly. All of Texas had sung his songs, had waltzed and two-stepped and howled (and in later years, even moshed) with Don Walser for nearly half a century. All of Texas had heard the radio dispatches from Lubbock's KDAV deejay, High Pockets, rooting out a teenage Walser—who had no phone—so that he might appear in a local gig.

Walser would later play festivals with Tommy Allsup, one of Holly's back-up band members who took the bus that fateful February evening after losing the coin toss (for a plane seat) to Richie Valens.

When Walser was first discovered in 1990 by a talent scout who found him playing in Austin with his new band, Pure Texas Gang, he was singing Rolling Stone From Texas, a song he'd written at least thirty years earlier.

                                    (Music kicks in at 1:08 -- WAIT for the yodel at 1:55!)

In 1994, at almost sixty years of age, and after he had retired from forty-five years of serving and working for the the Guard, Walser signed his first record deal.

In 1996, he opened for Johnny Cash at the Erwin Center in Austin, TX.

Don Walser—family man, gifted musician, happy cowpoke, cultural treasure of the Lone Star State—died in 2006. He'll forever be remembered for his music, his perfect tenor voice, his down-home sensibility, and his masterful yodeling.

Like Holly, Walser's music appealed not only to country fans, but also to rock'n'rollers around the globe. The old Texas country music with which he'd spent a lifetime preserving was embraced even by punk rockers. I wonder if the little guy who sang in trees would have ever imagined that.

Yodelhayhee, yodelhayhee, yodelhoo.

100 Commentaires and Merci Beaucoups

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This entry marks my one-hundredth post. 100. I remember when my great-grandmother turned one-hundred and the family had a grand celebration that brought relatives to Rhode Island from across the country and down from the Province of Quebec, including Grand-mama's sister's family. I was fifteen at the time, and Grand-mama's birthday marked not only a century of living, but for me, a certain fin-de-siècle: the end of life as I knew it in my backyard, and the beginning of a life-long friendship with relatives in Quebec. It marked the first time I traveled by air with my same-aged cousin Pascale (Grand-mama's sister's granddaughter), whom I thought so glamorous—she still is—returning home from Montreal. Just the two of us.

It was a certain coming-of-age.

There was timorous footing on water skis. The long, measured drag of a cigarette. Sweet, raw honey scraped from its cut comb. Singing all things Supertramp. Driving a car. The taste of hashish. And beer. French television. A Grateful Dead concert. Dining on frog's legs. Summoning the spirit of Little Rose—a Francophone mystic-stigmatic—in her garden, by the statue of St. Francis cloaked in brown garb, his cupped hands doubling as a bird feeder. Spinning of the bottle. Learning every word to Bob Dylan's Hurricane. The dissection of a heavily formaldehyde-scented frog. And a first kiss. Ribbit.
  
Not to say I was corrupted by my French relations, or that any of these scenes were set in Canada, or with my cousin. Non, non. It was all so many years ago, and the haze hanging over those years is grey and dense, and who remembers when anything so long ago really happened, or precisely what happened. It could have been a hundred years ago. It might as well have been!

But it was not. It was most certainly when I was fifteen.

I have another special affair to acknowledge in this one-hundredth post. Though it didn't occur when I was fifteen. The matter being my recent receipt of an award—the Memetastic Award—from Caterpillar, a sweet blogger friend. Go see her. Darling and sparkly, she is.

Many thanks to Caterpillar for recognizing my blog, and passing this award along to me. And many thanks to all of you who've come along for the blog ride.

I'm not sure of the award's origins, but as with many blog awards, it's delivered with some rules, which in this case are as I like them—simple: a) Tell four lies and one truth and let your readers decide which one's the truth; and, b) keep the award rolling.

Well, there are fictional and non-fictional illustrations in the third paragraph of this post. I think. So, have at it.*wink, wink* 

To keep it moving forward, I shall lavish the lovely Kate—a stupendous sonneteer—at Suppertime Sonnets—with the Memetastic Award. Congratulations Kate! 

One last rumination: mememtastic—is that a word? Not in my dictionary, but it did remind me of the French term for grandmother: Grand-mère, or Meme for short. Which reminded me of Grand-mama (and her 100th birthday), who wouldn't permit me to speak in any language except French. En Francais!

Comme ce:



Bon soir mes amis. C'est tout!

"Friday Night Frolic" - Take Refuge

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A five string banjo sits in one corner of my bedroom, a thin film of dust coating its heel, fret board and sandpaper-like head. The banjo was a gift to my husband, but he hasn't had time to figure out how to play it. He barely has time to fiddle with his standard six-string guitar.

I love the bright, clear, bell-like sound of the banjo.

I'd been thinking about this banjo for some time. Thinking about how lonely it looks in the corner, like it's been punished, banished to a junction of pale walls as penance. But it's shiny chrome parts and virgin strings are entirely innocent. I'm certain it's waiting for the gentle touch of nimble fingers.

Which are not mine.



But I picked it up anyway. This morning. I did. I've had a soundtrack running through my head for a while. (A soundtrack Abigail Washburn could easily compose.) This happens sometimes when I read certain stories, stories that come with a haversack of depth and emotion. Heavy luggage that can't be shed. Even if the luggage belongs to someone else, even if it's not real. It still haunts. As in the case of Tim O'Brien's stories about Vietnam.

I still remember the tears of exhausted sixth grade classmates. I remember the MIA and POW posters. I remember friends who lost loved ones in a senseless war. I see that not much has changed. Except, perhaps, for the draft.

The soundtrack is one of refuge. Refuge is what we search for. It's what O'Brien's characters long for. I often find my refuge in song and music. And for some mysterious reason the resonating soundtrack while reading Tim O'Brien was filled with folk, blues, bluegrass vibrations. So I grabbed the banjo, opened my laptop and went to eHow to figure out how to tune it. Then I learned about its chords, like G, D7 and Em, watched a video, opened up a chart and tried to roll. Don't try this without metal picks. It hurts. And I think my hands are too small and my fingers too short.

But I'm going to keep trying.

I want to make my own soundtrack. And someday maybe I can do this:



That beautiful voice belongs to Abigail Washburn. Fortunately, Ms. Washburn abandoned her plan to study law in order to develop an alternate conduit of communication. With her banjo. I won't abandon writing. But I'm going to work on that banjo.

Abigail Washburn's new album, City of Refuge, can be found here. Interestingly, the album was made by Ms. Washburn with the hope that, within it, everyone would find a sense of belonging.

Belonging

There are some times when a mother can't help but feel like a failure. Especially when she gets a phone call late afternoon, from a member of the Campus Ministry Team at her son's school, reminding her to send in the now overdue letter she was supposed to write for her son's 8th grade Recollection, which is on Friday. Especially when all she does is write.

To be honest, I'm not up to snuff on the Recollection stuff. Or, for that matter, any of the Catholic stuff. Max attends a Catholic school, and even though I was raised Catholic, I didn't listen much. But that's no excuse. I should be more attentive. Especially when my kids are in Catholic schools. And why we send him to this particular Catholic school, aside from its rigorous academics and excellent fine arts program, has a lot to do with the Campus Ministry phone call. And those people behind the calls. It's about caring, and watching out for one another, and taking the time to call slackers and say, Hello, did you forget? (No, no! I didn't honest *God strike me dead* I'm bringing it in tomorrow morning!) It's about teaching kids not only academic crap they'll forget years down the road, but about the power of kindness, and compassion, and dare I say, even prayer: Moments to meditate, to ponder their soul, to think about their purpose in this world, and how their actions, their thoughts, have real effect on mankind. How they can use all of their gifts and talents to better the world.

Hey, is that not Recollection?

Well, when I was a girl it meant begging for forgiveness for all the bad things I did (oh, and there were so many, but sometimes I had a stretch of a few good days and had to make things up for confession so as not to appear too perfect) from secret, and very stern, priests hiding in dark, screened booths. Oh, wait a minute, that was Confession! Or Penance. Or something scary like that. (Sorry, 'tis all I remember from my Catholic school days.)

So, because I'm a seriously deficient Catholic mother, I looked up the term on a religious website and found this definition for Recollection: Attention to the presence of God in the soul. It includes the withdrawal of the mind from external and earthly affairs in order to attend to God and Divine things. It is the same as interior solitude in which the soul is alone with God.

Moments to meditate. This sounds like a good idea to me. Not too scary. Take a breather. Reflect. Withdraw the mind "from external and earthly affairs in order to attend to God and Divine things." Recollect. I guess I wasn't too far off with that first thought. Phew. Perhaps there's still hope for this Catholic lady.

The letter. The letter is to be delivered to the students at some point during their day of Recollection this Friday. The theme, this year, for Recollection: Belonging. I thought that was a beautiful theme, and why I didn't respond immediately I don't know. I mean, what an opportunity, what a precious gift to give to your child. A letter. About belonging. Don't we all need to feel like we belong. Maybe I had to let the theme percolate.

In any event, it's done. Sealed. And includes a photo of Max when he was just a very little man hangin' and jivin' in bouncy seats. I hesitate to publish my letter here, but there's this voice saying, Oh Hell, tell the world how you feel about your son, and belonging. And then there's the other voice that says, It's private. And yet another that says, Boy, this is going to confirm how kooky your mother is, poor kid.

But no matter, we're all kooky in our own way, aren't we? And we all belong somewhere, doing some thing, being some one. In our own kooky way. So if you want to look at some kooky mom's letter, you can read more below. If not, stop here, and recollect. (You don't have to be Catholic or religious to do that.) You belong.

Teacher Was Strict

"The real writer is one who really writes."

~Marge Piercy

shafferfineart.com

I stole that quote from Go Into The Story, a blog about the craft of writing and the creative life. Lots of valuable info there, particularly if you are interested in screenwriting, so go take a gander.

Despite what I said about austerity back in mid-January, I have somehow managed (that would mean a very generous hubby, and forfeiting dinners out for some time) to scrape together enough quarters to get myself into a fiction class at Brown. It meets Monday evenings, and tonight being the second class, I have my work cut out for me. But good for you, this will be a quick note.

I've finished the required reading, but I've much to write before this evening's parking melee on Providence's East Side—an event which always precedes the evening classes. And since Professor C. reintroduced me to Rick Moody (who, by the way, was educated at Brown and wrote, among many other things, The Ice Storm—that chilling tale about WASPy suburbia and key parties *it's a helluva movie, too*), and his short, The Grid (from this), and Delmore Schwartz's fixed hallucination masterpiece In Dreams Begin Responsibilities (the title story remarkable), and a reading list to die for, I am suddenly replenished with noun and verb and phrase, and I am excited! 

(Phew. Take a breather. I'll betcha Professor B. wouldn't have liked that run-on.)

Which is fortunate, as it is necessary for me to produce fiction of my own. And if Ms. Piercy is correct, if I am to be a real writer, then I must really write. (Wait, am I not doing that here?) So while I'm off writing fiction, I'll leave you with this:

The Spring by Delmore Schwartz

Spring has returned! Everything has returned!
The earth, just like a schoolgirl, memorizes
Poems, so many poems. ... Look, she has learned
So many famous poems, she has earned so many prizes!

Teacher was strict. We delighted in the white
Of the old man's beard, bright like the snow's:
Now we may ask which names are wrong, or right
For "blue," for "apple," for "ripe." She knows, she knows!

Lucky earth, let out of school, now you must play
Hide-and-seek with all the children every day:
You must hide that we may seek you: we will! We will!

The happiest child will hold you. She knows all the things
You taught her: the word for "hope," and for "believe,"
Are still upon her tongue. She sings and sings and sings.


(One last note: Last week I got an Editor's Pick—and a slice of the cover page—for this piece  at Open Salon, where I also, occasionally, write. Yes, I smiled BIG. And the piece, my friends, was inspired by You.)

"Friday Night Frolic" - Sigh No More (the weekend is here!)

Zest and Gusto.

There's a distinct drop beyond that gentle slope: the steep cut of the double black diamond. And though you have a map, you can't be sure of what lies beyond the gnarly, spiral drop. The mind sees the angle and asks, How the hell do I maneuver down this, and where does it smooth out and straighten?  The passage is narrow, with a double fall line which will require some skillful carving. You're going to have to pick your way down this baby.

She closes her eyes for a while, and forces a patient smile. She wants this. After all, she introduced us to the run, skated right up to it, and declared she was ready. Ready for the double black.

Alright then, I say, let's do it.

Wait, I'm not sure, Mama! she shouts into the clouds. I've already worked my way down a portion of the upper ledge; I turn up toward the top of the mountain where she's leaning on her poles, and nod affirmatively, reassuring her that she's ready, reminding her that she brought her brother and me to this sleek, snow-covered gap. So she swallows the fear, and tears down the gully, edges dug in, teeth grinding, thighs burning, and arrives at the bottom with the widest grin I've ever seen her wear.

This is how Mumford & Sons introduce their music to us. With zest and gusto. But they also understand and accept, even appreciate, inevitable weak moments. They are young, so young that my maternal instincts kick in—hell, I'm old enough to be their mother—when I hear them cry about giving their all, rolling stones away, bellowing how love will not betray you, dismay you or enslave you. Boys singing about desires, regrets and redemption at such a young age can bring a mother to tears. I want to pull them into my bosom and reassure them of their capabilities and marvelousness, tell them I'm happy for them, excited by what they've become and what they will continue to be and do. Embracing their talents and gifts, they're carving a unique place for themselves in music's history.

  Roll Away Your Stone by Glassnotemusic

But these young men—Ben Lovett, Country Winston, Marcus Mumford and Ted Dwane—have apparently received plenty of good mothering. Yes, some sweet love and attention and encouragement. It's evident in their song, voice and posture. There's warmth in their hearts, in their music, and even on their website, which includes Marcus' Book Club (where he discusses The Outline of Sanity—a visionary manual exploring the increasing common suspicion that there must be an alternative to the "fast-paced and meaningless blur of modern life"—which he claims changed his life);  Ben's Recipes (like an alternative full English fry-up, and other on the road catering ideas); and, Ted's Photography—beautiful sepia-toned rooftop portraits in which the London sky threatens storm.

They are approachable and real, their music steeped in raw honesty, as well as a distinct Shakespearean influence. At the heart of their songwriting is love, life, death, and true poetry.

  Little Lion Man by Glassnotemusic

Inside their debut album's liner, they offer recognition by noting: "We would like to thank our makers and keepers, with all of our heart; those who are close to us even when we are far away. Without you we would not have made this album."

I'd like to echo the majestic mountain's desire: Design your own maps, or wing it if it so pleases. Blaze the trail. Carve through narrow passages. Keep digging those edges in. Don't worry about the fall line or where it all straightens out. You see far beyond it—a parallel glide through sweeping landscape of mountains and valleys, and sunny skies.

  The Cave by Glassnotemusic

Zen in the Art of Life

I don't remember the infraction, but she did follow the directive and wrote the sentence 110 times—the extra ten for good measure. Sometimes you have to do a thing that many times for it to sink in. (If you're really lucky, you don't.) It was an effective consequence. For a while. But as it is, my little muse will be who she will be. And it's alright. As we all do, the girl sometimes forgets.

I've been told that I'm forgetting my children. This by my children, of course. They seem to think they've been lost to my laptop. I don't think it's true. The culprit is my mind, and its incessant swoosh of words and phrases that pull me inward and freeze me in time. I need to rectify it, obviously. And though the kids are secure in my love for them, they also need to know that they have my respect.

And I'd like to show them this without writing it out longhand 110 times.

So this being school vacation week, I'm going to be taking a little hiatus, take my kids to the movies, cook some real meals for them, play some board games, and head up north, to the mountains, where we can shoot down the trails to our hearts' desire.

It was Ray Bradbury who said that one of the most important items in a writers makeup, what shapes his material and rushes him along the road, is to look to his zest, see to his gusto.*

Time to look to, and create, some of that zest and gusto with my babes.

I'll be back, though, for the Frolic on Friday. Until then, with much zest and gusto: So long and be well!



*Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury