In Boxes

Cardboard is surely one of the least acclaimed inventions.

A home furnished and stocked with two bibliophiles’ flotsam and never-to-be-jettisoned accumulations needs less than twenty-four hours to be fully boxed by professional packers and loaded into one massive truck. The quick upload, however, has been a slow download in our new abode. A three-floor walk up seemed doable given location, central air, and tandem parking when I first saw the apartment. Watching four sweaty guys haul my medieval history, Romantic poetry, and feminist and liberation theology, not to mention just about all my scrupulous notes in thick binders from undergraduate studies, was painful to bear. I tipped them well. The movers have been gone a week now and we are dangerously close to accepting a few stacked boxes as functional end tables or practical lamp stands.

Back to cardboard. We swim in it. We heft our empties down three flights, then down a fourth flight and into the basement. Then with wild abandon we buy more cardboard boxes filled with ready-to-be-assembled bookshelves, a desk, that wedding china I finally need to round out our set, and yet more books from Amazon.com. Then we haul those fresh empties down four flights. The cardboard queues patiently for the once-a-week recycling pick up. It will take weeks to remove them all.

I once visited a company that manufactured cardboard boxes. I saw the sheets of ordinary brown cardboard perforated, printed, and cut into the strange shapes designed to transform them into useful containers to carry fried chicken or entire households as requested. I was impressed by the efficiency of the operation. I was also glad that it was not my job to turn paper into magic boxes. After making the move from the Midwest to the East Coast I know a few more things about life and cardboard:

1. Professional movers are worth every cent.

2. Cardboard is essential. I am thankful to the cardboard box makers.

3. GPS is essential--especially in Boston.

Really, I don’t know why I have broken my blogging silence with this utterly boring rumination about cardboard. I could write about our road trip with many firsts for me including a side trip to a gun show in Ohio , dinner with a Georger, a stroll beneath the Niagara Falls, a night in a Canadian B&B, and a trip to see Mass MoCa (Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art) in North Adams.

Or I could write about our last few days in South Bend, which were perfectly filled with friends. Sharon at the farmers market saved us a seat at her counter for our last Saturday trip to the diner. She even gave us a parting gift.

I could write about our new neighborhood. Or my new modern poetry class. Or progress on my novel. Or how we still don’t have a mail key. Yet:

O Cardboard filled with treasures packed! O life contained!

Cardboard is life these days. Soon to be recycled.

Video: Notre Dame--Get Fired Up for the Season

Thanks to Dave for passing this along. Twenty minutes to wake up the echoes.....

http://mfile.akamai.com/26783/wmv/cstvcbs.download.akamai.com/8108/open/nd/07-08/video/m-footbl/08aug/083007_m-footbl_primer_hi.asx

"To My Yugoslavian In-Laws" by Debra Gingerich

If we could speak,
I would tell you that we have
trees here too, and rivers.
I know how to hammer
a nail. Transatlantic phone calls
are expensive, even for us
with our two cars, dishwasher
and American salaries. That he
will not get lazy or forget
about the ways he needed to make money
during the war, the merchandise
exchanged in dark corners of Turkey.
He is still thankful for good health.
He passes on every kiss
you tell him to give me.
I would admit that he misses
the stone beaches of the Adriatic,
he accepts the Atlantic's murky water
as part of the compromise. He thinks
Lancaster's streets are too vacant
at night and there is no place
to ride a bike. Also, that I wouldn't take
your name and will never
believe the wine in the cup
turns to blood. That he and I can't
agree on a slipcover for the couch.
That there is no perfect place
for anyone.

As heard today on the Writer's Almanac. Visit the link, hear and purchase the poem here: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/

Writerly Quote of the Day

"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books." ----Kafka

Health and Beyond

The strep test returned negative. The virus remains unidentified. It was July 21st when I finally measured my 38.5 degree C / 101 degree F temperature. About two nights ago I actually slept through the night in my own bed with only a few coughing fits. No one else caught my bug, which is a good thing, but this adds to the mystery of the pesky virus. I would rest easier if I could put a name on the infection. Today back in the US: I will dare to play to tennis. I had dreamed of tennis in the Carpathian valley, but didn't get to lace up my tennies even once.

At Martin's grocery store today I rode the wave of local celebrity. I thought people were glancing my way and growing charged by my electric presence. Until checkers, stock guys, and shoppers started a litany of "Hey, Coach," and "Hello, Digger." We got our carts. "I enjoyed your book, Coach." In the normal flow of commerce we headed toward the bakery and deli section. Near the hot soup buffet he gestured me ahead of him. I'll admit, I had to come home and google him to be sure of his fame: Digger Phelps, former Notre Dame basketball coach being a key aspect of his pedigree. He even has his own Wikipedia page. I love South Bend. I love that coaches move here to mold young athletes and then stay on in the community.

Last night we got another wave of local cool. Squirm Orchestra provided live music to accompany a series of short films from European stop-motion masters. The event was part of the Vickers Theatre Sound of Silents Film Festival. A friend of ours was in the band and let us know of the event. After the show and a few rounds of beer and reubens at Nelson's Pub, we joined the band and groupies for a swim in our skivvies at a pool in a primordial forest. Unplanned. Hot tubs, physics conversations between groupies, and talk of touring adventures in New York and Detroit. Why don't we swim in a stranger's pool at midnight more often?

Observations on the Road

I must be recovering from my as yet unidentified illness (strep? virus? something altogether more sinister?) because I can finally sit down and face a keyboard with an ounce, albeit exactly one ounce, of enthusiasm. The boys have been whisked away to a cabin in the mountains for an evening of cool mountain air. It is just me and the laptop with our newly acquired wireless connection, which a neighbor has generously allowed us to filch.

Things I have learned/observed on this foray:

1. Do not allow your Italian hotel to do your laundry, especially without even looking at the price list. 5 euros for a pair of skivvies. Not worth it. Another 6 euros for a "sweater" i.e. a t-shirt. Lesson learned.

2. Italian woman are advised to drink one glass of wine per day after the first trimester. One woman was told that she was putting her baby at risk if she didn't drink red wine because you can't get the same health benefits from any other source. American women are forbidden to drink any alcohol.

3. If you thought you were shocked when the six-year-old gypsy boy asked for your half-eaten package of crackers, wait three minutes. In that time he will have fended off his little sister and crammed all the crackers in his mouth. Then he will return and beg for the half-consumed bottle of bodza soda. I didn't give him my soda. I was horrified. Is it acceptable to allow a child to drink from a bottle that had my germs and spit? (Every year I have relearn how to live in a city with children for whom begging for my snacks is considered acceptable--to both the child and the society that tacitly allows it.)

4. Air conditioning is good. Even though not everyone here shares this opinion (see note in number 6 regarding cold water, tiles). And in fact I abhor the abuse of stale frigid air in the States. Yet this past week and a half has been unbearably hot AND I had a fever. I have spent entire days languishing in my undies trying to catch a breeze. Air conditioning is good. All things in moderation.

5. Romanian medical care is scary for me. Okay, medical care in a foreign land is always nerve-racking. I have a throat infection of some kind. We go the doctor (I won't mention the line or the envelope of cash) who can't take a throat culture because I ate crackers. (Is that the case in the US?) Besides they only take cultures before 10:00 am and not to mention that it would then have to be transported to the hospital in the oppressive heat. In the meantime, the doctor prescribes something to soothe my throat. When L. goes to the pharmacy, the ladies say "Oh, we only give this with a doctor's prescription....use this instead." And he bought what they recommended. Note: we had a doctor's prescription. (And the lozenges are manufactured in Bombay, a city whose fantastic lack of public hygiene is central to the book I am reading, Maximum City by Suketu Mehta.)

So, the next day we go to the hospital. Downstairs there are hordes, those exiting press cotton onto their open wounds where blood was drawn, and it costs 2 lei (less than one dollar) for the test. Upstairs there is no line and it costs 13 lei (roughly four dollars). We go upstairs. I had been instructed: no food, no brushing of the teeth. After a rough night of mouth-breathing and coughing, my breath had its own zip code. It was 8 am. The woman gagged me. It is Tuesday. If negative, they will know by Wednesday. If positive for strep, it will be Thursday or Friday. Did I mention the peeling paint, the windows propped open on chairs, the dust, the crowds?


6. In Transylvania common knowledge dictates that you must NOT drink cold water or you may catch a cold or make your cold worse. (You also can't walk barefoot on tile, even in a freakish heat wave, for fear of catching a cold.) In my mothering, I was given ICE CREAM when my throat was raw and swollen. I have to bypass Grandma and the kindly neighbor lady to sneak a glass of chilled water from the fridge. Where are my saltines? Where is the 7 UP? Where is my vanilla ice cream?

7. Transylvania lacks a restaurant culture. Home cooking is supreme. (I miss salad. I miss tall, cold glasses of 2% milk.)

8. They iron underwear. It is not a fetish. It is because all the clothes are dried on the line. They dry into hard lines that must be ironed. Even the undies. (I haven't worn several items of clothing that I brought because I don't have the heart to request their ironing, which leads me to number 9....

9. Hired domestic help is not an option. We couldn't make it on our own here. The massive amounts of time it takes to shop, cook, clean, iron, and make order in the house overwhelm us. Yet I am still shy about it. Hence, the unused clothing I carted all the way here.

10. Language is personality. Or, rather, lack of language is lack of personality. I glow in English. I flounder and sulk in Hungarian. I understand most of what I hear, when I try. Now I need to produce in a second tongue.

If I had the energy to go back and reread some of my former entries while traveling in Romania, I would surely find that I repeat myself. Yet, this is part of the lessons learned. We have to relearn them.

Csikszereda

We arrived by overnight train to Csikszereda. The train seems to be leaving earlier and earlier from Budapest each year. This time we left Budapest at 3:30 pm and arrived here at roughly 4:30 am. It is pity that we arrive before the sunrise. I used to covet the last 45 minutes on the train when the view from the train was spectacular despite my sleep/caffeine deprived brain: all hills, fog, green pastures, shephard's huts, gypsy settlements, and forest.

If you have read of my travels here in Transylvania, then you may be aquainted with my tendency to succumb to the somnolent powers of the mountain air and fresh mineral waters. This Kansas girl fills her lungs with crisp, cold air (yes, even in July) and it plum tuckers me out. The naps here are first rate.

Ate stuffed peppers, drank mineral water, drank bodza, saw Bodza the dog (named after the drink), ate the local cheese, took a nap, strolled the city. I am in the husband's hometown thick of it.

I am reading Catcher in the Rye, I believe for the first time. Very caustic. And very scary when traveling with an 11 year-old boy soon to be a full fledged teen fed up with all us phonies. I finished Peace Like A River by Leif Enger while in transit and also Specimen Days by Michael Cunningham, the latter being a real jewel. That Cunningham rocks my world.

Not much else to write here. But I am writing, which feels good. Although the air is rank and smoky in this internet cafe filled with gamers. Alas. No more cushy wireless internet connections for a while. If I want to go online, I must actually leave the apartment and head into the city center and hang with the local boys.

For a look into a local expat's blog perspective on this town:
http://szekely.blogspot.com/

(There are some good recent photos about town.)

Sardinia, Rome then Budapest

We are eleven days into our summer travels. I should have written much sooner. We had internet connections sporadically, but I have been lazy. It is so easy to relinquish all writerly urges to the hot summer sun. And the sun has been relentless. Yes, even I--she of the 75 spf--have a tan line now thanks to the hours spent on the beach and strolling the sunny streets of Sardinia and Rome.

We flew into Rome and immediately caught a connection to Sardinia. All three of us had separate cities of origin. Nonetheless, they managed to lose all of our luggage. Thus began some frantic shopping trips for overpriced undies and bathing suits in the town of Pula. Luckily, all of our luggage had arrived the day before we were set to return to Rome. Sardinia was beautiful and even I swam in the warm waters. (I hate being cold.) L. had a conference and was busy in the days. D. and I swam, read, ate pasta, swam, read, ate pasta, and of course developed the habit our afternoon siesta and dinner at ten pm. By the time we left Italy, we had had the art of the siesta mastered. There was one day in Rome that I required two siestas.

On last Friday we headed to Rome. I hadn't been to Rome in ten years and it had been twelve years since I lived there as a student. I was eager and nervous to see how my imagination would compare to the city of today. It was a thrill to be back on the cobblestones.

The historic center, where we stayed in the Hotel Tiziano, has exploded with stores and restaurants. As a student in Rome, I tended to stay out of shops and restaurants and so maybe I hadn't noticed their abundance before. Yet I think there are more stores than ever before--the streets were absolutely packed with people, many of whom were tourists of course. We hit all of my former haunts--Pascucci's, L'insalata Rica, Cafe San Eustachio, Cartoleria Pantheon, as well as visited the Pantheon, Spanish Steps, Vatican Museum, Saint Peter's, the Forum and the Colloseum. We ate pizza or pasta or both for just about every meal. We drank smooth frulatti for energy. And the the gelato. . . Della Palma and Giolitti, to mention the best. . . is dreamy and so much yummier in the shade on a hot summer day. Our favorite flavors: green apple, orange, creme, banana. The chocolates were good, but the fruit flavors exploded in our mouths.

Let's see, my fellow Rome program students might appreciate the following: we rode bus 64 to the Vatican (new buses, less oogy), we sank to Delfino's on Sunday in a fit of hunger and tiredness, we ate pizza at that little place near the Campo D'Fiori, many of the same faces are working at Pascucci and the Tiziano (which did give us a special rate as a former SMCer on the program), and the room we stayed in at the Tiziano was gorgeous and did not resemble our former student rooms.

These days I am caffeine and alchohol free. Hard to imagine, right? Even more of a challenge in the land of espresso and vino. I was in Italy. I indulged in one caffeinated espresso in Rome at San Eustachio. It was a chemical orgasm. The froth. The color. The texture. I inhaled deeply from L.'s red wine at dinner one night. It was a posh, cheap, and traditional place near the Spanish Steps. And yes, all three of those adjectives as suggested by a Roman friend were accurate. The wine smelled rich and vibrant. I ate pesto three times. I never did find a linguine al limone though, which is a pity.

Dani tried his first cappuccino. We picked Pascucci's for the event. He hated it of course. Never got past the foam. But he has his first cappuccino in Rome and that is pretty cool.

These are random thoughts and recollections. It is the best I can do as I squeeze in this entry from my hotel room in Budapest. Thankfully it has been rainy here an cool. We leave this afternoon on the overnight train to Transylvania, where we will spend the remainder of our summer trip at home with family. Tennis courts here I come. Home cooking and long naps and Hungarian lessons and afternoons writing and spending time with friends, here I come. Summer is good, very good. Never mind that when we return to the real world, we still need to find an apartment in a new city halfway across the country and start an entirely new era in our lives. There will be time to worry about all that after vacation.

Transition

Function: noun

1 a : passage from one state, stage, subject, or place to another : CHANGE b : a movement, development, or evolution from one form, stage, or style to another

2 a : a musical modulation b : a musical passage leading from one section of a piece to another

3 : an abrupt change in energy state or level (as of an atomic nucleus or a molecule) usually accompanied by loss or gain of a single quantum of energy

This week's personal transition is a number 3 according to Merriam-Webster. Tuesday was my last day of work at my high school, where I taught English to seniors this past year. This is my fourth year at my first high school teaching job (although it was only my third year teaching due to a leave of absence last year). Teaching is a full contact sport. When summer starts, there is an abrupt change from full energy 6 am starts to days that loom with no bells to govern when to eat or move between classes. Suddenly, the abundance of time weighs me down.

My colleagues feted my resignation with flowers and short stacks at a local pancake house before we went to work and finished our packing and grades for the year. I was finished with all my tasks by noon. So I went shopping. I don't enjoy shopping as a habit. Yet it was soothing to buy our household an expensive, razor sharp 8-inch knife. I also bought an oven thermometer for our trip to Transylvania this summer, where I hope to conjure American chocolate chip cookies from a gas stove. I dropped into a salon and treated myself to an impromptu pedicure. My toes are now buffed and bearing a shade called something like "A Taste of India." Then I was home by three o'clock with NOTHING to do. My husband wouldn't be home for hours. The house was clean. Oprah was a rerun.

So I ate a pint of Ben & Jerry's and fell into a three-hour coma with the soft blare of the television on the edge of my dreamless sleep.

Currently I am still in a state of loss. One negative quantum.

I do have many tasks to accomplish: writing, editing my book, finding an apartment in Boston, cleaning my toilet, responding to all those wonderful emails I never have time to fully address, visiting the doctor to diagnose the weird lump in my arm (he told me to come back in two weeks), feeling guilty about not working out, picking up the dry cleaning, hanging my new painting, "ism" by Scott Hatt (my very first painting!), playing tennis with my husband, reading the stacks of books that have been patiently waiting for me for months, etc. It will take a gain in quantum energy to transition into this new summer self.

I have temporarily banned Ben & Jerry's from our household.

In the meantime, my new kitchen knife slices through red bell peppers and broccoli with barely a shrug of my shoulder, no wrist action needed at all. What is more risky in times of abrupt change? Ben & Jerry's or a new kitchen knife? At least I'll be getting my daily dose of fresh vegetables.

Guest Writer: Lovella Kelley

The following piece is from my first guest writer, Lovella Kelley, who also happens to be my mother. Enjoy!

SELL MY UNDERWEAR?

I recently received one of those pass-it-on surveys by way of cyberspace and one of the questions was: What are you most afraid of? (For some reason, I actually did not delete this one as I usually do with all those chain letter things) The answer to that is- I am afraid that someone will sell my underwear in an estate sale after I die. Now, with a statement like this, you need to look at the bottom line. Actually, though this seems rather surface, there is much to be said about the bottom line. The bottom line is- I don’t want to get old and die, at least not for a long time. At 64, it is always a mystery about how long that time will be.

A few years ago, we had a neighbor whom we were really fond of. She was lively, generous, and fun to be around. When she died, we had already moved from the neighborhood. Her husband lived a year or so longer and then he died and guess what? The heirs (they had no children) had an estate sale. I went. My friend was someone special. When I saw, laid out on tables, gifts that I had given her and things that meant so much to her, with an ambiguous price tag, I felt sick. Is this estate sale all that is left? Someone sorting through your life and putting a price on each item? Selling your most precious things in life on a long, narrow table with unknown greedy people picking away for the best price for what, let’s face it, is mostly junk to anyone other than the owner, was to me very sad. Not only that, when not everything sells, they run a hot sale and put all you can get in a bag for one dollar.

I look around my home and see things that are wonderful memories of living: love, travel, history, and a great life with lots of family and friends and I wonder what to do. A family member says get rid of all that stuff, you don’t need it. I actually enjoy looking at reminders of other days and other times, and I am not dead yet, which means I continue to enjoy just looking at them and remembering who gave me the blue dolphin and the Nutcracker and the old chiming clock on the mantle. Sometimes I think they are pleasurable to look at even with a layer of dust on them. That tends to remind me that I do not have to dust them any more to enjoy their presence.

And so, do I spend my last years sorting and getting rid of my JUNK that I enjoy or do I just dump it all because I don’t need it and, after all, I am going to die sometime and then who does what with what? I contend that I do need it. I do understand that there are some who don’t want or need reminders of other days sitting around the house. When (hopefully, if) I have to move from my home into a single room at some nursing care facility, it is time enough to dump. The same family member says to that, The kids will have to sort it all out. Well, maybe so, but I think that is part of giving up a loved one and moving on without them. Maybe I will sort and label and say, dump this, treasure this. At least, that will make their chore a little easier. Maybe something in my treasures that means a lot to me will also mean something to someone else in my large extended family. If my junk is sorted and labeled, I can continue to enjoy the things I treasure while I put the sorted things into boxes to save for someone else. For instance, due to enlarged knuckles and other physical ailments, I don’t use much of the jewelry I have accumulated over these many years. I have given some away already to be enjoyed. Last week, I went through it piece by piece, put it all into little bags, and stored it on a shelf for my family to enjoy picking out the things they have treasured with me- in due time, of course.. The next morning, I was in the ER with an erratic very rapid heart beat. Now, I am thinking, all that sorting and making decisions is enough to do me in for good even sooner than I ever anticipated. In which case, sorting and labeling becomes a moot issue.

If no one wants what is left after I sort, dump, and die, please just give it away or throw it in the trash. But don’t put a price tag on my memories. And do not put my underwear on a long, narrow table with a price on it. Actually, most of it probably won’t fit anyone else anyway (not to mention there may be holes in most of them) and my undies are not desirable since the modern day thong (we used that word in reference to what is now foot covering called flip-flops) undies are not part of my wardrobe. Victoria’s Secret never fit me so well. So there! You can’t sell my underwear because it is old-fashioned and if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your shopping days! Oh, by the way, you don’t have to look in my socks or old envelopes or books or underwear drawers for hidden money or other treasures. It would have been too easy to forget where it was. I have it all in a nice bankbook that I can keep track of it and remember where I have put it, usually. And everything else is sorted and labeled! One more thing, it is forbidden to include my 1960 picture with my obit!

Back in the Back Bay

I arrived in Boston late last night and hit the road this morning on a hunt for the perfect apartment--which is determined by a combination of gut emotional response (see the elegant Japanese screen! The granite counter tops are so shiny!) and geographical calculations--proximity to T stops and grocery stores. Thus far I am a little bit in love with a place near Coolidge Corner. But I have been know to be fickle. I do like my real estate agents--can we be friends later? Or is that just awkward?

I suppose we should rent a place now that our perfect house in South Bend has sold or at least the sale is pending. Real Estate makes abstract decisions real, really real. Let's Move to Boston! becomes OH! There goes our bungalow to strangers! (who, at least, are desperately in love and she is an architect).

The school year is mostly finished--my senior English students finished two days earlier than the underclassman. We said our goodbyes. I got a few handwritten thank you notes, one or two "See ya later and oh yeah, Thanks" and one heartfelt sought-me-out to say goodbye. Mostly they checked out months ago--somewhere after prom or their senior project presentations. We have two more professional days next week with meetings and time to clean out our desks and tear down classroom posters. How do I feel about the end of my career at my first high school teaching job? Mixed. Summer is always good; knowing that I won't return is not so good. Not knowing what is next....more teaching, scholarly work, fiction writing, tiny tots.....requires deep breathing and self-permission to indulge in a berry berry muffin with my afternoon tea.

(The guy next to me in the cafe is named Suzanne and he is expounding about why zebras were never domesticated. Apparently they are quite vicious. There you go.)

Tomorrow is another day hitting the streets for an apartment. Then I fly home in time for our Saturday trip to the Farmers Market (where does the apostrophe go? they don't use one, I swear). Sunday is high school graduation. Monday back to work. Tuesday will be a half day at work. Then official summer. Time to write!

Writerly Quote of the Day

"Sit down, and put down everything that comes into your head and then you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it."

--Colette

Read any good books?

Check out the reading recommendations for their recent favorites by these authors (see strangely disembodied floating heads above) and many more (including Stephen King and Elizabeth Gilbert among others) from the New York Times Sunday Book Review:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/03/books/review/Survey-t.html#


Pictured above from top left, Nora Ephron, Dave Eggers,
Ursula K. Le Guin, Jonathan Safran Foer,
Edwidge Danticat, Gary Shteyngart, Kathryn Harrison, Jeffrey Eugenides.

Swan Lake

A scene from a Chinese version of "Swan Lake," by the Guangdong Military Acrobatic Troupe, featuring Wu Zhengdan and Wei Baohua.

An amazing 48 seconds.

http://video.on.nytimes.com/?fr_story=3f5112778b7fa7051ee5b20dd6b0aecb7164037f

15 Sentence Portrait

Starlight White

We had been sitting on the unforgiving plank seat of the picnic table for a heart-to-heart when my dad scooped me up and held me, my spindly spine drawing a neat line down his chest. The dusk light turned my fingertips faintly yellow, the color of pollen too stubborn to be washed off in the bath. My stomach was a hard chasm and my throat thick with the warm milk that was supposed to have put me to sleep. Tomorrow was the first day of school and my fingers flexed like a basketball player miming a free-throw shot, ready and nervous to press my freshly sharpened pencils into the mysterious shapes of the ABCs.

All summer I had waited, planned, and dreamed about tomorrow, but not any tomorrow, tomorrow’s tomorrow: it was the evening before my first day of kindergarten at Prairie Hills elementary school. I had to ride the bus alone. My red and black backpack was packed with Big Chief paper and a box of tissues for the classroom. I wanted to be new like my new supplies, a brand new grown up girl instead of the little girl who stayed at home with her mother while the big kids went to school.

My dad pointed toward the lights at the edge of the prairie grass. We watched the fireflies flit freely near the lawn’s limit. My Dad, who must have sat here with his other three daughters and maybe even my brother, breathed gently into my ear. The taste of mint lingered in the air as I absentmindedly ran my tongue across my freshly scrubbed teeth. The stars were cool pinpricks behind my eyes.

Dad told me, “Just scream them out.” My little-girl lips opened wide in a high pitched scream and as the butterfly wings raced toward the stars, soft traces of their wings gathered in the creases of my smile—the starlight white smile I would give the next morning for my new teacher, Mrs. Drew.

(with thanks to Ms.Nic.)

Ted Kooser and Me

Ted Kooser
(click on image to enlarge)

Last night we managed to find our way to the Dowagiac Fine Arts Festival to listen to Ted Kooser read his poems. We were running late, of course. It was only our second trip to Dowagiac and we were unsure of the way. Luckily we had my new favorite toy: a gps device. It shows and tells you where to go. I love pushing its buttons. L. finally had to suggest I might want to enjoy the lovely scenery instead of the virtual fields and lakes.

We had tickets dead center and about halfway back from the podium in the quite posh Dowagiac Central Middle School. Junior High never looked so good.

Ted Kooser turns me on. Wait. Ted Kooser's poetry turns me on. But it is him too. His softly angled face full of stories, ready for a joke, eyes and hands eager to get outside with his notebook calms me into a readiness to gaze into his poems and wait for the pressure of his elegant verse to set off little explosions under my skin.

He is one of those poets who have that power to compel me to pay attention. To observe. To listen. He is not flashy or aggressive. He doesn't demand attention. I just find myself turned inside out when listening to his poems. If he asked me about my deepest secrets, I would tell him with comfort. One of those types.

I am sure not everyone feels this way about Ted. But maybe not.

Maybe it is because I am from Kansas and he is from Nebraska.

L. and I were two of the youngest audience members in the sizable crowd. What an honor. What a shame that more young people (by young, I am thinking 40 or under) didn't come out to hear these words simply spoken with such delight and power.

He read two of my favorites "Beaded Purse" and "Tattoo." I heard "A Washing of Hands" in a new way. He also read a poem about a couple splitting a roast beef sandwich. I can't find it in my copy of "Delights and Shadows", his 2004 book of poems. I want a copy of that poem. Please let me know if you know it.

He read one poem that he had composed that morning. It was a portrait or "snapshot" poem he had written called "Will Work for Food" and depicted a person living in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Kooser makes it his habit to write every morning from 4:30 - 7:00. For something like 30 years he sold insurance and had to find a time to write. After serving as poet laureate of the United States two times, he nevertheless maintains his morning writing routine.

Kooser's poetry starts in observation. He sees insects. He sees his wife washing her hands. He sees stories. He sees humor and pathos. He sees strangers. His poetry does not start in the depths of the Bodleian stacks tangled in linguistic theory. You do not need to read Dante in the original or be able to define "trochaic" to understand and find pleasure in his words. You do not need a PhD. You need to be human. You would be surprised that many are unsure about how to meet this qualification.

Ted Kooser’s poems give me pleasure. They don’t stretch my vocabulary or sting my political correctness. They don’t spur me on to political revolution or social activism. They make me aware of the delicate pleasure of being alive and call me to see the world, really see it. This is a welcome reminder for a girl who gives into the tempation of pushing buttons on a tiny handheld gps device screen instead if seeing the landscape in front of her eyes.

A few Kooser poems:

Selecting A Reader

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.



Tattoo

What once was meant to be a statement—
a dripping dagger held in the fist
of a shuddering heart—is now just a bruise
on a bony old shoulder, the spot
where vanity once punched him hard
and the ache lingered on. He looks like
someone you had to reckon with,
strong as a stallion, fast and ornery,
but on this chilly morning, as he walks
between the tables at a yard sale
with the sleeves of his tight black T-shirt
rolled up to show us who he was,
he is only another old man, picking up
broken tools and putting them back,
his heart gone soft and blue with stories.

Links:

Ted Kooser's Official Site:
http://www.tedkooser.com/

A list of his published works:

http://www.tedkooser.com/works.html

Weekly Column: American Life in Poetry:

http://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/

Malcolm Gladwell: What we can learn from spaghetti sauce

No, Really, It Was Tough: 4 People, 80 Martinis

All you need to know about the Martini and how to pick your gin:

Spirits of The Times

No, Really, It Was Tough: 4 People, 80 Martinis

By ERIC ASIMOV

Published: May 2, 2007

The Times tasting panel sorts out which gins produce classic martinis, which add welcome nuances and which really ought to seek another line of cocktail.

Pilobolus: A Performance Merging Dance and Biology

http://www.ted.com/talks/pilobolus_perform_symbiosis

Married Thoughts

I thought my mother had taken a first step on the long road toward senility. She emailed a few days ago and then followed up with a call to congratulate me on the first anniversary of my marriage. I was sure that this milestone was April 28th.

A few weeks ago it occurred to me that I still had not completed the dinnerware set on my wedding registry. We had received five settings and I had been taking my sweet time to contemplate whether or not to complete the set or....that was the problem, what was I supposed to do with only five settings? I thought that I had one year to fulfill our registry and receive a 10% discount.

At a certain moment in the past month my brain convinced itself that I still had weeks to make the final porcelain plunge--a sizable chunk of change. April 28th sounded right, felt right. I knew we had the wedding at the end of April.

My husband of now a year plus had publicly declared at the moment we set the date for our wedding that our anniversary would be celebrated on Easter each year. This from a man who proposed on New Year's Eve for obvious economy of memory. Of course I am having none of his desire to conflate public and private party excuses. Perhaps his insistence on Easter as our anniversary warped my own memory.

It didn't help that I picked out and purchased a new necklace for myself in honor of our anniversary three (long) weeks ago while in Budapest. I had the nice lady gift wrap it, of course.

I read my mother's email fully convinced that she had jumped the gun. When she called on the afternoon of the 21st, I politely if bemusedly thanked her for her sincere well-wishes.

A few hours later, as I was sorting bills, I impulsively riffled through my papers and consulted our marriage certificate. There it was: April 21st. I had forgotten the date of my FIRST wedding anniversary.

I decided to have a cup of coffee to contemplate the situation. Midcup I realized that my 10% wedding registry discount was on the line. After several calls, it was determined that the discount was valid for six months only after all. So I am stranded with five place settings. The good news is that they keep wedding registries active forever to better assist you in the pursuit of your wedding dinnerware dreams.

What to conclude? I forgot the date of our wedding nary a year after the event. The only possible conclusion is this: we celebrate our marriage every day and so the official calendar date was clearly anticlimactic. He did bring home roses. And we did pop open a bottle of bubbly and use our wedding flutes. But I had on my sweatpants. And we were in bed, asleep by ten pm.

One year wed, but nearly ten years of shared lives and mutually forgotten anniversaries. A good start.

Looking for the Next Big Thing

Here is is the online version of Notre Dame Magazine's
profile of Prof. Barabasi.

http://www.nd.edu/~ndmag/sp2007/keiger.html

Enjoy!

Writerly Quotes of the Day

"People's dreams are made out of what they do all day. The same way a dog that runs after rabbits will dream of rabbits. It's what you do that makes your soul, not the other way around."

--Barbara Kingsolver



"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

--J.K. Rowling

Kafka on the Shore--What do YOU think?

The flight home was uneventful except for the lackluster food on the plane, which was an unfortunate event. On the plane ride I finished re-reading Kafka on the Shore for this month's book club. It is my selection and so I am in charge of the discussion. If you have read it, leave a comment on on this entry for our group to ponder. I am sure that you must have a reaction to its strange world of talking cats and time-dream travel, not to mention steaming udon noodles and bleeding (cat) hearts.

Friday Night in Budapest

Fish Soup at our favorite little place. Tram to the MU Theater. T.E.S.T--a modern dance performed by seven women. The Tram in the wrong direction. A spontaneous choice to get off and go to the New York Cafe, which was recently remodeled. It is stunning--all gilded walls and smart waiters. Our two cakes were priced to match the decor, probably the most expensive cakes in Budapest. But they were very, very good. And the delicous news is that this cafe is open until midnight, filling a crucial time slot for those late night cake cravings. (See the below description from http://www.talkingcities.co.uk.)

Today: Lunch with friends. Dinner with friends. Tomorrow we fly out before the crack of dawn. Back to the States. Back to work. Alas.

New York Café (New York Kávéház)

VII. Erzsébet körút 9-11
Previously shrouded under scaffolding and a dirty black exterior, visitors 'not in the know' would simply pass by the New York Kávéház without discovering the wonderfully lavish neo-Baroque interior of this late 19th-century building. Unfortunately, the café, which was once the haunt of Budapest's most famous poets and playwrights, was rammed unceremoniously by a Russian tank during the 1956 uprising (it also suffered significant bomb damage during WWII). Until recently the resultant structural damage was deemed too costly to repair.

All that changed, however, following the acquisition of the New York Palace (in which the café is housed) by Italian hotel group Boscolo. Having spent in excess of 8 Billion HUF on restoration work alone, the building has now been transformed into a luxury 235 room, five star hotel.

Budapest Art and Dance

Strange that I ruminated about "home" and postmodernism the day before yesterday because yesterday was spent in the Ludwig Muzeum and at the Trafo where identity and belonging got the once over by some of the youngest, brightest new artists. Duchamp, oh Duchamp. Would you be proud of your progeny?

K. and I made our way to the Ludwig Muzeum to see the current exhibition called Hataratlepesek or "Crossing Frontiers." As I have written before, I am unconvinced, worse, unmoved by video installations. The most effective artist was Oleg Kulik, who will haunt my dreams. He uses photos and video "to show a symbiosis between man and dog." They eat watermelon together. They play in the fields. They read books. They make love. Yes, oh yes. In full photographic realism. Seriously, I can't get it out of my head. And I am not talking about a cute little puppy.

A cake to steal my nerves at 5:30 and then we were off to the Trafo for a modern dance event. They were showcasing four new choreographers. We stayed for the first two and then went in search of becsiszelet (wiener schnitzel). I would have stayed, but our two guests had had enough. Ouch. If you are in town, catch an event at the Trafo--one of my enduring favorite scenes for modern dance and people watching.

Then it was off on a hunt for a cake shop that was still open past 11:00. We stepped in two or three but nothing felt right. We we headed back to Szent Jupat for turogomboc--huge bready balls of sweet puffy cream-of-wheat, covered in sweetened bread crumbs, drenched in a sour cream sauce, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Seriously. Usually this dessert is a huge flop. But at Szent Jupat, it is a divine thing. Trust me.

Another Day in Budapest

It was an overcast day yesterday. After a slow food lunch--arugula salad with Parmesanand walnutsfor me and rabbit with paprikas for my two lunch companions, we strolled the city streets. A shop here. The new Apple store. A shoe store. A store devoted to selling those machines that make coffee from those new pods. An art gallery or three. We made our way to my favorite tea shop, 1,000 Teas.

Since my last visit here (maybe more than a year ago) they have entirely renovated. It is still divine. We sat on low cushions. L. had a brief nap. I threw caution to the wind and had a strong Turkish tea with heavy doses of raw sugar crystals. We smoked my first waterpipe, which felt definitely exotic and even slightly illegal. Of course, ala Clinton, I don't inhale. In fact, I am abashed to say that I am constitutionally incapable, thank goodness. Not to mention that my body (thankfully) has no reaction to nicotine. A waterpipe sucks the smoke down into steam before you suck it into your mouth. Very steamy. Loads of hilarious pictures.

After the tea and smoke, we headed to the theater to see Lefele a hegyrol by Arthur Miller. We sat in the front row. L. and I had to move our legs each time an actor crossed the stage. It was a wonderful play skillfully acted. I have no idea what the English title of the play is. But the story involved a Lyman Felt who has two wives. A tricky situation. I loved that on occasion I would catch myself NOT translating and just enjoying the action.

Theater for the brain needs food for the gullet. We headed out thinking that we would haunt one of our favorite bars, the Castro, a Szerb place, on Raday utca about a thirty minute walk. Not a half block from the theater, there it was: the Castro. Since our last trip here the Castro had lost its lease and moved next to the theater! No tourists here. Just important cheap haircuts, scarves, and cigarettes all a dangle during intense conversations about who knows what.

Buda Castle

Overhead:

An American strapped down by camera straps and geared up with sensible shoes and windbreaker, points to the Matyas Templon (the St. Matthew's Church) and asks a passing Hungarian, "Is this the castle?"

The Castle is not a castle. It is a castle region. There are walls. There are many building inside these walls. The church has a spire and looks Gothic enough. But the castle is not one building. It is more than one place at once.

We live just below the castle in a residence established for scholars who are fellows of the Collegium Budapest, which is in the castle. There are about 100,000,003 steps between our apartment door and the Collegium. Luckily the Ruszurm Cafe is next door to the Collegium for a quick cake and espresso to recover from all those stairs.

Last night we were the guests of the Collegium for a special wine dinner. 2 starters, 1 main course, 2 desserts and 8 wines. I tasted each of the wines. Which was the best? Always the previous one, of course!

Yesterday I was going to do so many things, but then: I slept till noon, sweet J. it was a kind of heaven with the birds in the courtyard and no alarm clocks, no place to go, nothing I had to do. Then it was reading/writing till 4. A cake at the Ruszurm and off to the Pest side of Budapest to find our theater tickets for tonight. I had time on my hands before dinner and so I stopped at the Promod on Vaci street and bought some sweaters--very chic--to combat the spring chill. It is one of my favorite chain stores (French, I think). Today I do hope to hit some of the tiny boutiques with Hungarian designers.

I wore one of my new sweaters to dinner. There I learned among other things that growing up in Hungary as a little boy after WW II created a postmodern sense of displacement very different from the sense of homelessness I know from the culture of the States. In the States (beware huge generalization) there is a lack of connection, a restlessness, that drives people to move and reroot themselves over and over, looking for that intangible sense of "home." But if you grew up in a country that took turns accepting and then exiling you, your sense of restlessness and at-home-ness (or lack thereof) is a direct product of your home. In any case, both can produce a person who feels more at home in a foreign land. Or is this the result of culture consciousness? Once you KNOW the formula: sour cream, paprika, onion, beef---can you still relish it? Once you know there are formulae, can you ever be happy knowing that you have chosen one formula? Can you choose more than one and not be trapped in a dual reality?

After dinner we took our friend on a stroll around the Castle grounds. The views are breathtaking. If you visit Budapest, you must walk around the castle district at night. All the buildings gleam with luminous stone. The Parliament across the Danube is a delicate wedding cake in stone. Beware midnight: all the monuments go dark.

Today: A morning at home writing. An afternoon that starts with a lazy lunch at the Ket Szerecsen restaurant near the Liszt Ferenc ter (who we learned last night was NOT Hungarian). Wandering about the city center. Tonight: An Arthur Miller play in Hungarian, which might be beyond my reach, but will give me plenty of time to sit and ponder postmodern thoughts.

Budapest Blog of note: http://www.budapestdailyphoto.com/

Budapest Sounds and Sights

As I did my city-walk (leather bag across my shoulder, purposeful stride) down Andrassy street looking for the ticket office, it happened: a Hungarian asked me directions. I gave directions. Read: someone mistook me for a native. Alas, I am sure the minute I opened my mouth they knew my distinctly non-native accent. But.

***

Shortly thereafter a woman, who appeared "normal", started to beg in Hungarian. I told her that I don't speak Hungarian (in Hungarian), but she was undeterred. She explained that she was Romanian and had two children (in Hungarian) and. . .I said, I'm sorry, I'm sorry (in Hungarian) and kept city-walking.

***

Then I remembered that I hadn't mentioned that Sunday night we spent at the Szepmuveszeti (sp?) Museum for the last night of the Van Gogh exhibit. We waited in the chilly air until nearly 11 pm and made it through the line in time to enjoy the exhibit before it closed at midnight. It was crammed with other Van Gogh fans. The lights were dim. I loved the blue irises--there is a reason it was on the information pamphlet, a crowd pleaser. The exhibit was a traveling show that consisted mainly of studies rather than major works. For the record, he only sold ONE painting in his life. Note to self.

***

Tonight we saw a play called Mesel a Becsi Erdo by Odon Von Horvath. Luckily the language was not to poetic or stylized for me to follow. I love listening to actors speak Hungarian--they use body language, they articulate, they act the language. The play was was in the studio theater of the newly built Nemzeti Theater (National Theater). The building is an act of theater, which I believe is a kind way of saying that you should see it for yourself and form your own impression/interpretation. Not much to mention about the play itself, although the sets were quite unobtrusive. And an espresso at the break made the second half quite lively.

***

Tomorrow (Tuesday) L. has meetings and I have a free day! I plan to work on my novel. Drink tea. Shop at the boutiques. Etc. Vacation is good. Very.

Budding Budapest

There are a few early bloomers, but most trees are still staunchly bare despite the greening lawns at their feet. Despite the lack of buds, the spring air is fresh and the city streets lined with half open jackets and scarves pulled loose. We are in Budapest for spring break this week.

The flight here was more brutal than usual, perhaps due to the sleep deficiency we carried with us from a long night of partying to celebrate a 40th birthday. After my nap this afternoon, however, I am ready to hit the streets below fanning down to the Danube and across into Pest. My mission: go and find a ticket office and buy seats for two for the theater tonight. Already my head hurts from my broken Hungarian. And now a two-hour stint sitting sans translator in a theater. It is good for my brain, I hope.

Already we have nibbled on cakes and biscuits at the Ruszwurm Cafe (I think L. was the only Hungarian not behind the cake cabinet). I have had my token cappuccino at my favorite coffee place near the Mammut shopping center. I had creamed celery soup for dinner. We attended a family birthday party where we held babies, ate meat stuffed with salami, and I retired for a ten minute nap that lasted an hour and a half. The beggar on the street was too drunk to hold out his hand as I passed by on my way to read. I reread a few chapters from "The Things They Carried" by O'Brien in the afternoon sun in Millenaris Park, where the young people also dress aggresively in black and talk loudly. I ate salami and loved it.

And it is only Monday.

Writerly Quote of the Day

"Life can't ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer's lover until death -- fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant."

--Edna Ferber

Kristoff Offers Trip Opportunity for College Students and Schoolteachers

March 11, 2007 Op-Ed Columnist
New York Times
Win a Trip, and See a Different World
By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF

Cast your eyes above and meet Hidaya Abatemam, whom I met last month in a remote area of southern Ethiopia. She is 6 years old and weighs 17 pounds.

Hidaya was starved nearly to death and may well have suffered permanent mental impairment, helping to trap her — and her own children, if she lives that long — in another generation of poverty.

Yet maybe the more interesting question is not why Hidaya is starving but why the world continues to allow 30,000 children like her to die each day of poverty.

Ultimately what is killing girls like her isn’t precisely malnutrition or malaria, but indifference. And that, in turn, arises from our insularity, our inexperience in traveling and living in poor countries, so that we have difficulty empathizing with people like Hidaya.

I often hear comments from readers like: “It’s tragic over there, but we’ve got our own problems that we have to solve first.” Nobody who has held the hand of a starving African child could be that dismissive.

That lack of firsthand experience abroad also helps explain why we are so awful at foreign policy: we just don’t “get” how our actions will be perceived abroad, so time and again — in Vietnam, China, Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Afghanistan and Latin America — we end up clumsily empowering our enemies.

Part of the problem is that American universities do an execrable job preparing students for global citizenship. A majority of the world’s population lives on less than $2 a day, but the vast majority of American students graduate without ever gaining any insight into how that global majority lives.

According to a Roper/National Geographic poll, 38 percent of Americans aged 18 to 24 consider speaking another language to be “not too important.” Sixty-three percent of those young Americans can’t find Iraq on a map of the Middle East. And 89 percent don’t correspond regularly with anyone outside the U.S.

A survey cited by the Modern Language Association found that only 9 percent of American college students enroll in a foreign language class.

Let’s face it: We’re provincial.

That’s one reason that I always exhort college students to take a “gap year” and roam the world, or at least to take a summer or semester abroad — and spend it not in Paris or London, but traveling through Chinese or African villages. Universities should give course credit for such experiences — and offer extra credit for students who catch intestinal worms.

So I’m now putting my company’s money where my mouth is. On Tuesday, in partnership with MySpace.com, The New York Times and I will announce a second annual “win a trip” contest to choose a university student to travel with me on a reporting trip to Africa. And this year, in addition to a student, I’ll choose a schoolteacher — from a middle school or high school — to accompany me as well. We'll probably travel together to Rwanda, Burundi and Congo.

Last year I chose a young woman from Mississippi, Casey Parks, and we traveled together through central Africa. Casey and I saw malnourished children just like Hidaya, and visited burned-out villages in areas of the Central African Republic that had been caught up in the furies of the spreading Darfur genocide. Pygmy trackers led us through the jungle to see gorillas and elephants, and we managed to be held up at gunpoint by bandits.

In Cameroon, we interviewed a doctor about maternal mortality — and then found a woman named Prudence, a mother of three, dying in the next room. A dead fetus was decomposing inside her, setting off a raging infection, but the doctor didn’t care about her. And so she died. You can know intellectually that half a million women die in pregnancy each year, but it’s still shattering to see a woman die so unnecessarily in front of you.

If you win the trip, you won’t be practicing tourism, but journalism. You’ll blog and prepare videos for the New York Times and MySpace Web sites. I’m betting that you’ll be able to connect with young readers and viewers — and galvanize them to care about these issues — in a way that I can’t.

So please spread the word about the contest. Rules and applications will be posted Tuesday [March 13] at www.nytimes.com/winatrip and at www.myspace.com/kristofontheground.

And for those who apply but don’t win, go anyway on your own. You’ll learn more than you ever would from an equivalent period in the classroom. And you’ll gain not only the occasional intestinal parasite but also an understanding of why we should fight to save children like Hidaya.

To read the original article online at the New York Times, visit
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/11/opinion/11kristof.html

Jane Fonda to Speak at YWCA in South Bend

Jane Fonda to speak at YWCA luncheon

Tickets available in advance

Tribune Staff Report

SOUTH BEND - Actress Jane Fonda, an activist in environmental and human rights, will be the keynote speaker at the YWCA of St. Joseph County’s “Tribute to Women” luncheon this year.

The event will be from 11:30 a.m. to 1 p.m. May 3 in Century Center - the same day her latest film, “Georgia Rule,” is scheduled to debut.

Fonda gained attention for defiance of the Vietnam War while she was in the midst of a successful movie career. She won Oscars and an Emmy award. Her films include “The China Syndrome,” “Nine to Five” and “On Golden Pond.”

Turning 70 this year, Fonda has directed her energy to the Georgia Campaign for Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention. In 2000, she traveled to Nigeria and produced a film in collaboration with the International Women’s Health Coalition, titled “Generation 2000: Changing Girls’ Realities.”

Among other efforts, she founded Greenstone, a women’s talk radio network that is owned by women.

Tickets to the luncheon cost $50 in advance. To order, call Katy Beach at (574) 233-9491, ext. 316.

South Bend Tribune Story

Studio Arts Center Gallery Openings

Opening Reception for
Studio Arts Center's

Gallery 805
Ruth Andrews- current works in her ongoing series of comic book based drawings
Beau Bilenki - Mixed media: 2D and 3D pieces In the Woods series

Studio 807
Robert Williams - Faces & Places paintings and sculptures

Studio 815
Annual exhibit by the members of the
Northern Indiana Pastel Society

Thursday, March 8
7 pm to 9 pm

The evening will also feature
University of Notre Dame Students in
Performance Art: History, Theory, Practice
Human Art Work
Still lives representing the students' recent research into identity as performance.
Information about the personae the students have been periodically assuming in public will be available at the exhibit.

For more information:
www.studioartscenter.org

Studio Arts Center
805/807/815 Lincoln Way West
South Bend, IN 46616
574/288-0160

Brains Behind Talent

Check out the link below that takes you to a short video detailing the brain science behind talent. In this case, the discussion focuses on athletic talent. I am convinced (with no scientific evidence, but nontheless) that it applies to other kinds of learning.

Neuroscientist Doug Fields explains how neural membranes function in developing athletic skills:

http://video.on.nytimes.com/?fr_story=4a86810a4af95d30fc40c55377f7fe6cdea9167d

(I tried to embed this video but couldn't figure out how to lift it from the Times.)

Ted Kooser visits Dowagiac, Michigan

I recently learned that Ted Kooser, former Poet Laureate of the United States, will visit the The Dogwood Festival in Dowagiac, Michigan on May 11th, 2007. The event will take place at 7:30 pm, leaving plenty of time to take in a late dinner and/or drinks at the Wood Fire trattoria in downtown Dowagiac.

Kooser joins an impressive list of past lecturers at the festival, including the likes of Michael Cunningham, Margarat Atwood, Russel Banks, Tim O'Brien, Amy Tan, Norman Mailer, and Kurt Vonnegut.

I heard Kooser read from his work a few years ago and was impressed both by the spare beauty of his work and his low-key, dignified reading style. You will have plenty of time to read some of his poems before the event. I most most familiar with Delights and Shadows and can recommend it.

Tickets are required and cost between $20 and $60. For more information visit The Dogwood Festival website at http://www.dogwoodfinearts.org/.

Here is one of my favorite poems by Kooser:

Tattoo

What once was meant to be a statement—
a dripping dagger held in the fist
of a shuddering heart—is now just a bruise
on a bony old shoulder, the spot
where vanity once punched him hard
and the ache lingered on. He looks like
someone you had to reckon with,
strong as a stallion, fast and ornery,
but on this chilly morning, as he walks
between the tables at a yard sale
with the sleeves of his tight black T-shirt
rolled up to show us who he was,
he is only another old man, picking up
broken tools and putting them back,
his heart gone soft and blue with stories.

Gypsy Wedding Music

Something to warm you up this February:

A gypsy wedding celebration where the groom has to down a few gallons of palinka (homemade liquor) at the end. (They sing in Hungarian.)

Dave Eggers and "What is the What"

Thursday night L. and I attended the culminating event in Notre Dame’s 40^th annual literary festival. The featured author was Dave Eggers, author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, his memoir (see link below for an extensive list of all his publications). Eggers recently completed a new project that chronicles the life of Valentino Achak Deng, who emigrated with the wave of “Lost Boys” from Sudan.

Eggers was warmly introduced and began his lecture with a flurry of microphone adjustments and a shuffle of papers. After briefly reading from his new work, titled What is the What, and introducing us to his fictional version of Valentino, he introduced us to the real Valentino. If it had been previously announced that both the author and his subject would lecture, I hadn’t been aware of it. It would prove to be a powerful presentation. I went into the lecture mildly curious about Eggers. I emerged with an awakened consciousness (and a commitment to buy his new book).

Several years ago Eggers was invited to meet Valentino, who had decided that his goal was to write a book about his experiences. In the beginning it wasn’t clear if Eggers would help Valentino compose his own memoir or perhaps serve as his scribe. In the end, something brand new was formed. Eggers listened to Valentino’s story—his 800-mile trek with a flock of children from Sudan to Kenya, Valentino’s childhood confrontation with death and violence, the constant concern about the fate of his family left behind in a burning village. Eggers listened, time passed, and their friendship deepened. Eventually trust moved the two men beyond the stark tragedy and allowed them to uncover the profound humanity and tenderness that Valentino experienced despite the inexorable reality of violence that colored his coming-of-age.

Eggers listened and made a crucial realization: he couldn’t write Valentino’s story in the third person. He needed to tell the truth about Valentino. And to tell the truth, he needed to use the tool of fiction. So, after gaining Valentino’s consent, he wrote Valentino’s memoir as fiction, telling his story using a first person narrator. He became Valentino. The readers, in turn, are invited to become Valentino. By living through the terror and injustice of Southern Sudan, we can move beyond an intellectual discussion of totalitarian states and genocides. We bypass the head entirely. We live like Valentino, all heart. Eggers doesn’t go maudlin on us. Valentino’s heart is his organ of survival and decision-making. Think blood, hot and quick in fear, or thin from hunger. Think of a little boy whose heart pumped day after day despite being attacked on all fronts.

It was a powerful presentation. I was already impressed by Eggers writing and his social justice work. I think I am a little bit in love with him too—you will know what I mean if you hear him speak.

And the best news—this really gets my social justice, English teacher blood flowing—all the proceeds from the book go to Valentino’s foundation. He plans to rebuild his village in Sudan and provide college scholarships for other Sudanese immigrants.

Consider this is a strong recommendation to buy a book that I have not yet read.

The Valentino Achak Deng Foundation
849 Valencia St.
San Francisco, CA 94110

For more information, visit valentinoachackdeng.com

Dave Eggers' Biography and List of Books

Writerly Quote of the Day

"Storytelling reveals meaning
without committing the error of defining it."

--Hannah Arendt