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

Read Some of My Stuff at Gather.com

I just happened to have a 70,000 word manuscript haunting my every free moment. So I entered a novel competition thing, kind of an American Idol for authors at Gather.com as mentioned in Write Now: American Idol for Authors. (I blush.) When you need to revise, you can either clean the toilet or splash your literary innards online. The toilet already sparkles. So. Go see my first chapter. You can read other manuscripts. Vote for me. Or not.

Warning: they messed up my formatting. I have little vignettes within the chapter with titles, but the titles are not in bold (as they should be); and my numbered list appears sans numbers. Oh well. The whole manuscript is still very in-the-rough. Now the world can see it.

http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474976903485

You can read the submission by clicking on the above link. If you want to rate my submission, you have to join Gather.com (free and easy).

UPDATE: The link to my chapter is dead. The contest posts each entry for two weeks of voting and my two weeks have passed!

Dave Eggers in South Bend for Notre Dame Literary Festival

Dave Eggers, author of the best selling memoir "Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius," will be in town for Notre Dame's literary festival. He is scheduled to speak on Thursday, February 8th, 8 pm in Room 101, DeBartolo Hall. The event is free and open to the public.

While his memoir was overhyped for me, his other literary and social ventures have earned him my respect and admiration. (He founded McSweeney's. Check out the link in my sidebar.) His newest book, "What is the What," is fiction that tells the all-too-true story of one of Sudan's Lost Boys. (See review below.)

This is well worth risking your extremities on a cold February night!

Other authors at Notre Dame this week:

Poet Lolita Hernandez, 10:30 am Monday in room 210, McKenna Hall and 8 pm Monday in LaFortune Student Center ballroom

Palestinian poet and playwright Nathalie Handal, 7pm Monday in LaFortune ballroom

Poet Hal Sirowitz, 8 pm Tuesday in the Oak Room, South Dining Hall

Essayist and humorist David Rakoff, 8 pm Wednesday in LaFortune ballroom

Freelance writer Anne Elizabeth Moore, 6:30 pm Thursday in room 129, DeBartolo Hall

Mining the power of fiction Eggers' novel
tells story of a 'Lost Boy' of Sudan

by Bob Thompson

WASHINGTON POST

Here are a few things we can say for sure about Dave Eggers' latest book:

It's not a satire of political correctness in the English department of an elite liberal arts college. No publisher is betting that it will be "the next 'Da Vinci Code.' " Judith Regan had nothing to do with it.

Oh, and it's a safe bet that Eggers didn't consult any marketing types about the title.

He called it "What Is the What."

Which means ...

Well, maybe we should save that for later. Because right now the writer best known for his arrestingly titled memoir "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" is sitting in a newspaper conference room with Valentino Achak Deng, the Sudanese "Lost Boy" whose life story he's undertaken to tell. And he's talking about one thing readers of "What Is the What" can't say for sure: How much is fact and how much is fiction.

Why the line-blurring? The explanation goes like this: Introduced to Deng in early 2003 and deeply engaged by his story, Eggers set out to write a conventional biography. But he kept getting stuck.

"I didn't know how to do it," he says. "I didn't want my own voice in there."

Despairing, he was ready to give the whole thing up. Then it occurred to him that "all the books that we remember about war and about the biggest events of the 20th century are novels." Think of "The Naked and the Dead," "Catch-22" and "all Hemingway's stuff."

More important, think of the ways fictionalizing Deng's story could solve narrative problems. By labeling the book a novel, Eggers says, he freed himself to re-create conversations, streamline complex relationships, add relevant detail and manipulate time and space in helpful ways -- all while maintaining the essential truthfulness of the storytelling.

There was only one hitch.

"I was so afraid to ask Valentino," Eggers says.

Author and subject grin at the memory. Eggers, in a white shirt and a sport coat that's seen better days, is the shorter and more intense-looking of the two. Deng, in a black shirt and jeans, is tall -- as the Dinka people tend to be -- with a warm, gap-toothed smile.

They call each other "Dave" and "Val," but Eggers, who's 36, has had the luxury of keeping the same name all his life. Deng, who's a decade or so younger, has been known as "Achak" (the name his parents gave him), "Valentino" (a baptismal name), "Dominic" (from a teacher in a refugee camp), "Gone Far" (a nickname alluding to his long trek out of war-wracked Sudan) and, most poetically, "Sleeper" -- bestowed by a girl who found him lying in the road one day, half-blind and longing for death.

Here's how Eggers, in Deng's voice, describes the moment:

"I conjured my mother as best I could. I pictured her in yellow, yellow like an evening sun, walking down the path. ... When she came up to me I told her I was too tired to continue, that I would suffer again, and would watch others suffer. ... Then I washed her from my mind. It seemed to me that to die I needed to clear my mind of all thoughts, all visions, and concentrate on passing on."

You look like my dead brother, the girl said. She lifted him up and got him walking again.

Lost Boys is a name attached to thousands of young refugees from the civil war in southern Sudan, which broke out in the mid-1980s and continued until peace was finally negotiated in 2005. "It is not a nickname appreciated by many in our ranks," as Deng the book character puts it, "but it is apt enough."

These days, Deng and the roughly 4,000 other Lost Boys who were resettled in the United States often find themselves confused with victims of more recent savagery in Darfur. But while the atrocities committed by government-backed militiamen have been similar -- "the difference is just the name they're using to describe the militia," he says -- Darfur is in western Sudan. Marial Bai, the hometown from which Deng was driven in fear of his life, is farther south.

His journey began in the mid-'80s, when, as a 6-year-old, he was still young enough "to be weak and melt into his mother's arms." Trouble had been brewing between the African peoples of southern Sudan and the Arab-dominated government in the north. But the boy knew nothing of the complex history behind the conflict.

"I couldn't understand," he says. "There was me in my town, my father was doing well -- why do we want to go to war? No reason."

Reason or no, war came.

Arab militiamen on horseback overran Marial Bai. Deng saw his hometown burned, his friends and neighbors killed or abducted. Not knowing his parents' fate, he fell in with a group of similarly displaced boys. An adult leader set them walking toward Ethiopia, where they were told they would find a haven, despite having no idea what "an Ethiopia" was.

The horrors of that walk cannot be easily summarized.

In "What Is the What," there are scenes of famished boys ripping the flesh off a dead elephant; of a boy dragging a stick as he walked, "making a line in the dirt so he would know his way home"; of land mines, ravening lions and exhausted, starving "sleepers" who gave up and died along the way.

Once across the border, a refugee camp became a recruiting ground. Rebel leaders told the boys, many destined to become child soldiers, that they were "the seeds of a new Sudan." Driven out, eventually, by the Ethiopians, the boys escaped across the Gilo River in a hail of gunfire -- except for those who got shot or were intercepted by crocodiles.

Reaching safety in Kenya, they found themselves trapped in a bleak refugee camp called Kakuma for -- in Deng's case -- 10 years.

How he finally got to the United States is an epic in itself. Being scheduled to fly on Sept. 11, 2001, did not help. Plunked down in Atlanta, he got to know the founder of a nonprofit called the Lost Boys Foundation. Her name was Mary Williams, and she came to view him as an especially articulate spokesman for his Lost Boy peers.

One day, he says, Williams asked about his long-term goals. "I would like to be able to document my story," he told her, "in a written form that generations will have access to."

OK, she said, she'd find somebody to help.

Mary Williams didn't know Dave Eggers, but she'd happened to pick up his memoir once when she needed airplane reading.

"The title was just hilarious," she says.

"A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" is the saga of how, when Eggers was in college, his parents contrived to die of cancer within five weeks of each other, leaving Dave and his sister to raise their 7-year-old brother. The memoir's out-of-nowhere success left Eggers with enough cash to fund a variety of literary and philanthropic projects, among them the tiny independent publishing house McSweeney's and a literary magazine, the Believer, as well as a writing workshop and tutoring center in San Francisco.

Williams read up on Eggers and was impressed. He's "kind of like a Lost Boy himself," she says. So she wrote and asked if he'd like to get involved.

The idea was a long shot. How many name-brand authors would drop everything to tell a Lost Boy's story? But Eggers, as it happened, was already intrigued by the long march of the Sudanese refugees.

So he flew to Atlanta to check things out.

He bonded with Deng right away and began taping interviews. Later, they wangled their way onto a plane delivering aid to Sudan -- "we sat in the cargo hold with the grain and the bicycles and stuff," Eggers says -- to do a little firsthand research. In all, they spent thousands of hours together. It took him that long, he says, "to be able to see through Valentino's eyes."

As for the fiction decision: When Eggers raised the idea, he feared that Deng would angrily reject any reimagining of his real story. But "right away he was like 'What? Do whatever! Do anything you want!' "

"Dave is an artist," Deng says. "I'm not only about myself in the book." The idea was to tell the most accessible story possible about the devastation so many had endured.

Back and forth they go, deferring to each other, holding forth on their shared narrative.

They talk about how the original idea was to tell just the African part of Deng's life, until Eggers realized that his subject's struggle to adapt to the United States -- and the numerous disasters he has experienced here -- had to be part of the story.

They talk about their plan to use profits from the book to fund Deng's education, aid other Sudanese refugees, help rebuild Marial Bai and promote peace and justice in Darfur.

What does the future hold for Deng? Will he stay in his adopted homeland, where he is attending Allegheny College?

"I would like to bring up my kids here," he says. "But then I also, at the same time, want to make differences in Sudan."

"What Is the What" was published by McSweeney's, which allowed Eggers the total freedom he likes but means there's no marketing machine behind the book. Nonetheless, it's picked up some terrific reviews and made it to No. 25 on the New York Times' extended best-seller list this week.

As for that mysterious title: It's taken from a creation story Deng remembers hearing as a child.

God, it seems, made the first Dinka man tall and strong and the first Dinka woman beautiful. When he was done, he offered his creations a gift. "You can either have these cattle," he told them, "or you can have the What."

"What is the What?" they asked. But God refused to answer. The choice was a test. The Dinka could go for the cattle, which they knew would allow them to live well, or they could take a chance on the unknown. They chose the cattle, which, as the story's moral had it, proved the wise thing to do.

Except ...

The stable, solid universe in which that decision made sense is gone. And in the Lost Boy world of strife and stress and endless change that has replaced it, embracing the unknown -- as Valentino Achak Deng can tell us better than anyone -- looks like the only choice there is.

South Bend Favorites

Farmers Market: We are officially regulars at the Farmers Market. A few weeks ago Bonnie gave us a dollar off on the price of a whole pecan pie we had preordered from the diner “because we are regulars.” This makes me feel, human.

We go to the Market every Saturday. Although it opens at the crack of dawn, we usually make our way there by 1:00 for a late lunch and shopping. We always eat in the diner first. We sit at the second horseshoe-shaped counter, where Sharon is our waitress. (I see Sharon more than I see my Mom.) Our two favorite dishes: The cheeseburger (see entry on best burger in South Bend) and the Market Omelet. The Market Omelet has it all: stuffed with fresh vegetables, cheese, and hash browns and smothered in sausage gravy. Oh yes. It is enough for us to share. I like to sprinkle a little Tabasco sauce on my half. Oh boy.

After lunch we make the rounds at the market stalls. We typically buy blue cheese, apples, and caramel corn (with nuts). We buy garlic and eggs from the Hungarian. The polish lady has the BEST pumpkin pies. We buy Christmas wreathes, pussy willows, and tulips as the seasons bloom. I salivate over the smell of fresh pretzels made by the Amish family. I buy a small container of freshly ground peanut butter (ground right before my eyes!). We pet the puppies up for sale. Once we even lucked into a batch of freshly prepared homemade tamales. We buy homemade candles and soap. We buy what we need and what the season has to offer. Concord grape season and asparagus season are always way too short for our taste buds.

Favorite Burger: Each burger is unique and fulfills a particular burger-need. Yet I have to go with the Farmers Market Burger as my best. Here is why: while the beef is satisfactory, the vegetables win it. In my opinion, it is the whole package that counts. The Market Burger has a thick ring of white onion, a tomato slice, crisp lettuce, and pickles served with each burger. I add my smidgen of condiments (ketchup, mustard and a smear of mayonnaise), layer the veggies, stack the slightly toasted white bun on top, give a gentle squeeze to the architectural wonder, and bam. There it is. And the portion size matters too. I can eat my burger and feel like I have room to share a slice of cherry pie if I so desire. While CJ’s burgers are sublime, there is also enough meat there to satisfy my yearly quota. CJ’s is legendary. Don’t get me wrong, I love their beef and the onion rings are perfection in a world of fried-vegetable disappointment. But I can do CJ’s once a year. I could handle the Farmers Market burger weekly. There it is. Disagree if you wish. And, by the way, the famous Redamak burger, doesn’t turn me on (and it is not in South Bend). The burger needs its vegetables. And those sad misguided burgers served with (gasp) red onion, forget about it.

Best Ice Cream: Hands down: Chicory Café in downtown South Bend. Trust me. They serve up handmade fresh gelato with a rainbow of flavors to entice and enchant you—deep chocolates and fruit concoctions that burst with flavor. Walk right past the Chocolate Factory (which has other strengths to be sure) and head to the Chicory Café for your dose of ice dream. Again, there might be some who swear by the Cold Stone Creamery. Their offerings appear voluptuous, but they always fall flat for me. They disappoint or, worse, leave me feeling bloated and guilty. The gelatos at Chicory are pure and simple and divine. No need for add-ins or sparkles or jaunty tunes sung by the underpaid teenage staff. Don’t be fooled by quantity. Go for flavor.

Favorite Café for Writing: This is a tough call. I have to go with The Victorian Pantry--locally owned business, real mugs, help yourself coffee canisters, free wireless, delectable food, wooden tables. But. It is bit too far to drive and technically not in South Bend (it must be Granger, I think.) Slightly closer, but still in Mishawaka, I have to go with Panera which has the coffee buffet, real mugs, tasty treats, wireless, etc., but it is a chain restaurant. In South Bend, you can pick between the Chocolate Cafe and Chicory Cafe, neither of which offer the endless help yourself mugs, although they have wireless. And the coffee at Chicory might just be the best in South Bend (plus they have that remarkable gelato).

Favorite Café: Lula’s Café. It is the real thing. The house salad, the hummus, the sandwiches all satisfy. No wireless, but this is a good thing. I go there when I need to seclude myself from internet distractions. Coffee served in ceramic mugs, a stellar plus. (Plus I met the man I eventually married there. I was sitting next to the middle window and he was at the table next to me. Ah caffeine-induced romance.)

Best Brunch (and Beer): Fiddler's Hearth. We are regulars here for Sunday brunch. I love their beer, but we don’t get there very often during beer-drinking time. Menu favorites: Shepherd’s Pie and Fish-n-Chips. We go for the Sunday brunch: live music preformed by talented artists, delicious breakfast and lunch foods, and the Sunday papers read on wide wooden tables. Sunday, lovely Sundays.

What are your South Bend favorites?
Any hidden jewels or regular haunts?

Ode to Book Club

At least, a prosaic one.

The ladies are headed to my house this evening for our monthly book club. In our book club, we meet once a month. We rotate houses. We meet at 6:30 pm on a weeknight. We pay dues, which are tucked away into a cookie jar. When we have enough cash, we splurge. (Two years ago we went to the beach for a winter weekend of fine dining, hot tubbing, and book talk.) In our book club we have seven members, ages ranging from the thirties to the several decades wiser than thirties. We highly value this mixture of spunk and spit (or spit and spunk, really). In our book club, the hostess prepares a homemade meal (often lavish, but not required) from scratch and uses her good plates. Often the hostess will prepare food that fits the setting of the novel. In our book club, we have "check in", meaning we move around the dinner table telling what has happened in our lives since last book club. (Years of personal narrative add up to a rich tapestry. Ugh, that was so cheesy, but true.) We save our book discussion for after dinner. The leader, who selected the book, gets us started, often providing an author's biography or other salient details. Sometimes she uses prepared reading guide questions. Often, she just says (the equivalent of) "Go!"

American Idol for Authors

This is it: Gather.com is sponsoring an author's showdown. Post your novel on the their site and it might just be voted the next American Masterpiece. Or even nail you down to a publishing contract. Doubt your deft handling of plot and characterization? Harbor illusions of literary genius? Don't spend another moment in a dither. Take it to the readers.

The way it works: Forget about that dented manuscript scattered in chapters around your house, in your car, and at the bottom of your to-do list. You won't even need to print off a fresh hot-ink perfumed version. E-mail your full-length commmerical fiction manuscript to Gather.com. You must be 17 (or older) to submit yourself to your reading audience.

They will publish your novel online one chapter at at time. And the reading public will vote to keep you alive (or vote to eliminate you, I mean your novel). If you survive three rounds of voting and are chosen the next American Author-to-be-published, you will receive assorted cash prizes AND a publishing contract. Beware: by entering the contest you agree "that if you are selected as the Grand Prize Winner, you will sign Simon & Schuster’s standard publishing agreement within five days of receipt of the agreement."

Read all about it in The New York Times

Gather.com First Chapters Writing Competition

New Year's Day Menu

French Meat Pie
by Sister M. Concepta Mermis
(with my commentary in blue!)

31/2 lb. ground pork
1 lb. ground beef
2 tsp. salt
3 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. pepper
1 1/2 tsp. ground cloves
1 tsp. celery salt
1 c. dry bread crumbs (or more)
1 onion

Cook meat and 1 onion in water to cover meat, simmer about 45 minutes to 1 hour. Break up the meat with a wooden spoon as it cooks. Remove onion and discard--even though it must be very, very tasty. Set aside to cool. Let cool (possibly over night) until the fat congeals on top.

Skim off grease (use to make pastry). Making the pastry shell with the grease from the meat is possible and delicious, but has reduced me to tears. I use store-bought pastry shells. Add bread crumbs and seasonings. You may need to add more bread crumbs. Put meat mixture into pastry shell, top with crust. Slit the top of the crust to allow steam to escape. Bake on cookie sheet or foil in case the pie bubbles over. Bake about 35 minutes or until brown in 400 degree oven. Let stand about thirty minutes before serving.

Makes enough meat filling for 3 - 4 pies. At least that is what I have written in my family recipe book according to mom's directions. Except that I HALVED the recipe and still got two pies. So really there is generous meat for 4 (8- inch) pies.

This year I bowed to pressure and added "Hungarian" spices to one of the pies. I used a hefty dose of paprika and two garlic cloves added in large wedges (meant to be fished out for the faint of heart), leaving out the cinnamon and cloves, of course. It was decent, especially with a dollop of sour cream. But it is not French meat pie. It is not New Year's Day.

Serve with creamed peas (and/or corn) and mashed potatoes. Pour the creamed peas over the slice of meat pie for the proper presentation.

Although I grew up eating (or choking down) black-eyed peas for good luck, I left them off the menu today. Living on the edge. Tempting the legume fates.

Christmas Traditions

In the Hungarian tradition Saint Nick arrives to fill your shoes in early December. The angels bring your tree and gifts on Christmas Eve.

Since our little angel spends Christmas in New York, we have another Christmas with him a few days after the calendar dictates. This provides an excellent opportunity for community building.

The problem: we need a tree after Christmas. You can't even buy fresh cranberries anymore. I tried. I got the canned instead.

The solution: Our neighbors take down their tree the day after Christmas and leave it for us on their front lawn.

We trudge down the block, me in my tree-collecting monstrosity of a Wild Tibetan hat, the others with thick gloves to protect against pine needles (which are decidedly dried out by this time in the tree's decorative life). It is a short block back to the house with our needle-shedding prize.

Thus, the recycled tree is reincarnated in our living room. We decorate it with szalon cukor candies (yummy zseles are our favorite) and knotted strings of orbular lights. Later, when we leave the house for a walk around the block, the angels visit us and leave our gifts. Now that is a holiday tradition.

Post Argentina From Kansas

This post is penned from my home state, Kansas. I returned to Indiana on Tuesday from Buenos Aires, went to work on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and then flew out from Chicago home to Kansas on Friday evening. I know O'Hare too well these days.

Buenos Aires deserves several extensive posts. Right there on the back of the travel guide it says it all: "Paris of the South, cafe on every corner, thick steaks, and fashionable boutiques." And yet until you walk its vibrant streets and dine on great slabs of grilled meat that bring back your faith in the virtues of beef, you can hardly believe the jewel that it is.

We stayed in a wonderful little hotel called 1555 Malabia (which is also its address) in an area of town called Palermo SoHo. The streets are crowded with cafes, restaurants, and designer boutiques. In another part of town they have the high-end international brands (Armani, etc.). Our neighborhood had local Argentine designers and the style and price ratio are literally overwhelming. Avoid the gorgeous malls, head straight for Palermo.

Of all the wonders we engorged ourselves on during our brief few days there, one of the highlights was definitely our night of tango at La Viruta, which is located minutes from our hotel in the basement of a cultural house. This is where the Argentines go to dance, and where the ex-pats go to learn. We managed to reserve a table and ordered a bottle of champagne (a break to heighten our enjoyments of the Argentine Malbec, a hearty red wine). Soon six couples emerged and strutted across the dance floor to the boisterous introductions of the "leader." We don't speak Spanish. They danced a few numbers and then the whole room assembled into three learning levels for our lessons. We were absolute beginners. It was tense at times--trying to smile our way into a clearer example via body language. But we managed to get the steps with a bit of grace to spare.

After the lesson the regular dancing began. Happily the tango numbers were interspersed with American fifties-era style songs which we managed to fake our way through. It was a wonderful night that had only begun as we left the tango place at nearly 1 am.

The rain was a wall of water.

We slipped into a restaurant next door that promised a dry table and middle-eastern food.

We ordered a Malbec and a plate of cheese, soon to be followed by the best halva I have ever eaten (and we eat a lot of it!).

The best part of this new place: A private party of about 20 Greek-Argentines celebrating the end of the school year and the start of summer. We got there as the dancing commenced. This is a restaurant--not the kind of place a group of diners would take over in Indiana, let's say. And these Greeks could really, really dance. We stayed until almost 3 am sipping our wine, watching the Greek goddesses (and one god) circle, weave, dip and "oopah" the night away right before our eyes.

The Greeks could dance, no doubt. Still they didn't come close to the smoldering tango. If only I were Argentine.

24 Hours in Argentina

This will be short. I don´t want to waste my sunshine time clacking away inside the hotel.

This is our second day in Mar del Plata, a beach town about 4 hours drive south of Buenos Aires. Yesterday a young man was making small talk with me (in English). After the first few usual topics, he asked me if I was vegetarian. Odd question unless you know that this is the land of meat. So, we ate meats--blood sausage, chorizo sausage, and a massive steak sliced and grilled before our eyes. Served slighty pink even though they didn't ask how we like it done. They just know. Divine.

We saw tango. Ate manjar (as they call it in Chile, we learned a few years ago). Walked a mile in the wrong direction (not to mention the wrong shoes). Used our umbrella on the beach (because of rain!). I took a nap. Talked to a local, who mentioned that new government restrictions have discouraged cattle production. Took a walk along the port and saw (and smelled) the local population of sea lions (very, very). Toured an aristocrat´s home, now a museum with a fantastic display of jewelry. Saw lots of stone and/or brick houses. Ate more manjar (dulce de leche).

Did I mention the cows ranging across the endless verdant plains? More grass, taller trees than in Kansas. Same oceanic skies as far as the eye can see in all directions.

24 hours in Argentina. More to come.

Post Bourguignonne

Dear Reader (Hi mom!),

The dinner party was a joy and the boeuf bourguignonne fork-tender and deceptively straightforward. Our guest of honor, G.S., recognized the dish by name, giving me a start because it is generally best to present an unknown dish and capitalize on the surprise factor. Nevermind the non-beef eating guest and the last minute vegetarian.

My next dutch oven adventure: coq au vin.

A nice surprise: I was chatting with my mom about the dinner party and my lack of dinnerware. She was puzzled because she had given me an entire set last April. I had no idea. I thought it was a tea set. I dug into the miles of tissue paper and sure enough there was a beautiful set of china, complete with salt and pepper shakers. It was a perfect setting for our quasi-french meal. It makes me wonder what other treasures I have waiting for me in packed boxes in the attic.

This week: Book Club (our annual Christmas fete), work, and then off to a southerly clime for a few days of honeymoonish type adventures. Sun, red wine, grass-fed beef, tango. . .

My read for the trip: Amy Hempel's collection of short stories and my first goaround with Orwell's 1984. Although Borges may be a better choice. . .

Boeuf Bourguignonne

A few entries ago I mentioned that I was NOT into cooking these days. Famous last words. We are hosting a dinner party and "we" are cooking a fabulous meal for six. Inspired by Julie/Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously by Julie Powell and the culinary expertise of M. in Book Club, I am going for that classic french dish, Boeuf Bourguignonne. Alas, I do not own Julia Child's cook book. I will rely on the Joy of Cooking, which is probably a bastardization of the original. It is the best I can do.

I am glad to have the excuse to cook. This occasion has spurred me to buy my very first dutch oven. Up until now, if I saw "dutch oven" in a recipe, I turned the page. Now I can master slow cooked meats (giving me plenty of time to read while I am cooking). The dutch oven is gleaming on my stove top as I sit here and type. I even bought a 10-cup coffee maker so that I can offer coffee to my guests. Domesticity is in the air. It is snowing too.

The meat is marinating. Tomorrow I'll slow cook it. Wednesday is the event.

Boeuf Bourguignonne Recipe
(from Joy of Cooking, with thanks to Cracker Jack'd, who posted it December 13, 2005)

Cut into 2-inch chunks:

• 2 pounds boneless beef chuck, short-rib meat, or bottom round

Place the meat in a large bowl and add:

• 2 cups dry red wine (I chose a Beaujolais; Pinot Noir is recommended)
  
• 1/4 cup olive oil
• 1 onion, chopped
• 1 carrot, peeled and chopped
• 1 clove garlic, chopped
• 1 bay leaf
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
• 1 teaspoon fresh thyme, or scant 1/2 teaspoon dried
• 1 teaspoon cracked black peppercorns
• 1/2 teaspoon salt

Stir to combine and coat the meat. Cover and marinate in the refrigerator for 1 hour or up to 24 hours, turning the meat occasionally. Drain the beef and pat dry. Strain the marinade and reserve it and the vegetables separately. Heat a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add and brown:

• 4 ounces bacon, diced (I plan to subsitute a healthy dollop of zsir-otherwise known as lard- made by my local Hungarian culinary source.)
  

Remove the bacon, leaving the fat in the pan. You should have at least 2 tablespoons of fat. If not, add some vegetable oil. Return the pan to medium-high heat. Add the beef in batches and brown on all sides, being careful not to overcrowd the pan. Remove with a slotted spoon. Add the reserved vegetables and cook until lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Stir in:

• 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

Cook, stirring, until beginning to brown, about 1 minute. Stir in the marinade, then return the beef and bacon to the pan. Bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low and cook, covered, until the meat is fork-tender, 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Add:

• 8 ounces mushrooms, wiped clean and quartered (I bought tiny portobellos.....)
  
• 8 ounces small boiling onions, peeled (I will use pearl onions as I have no idea what a "boiling onion" might be. To peel the onions: pour boiling water on the onions and let cool. Then cut off the ends and the skin will slip off with a little push.)
  

Cover and cook until the vegetables are tender, about 20 minutes. (It took longer than 20 minutes for the onions to tenderize. You could saute them in a little butter before adding them to the stew to speed up the process.) Skim off the fat from the surface. Add:

• 1/4 chopped fresh parsley
• Salt and ground black pepper to taste

To thicken, you may add in 1 tablespoon kneaded butter (which is butter creamed with flour).

"Heavy" Readers

"For decades, reading studies have repeatedly found that 'heavy readers' not only read more books than light readers and nonreaders but also do more of almost everything else, including traveling, attending sports events and concerts, visiting museums, and participating in community organizations and politics. For many, reading is a way of being engaged with the world. These readers like to know about things and they read to find out."

"Reading Non-Fiction for Pleasure: What Motivates Readers?" Catherine Ross in Nonfiction Readers' Advisory, Robert Burgin (ed)

A Few Laughs

You Know You're From South Bend When. . .

*this list was forwarded to me by a former Bender,
who claims the author is unknown.

1: You know all about the Snyder scandal and often
refer to Roseland as Snyderville.

2: In middle school, a typical weekend consisted of
hanging out at the movies, but never actually SEEING a
movie....or going "Meijer-ing"

3: You remember when Movies 14 was Movies 10.

4: You hate Penn High School athletics.

5: Favorite graduation party activities include
Cornhole and Euchre.

6: The last week of classes was spent playing cards.

7: You're a die hard Notre Dame Football fan. HELL
YA!!

8: Whenever someone says to meet at either Wendy's or
Taco Bell you always ask "the one on 31 or the one by
the mall?"

9: You tailgate every home game of football season.

10: "Going out" on a Friday/Saturday night means going
to a friend's house to drink.

11: You can't recall the last time we had a snow day.

12: You hate snow.

13: You hate being stuck behind a Michigan driver
because let's face it, they can't drive.

14: You've gone tubing at Saint Pat's Park.

15: You've been to the Niles Haunted House multiple
times.

16: During your last years of high school, whenever
someone asked what your college plans were you said,
"Probably IUSB or Purdue"

17: You've wondered why Old Navy isn't part of
UP...And you know what UP is.

18: You and your friends have taken turns guessing
what the new building on the corner of 31/Cleveland is
going to be.

19: You know what "Nick's" refers to and only ever go
there after 10:30pm.

20: You've either gone can collecting or have had
people come to your door demanding non-perishable food
items.

21: During the summer, 50 degrees is unbearably cold.
During the winter, 50 degrees is scorching.

22: You wear flip flops in the snow.

23: When deciding where to go out for dinner you drive
up and down both Grape and Main.

24: You go to Barnaby's after every high school
football game.

25: You're a frequent ranch and salsa mixer at
Hacienda...and you know what Hacienda is...and it's
your favorite restaurant.

26: You grocery shop at Martins.

27: You see nothing odd about the word "Mishawaka"

28: You go at least 10 mph over the speed limit in the
section of Ironwood between Douglas and 23. Who set
the 30mph limit on a 4 lane road anyway?

29: You went to Franks Red Hots before it became K's.

30: When people ask you where you're from you always
follow "I'm from South Bend" with "*pause* . . . it's
where Notre Dame is"

31: You've ever tried to exaggerate on how cold it is
outside, and the actual temperature is colder than
your exaggeration.

32: You still wonder if the old guy that sits on 31
holding the flag is dead or not.

33: You're still holding a grudge against Joan Raymond
for Plan Z.

34: You remember when Scottsdale Mall was shut down.

35: Your elementary school field trips were spent at
Copshaholm, the Studebaker house, Leeper Park, and
Amish Acres.

36: You consider Mishawaka, Granger, and Roseland all
extensions of South Bend.

37: Driving slowly down Primrose with your headlights
off is a fun, scary thing to do when you're bored.

38: You have always wanted to get the HELL out of here
. . . AND if you did you came back.

39: You know what Dyngus Day is . . . and were
surprised to learn that the rest of the country doesn't.

NYT Ten Best Books of 2006

Check out the 10 best books of 2006 according to the New York Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/ref/books/review/20061210tenbestbooks.html?ref=books

Argh

I am going through the I-have-too-much-to-write-about-and-
so-I-will-just-be-lame-and-engage-in-avoidance-behaviors-such-
as-contemplating-baking-instead-of-writing script.

Can you say, "Precipice"?

Although I had a serious case of carrot-cake-baking between the ages of 14 and 15, in general I cook because people need to eat these days. Cooking for the pleasure of it? I have realized that the cheery kitchen fairies who left nary a shoe print one night as they scraped my crusty pans are not REAL, after all. Damn. That means if I dirty it, it stays dirty and slowly--with appropriate sun and moisture--moves into the science experiment phase. I have taken the only measure possible and ceased and desisted from anything resembling a culinary act. Thus, if baking a cake seems more appealing than writing OR reading, then I am teetering on the edge.

This entry is me forcing myself to write. something. anything. Other than what I write for my students. Cryptic notes about MLA requirements do not count as poetry.

I have been reading lately. Even reading in the service of my writing. L. recommended a new title that sounded similar to my work. I just finished it and am working through a love/hate reaction. The Uses of Enchantment by Heidi Julavits twists and turns around the life of a young narrator whose coming of age entailed an elaborate act of narrative fiction. Mary disappears from field hockey practice and then reappears weeks later. The story revolves around the truth about the events during her absence. Was she abducted? She did purposely hide herself away? Was she raped? She was a virgin, but returned not a virgin. I enjoyed Julavits uses of language and her inventive plot. In the end, however, I just didn't buy into the narrator.

The narrator of my own novel-in-languish is also a young woman still in high school. Julavits' s character narrates the experience from about ten years later, which allows her a level of retrospection that my character doesn't have. Julavits writes in the third person. My choice to tell my character's story in the first person is feeling more and more like a cage instead of a podium. Hhmmmm...to rewrite entirely from the third person? Argh.

In other reading, I also recently finished Eve Ensler's new book, Insecure at Last: Losing it in our Security Obsessed World. Her blunt declarative sentences are brutally honest about her life, her political views, and her various states of insecurity. By the end of the short work, you want to join her movement and give up security in order to allow peace to take hold. If security (think personal integrity AND national security) becomes our first priority, then our stance toward the world is by default a posture of defense. This is the antithesis of peace, which is fundamentally empathic. You can't build walls and dish up bowls of soup at the same time. If you are curious about Ensler's work, read or see The Vagina Monologues. Then read her latest book. It will make you want to be honest with yourself; it may even help you say "Vagina" in unexpected places. Like to your priest. Trust me, he needs to hear it, especially if he is under 40.

(Speaking of Eve Ensler, Me, and Priests. . . remind me to write about that trinity sometime. I've got loads of material.)

Eve. . . and. . . C.S. Lewis. Currently I am reading, really re-reading, Lewis's Till We Have Faces, which retells the Cupid and Psyche myth. I was entranced by this book's exploration of the sacred v. profane theme the first time I read it (maybe ten years ago?). Sacred v. Profane: a false dichotomy! Repeat after me: false dichotomy. That is right. A binary opposite that serves only as a rhetorical flourish! (Hear me rant.) I look forward to our Book Club discussion in December where I promise to try and not interupt others.

And, finally, a note for the anonymous reader who wants to know why I durst to resent a statue. . . I'll post a reply in the comments on that original post. Soon.

Poem: Raking by Tania Rochelle

Raking

Anna Bell and Lane, eighty,
make small leaf piles in the heat,
each pile a great joint effort,
like fifty years of marriage,
sharing chores a rusty dance.
In my own yard, the stacks
are big as children, who scatter them,
dodge and limbo the poke
of my rake. We're lucky,
young and straight-boned.
And I feel sorry for the couple,
bent like parentheses
around their brittle little lawn.
I like feeling sorry for them,
the tenderness of it, but only
for a moment: John glides in
like a paper airplane,
takes the children for the weekend,
and I remember,
they're the lucky ones--
shriveled Anna Bell,
loving her crooked Lane.

Provided by American Life in Poetry
Reprinted from "Karaoke Funeral," Snake Nation Press, 2003,
by permission of the author.
Copyright (c) 2003 by Tania
Rochelle.

Protest O.J. Simpson

Last week the YWCA of St. Joseph County made a
public statement (read the statement in the South Bend
Tribune) reacting to the announcement that O.J. Simpson
will appear in a two-part special on the Fox television
network, as well as a soon-to-be-released book detailing
how he "would have" carried out the murders
of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman.

The YWCA has received an overwhelming response from
people wanting to join the protest, and they encourage
people to contact the following numbers to request
that booksellers not participate in the book sales, and
that FOX TV not air the special: 

Barnes and Noble - Customer Service Center at
1-800-THE-BOOK (1-800-843-2665).

Amazon - you can send an email via their website
(no really good way to directly connect with them)

HarperCollins (the publisher) - 212-207-7000

ReganBooks - 212-207-7000 (a division of HarperCollins)

FOX - contact the local FOX station 574-679-9758 and/or
fox28news@fox28.com AND the national office
-http://www.fox.com/links/affiliates.htm AND (310)369-3553

You may also contact big box retailers like Target
(again both local and national office) to ensure they do not
carry the book in stores or online (their online book service
is provided by amazon).

Spread the Word!

UPDATE!!!!!

O.J. Simpson book and tv show cancelled!
Read the headline.

Party Ponderings

Throwing a party is good for the general order. When you live day-to-day you can ignore the year's worth of flotsam accumulated beneath the couch cushions.

In fact you go about your evenings perched on the sofa, mug and novel in hand, blissfully unaware of the ecosystem evolving beneath the leather. Suddenly, on an otherwise typical Tuesday night except that it is a Tuesday before the Party on Saturday night, your brain concocts a certain (as yet unnamed, as far as I know) chemical. Somewhere deep in your genetic code an embedded switch triggers a latent domestic skill once witnessed in the childhood home: Lift cushion, Insert vacuum extension device, and Suck up all that lingers there.

And so there I was in my ridiculously purple robe hoovering up paperclips, popcorn kernels, and assorted flora. All for the sake of the general order. No one would look beneath the cushions. Yet it made happy to prepare the way for my guests, especially in such a secret way.

The day before the party, I bought myself sunflowers and arranged them in a vase given to us as a wedding gift from my book club. I should buy myself flowers more often. But somehow it takes a party to think of the indulgence.

When I throw parties, my house is never more radiant. I see it through a guest's eyes and fall in love with the wood beams and chipped plaster walls that desperately need to be painted. That leaky faucet. . . quirky. The needs-to-be-replaced old school linoleum floor. . . perfect for spilled drinks. The Persian rugs emanate color in the candlelight. And that statue I have always resented (yes, resented) seems light-hearted and whimsical.

People talking with vigor (in order to be heard), fancy shoes, colleagues not talking about work, philosophers being chatted up by working stiffs, biologists and high school German teachers a-mingle, writers, graphic artists, professors and former students. . . all mixed up in a tiny house with food catered by Victorian Pantry (it was my first time to have a party catered and and oh boy was it tasty and pretty) and copious libations of all sorts (the tequila defined smooth).

Parties come in all shapes and sizes and fulfill all kinds of functions: celebrations, life-rituals, traditions passed down, etc. But I love me a good-old fashioned Bacchic occasion. No reason needed other than the compulsion to enjoy friends and make new ones. And nibble a bit on the buffet. And watch your friends' babies turn into little people.

Not to mention the decadent feeling of sleeping in the next morning knowing that your couch doesn’t have to be vacuumed until the moon is full once again.

Borat Bandwagon

Jump on the Borat Bandwagon.

York Times Review, November 3, 2006

NPR Review

The Unofficial Borat Homepage

Never Let Me Go by Ishiguro

For October's Book Club we read Kazuo Ishiguro's 2005 Never Let Me Go. You might recall the Japanese-British author from his novel-turned-film, "The Remains of the Day."

During the long flight between Zurich and Chicago a few weeks ago, I delved into the strange world of children marooned in a private school on the verge of both adolescence and the deep -down biological truth about who they are. Soon they will leave the school and begin their life of work. But their life's work has been pre-ordained and entails their entrails. (Sorry, couldn't help that last word play.)

I won't give too much away here except to say that the children are aware that one day they will become "donors" or "carers" and in the meantime they must produce artwork to please their guardians. The story revolves around three friends who grow up before your eyes slowly, painfully. They move toward their fates with the resigned spirits of those whose free will is compromised. They are calmly reserved, but nevertheless achingly human.

I was not convinced that it would be a good book for discussion. The characters were flat-ish and the science fiction dystopia outside of our usual tastes. I am not sure why I thought this seeing as how Blindness by Saramago was a hit with most of us. Ishiguro's tale is a far "easier" read by comparison.

After a lovely meal of served by our hostess, we moved into a rewarding explication of the text. It turns out that we were unabashedly eager to share our takes on the existential tale and its touchstones with our modern world. I admit: I interrupted, more than once, to make my points.

Here are a few useful sites:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4629918
NPR site with excerpt from Chapter One and links to audio interviews with the author

http://dir.salon.com/story/books/review/2005/05/06/ishiguro/index.html
Salon.com review