tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1249391456613341632024-03-12T19:05:00.860-07:00Transmissions from the Land of Mist and SnowDaisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-48909360940697950822012-09-06T05:17:00.002-07:002012-09-06T05:17:34.990-07:00A Quick UpdateFor many reasons, not the least of which is the start of school, I have neglected my blog. So here are some quick updates on things...<br />
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1. Last weekend, the Wedding-Guest and I drove out to Boonville, NY to see our friends in Black Iris of the Sun play at Hulbert House with some other bands (including MEN...I know one of those guys too.) What a strange place to see music: An 1812 historic inn with illustrated wallpaper and lace curtains. Black Iris of the Sun was excellent, as always. I miss their former guitar player, who lent a certain strain of elegance to their sound that I loved, but they are still far and away my favorite local band. Their songs are crafted like powerful spells instead of just a blur of aggression and angst. To be fair, the angsty-aggression bands label themselves "hardcore," and that's their thing. Which I don't love. But I do appreciate the energy and even the wild karate dancing that ensues when they play. <br />
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2. Then school started. The first day, I had enthusiastic English major British literature students. After that...sleepy students with bed hair and blurry eyes. I can't count on the usual discussion format of literature classes, obviously, so I'm thinking of ideas. They may be sorry they ever acted sleepy in front of me. But I've been starting the class with metal songs based on Old English literature, and that wakes them up a little. ("Beowuuuuuuuulllllllf!" Thanks, Valgard.)<br />
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3. Then, I competed in the 3-Day Novel Contest. In that one, you are challenged to write an 80-100 page novella over the three days of the Labor Day weekend. I tried to write a little metal romance, and I DID come up with a story that has a beginning, middle, and end. It's 54 pages long, and I sent it to the contest people. There is no way on earth it will win. It's pretty dreadful. But it was a neat experience, and I'll probably try it again next year. And next year, I will prepare better for the practicalities of writing non-stop for three days. You must lay in supplies. You must have a nice place to write. The main thing I learned from this experience is how to use an outline for a novel. This was my first experience of that, and it wasn't too bad. The outline changed as I wrote, of course, but it did work. Also, I spent the last few hours revising, and that wasn't too bad...until I somehow lost my changes!!! That was tragic, but it was good because that happens to students, and I always feel suspicious of them. Now, I remember how easy it is to have that accident and what it feels like when you do!<br />
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4. I am up for promotion and tenure (not called that anymore, but I'm still using the word) this year, and I need to put together a packet of proof of my achievements. This seems daunting, especially because I don't feel like I have many. But it must be done. <br />
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5. I have two more weeks left of doing the Insanity workout. If I make it through, I am going to stay in a hotel in NYC and spend the weekend in museums. That is the only thing that keeps me using up so much of my time (30 minutes-hour) every evening on an activity that prevents me from reading.<br />
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6. The Airborne is still off training, and for a few more weeks, there is no communication allowed. I miss his conversation, but I love "the bliss of solitude."<br />
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7. Yesterday, I played a "gig" at the Resource Fair with our lead guitarist, JT, who is also a librarian. We sat at the library table and played our very moving original songs about how to use the library. We also played a bunch of other songs when no students were standing right in front of us. It was a very nice way to spend my office hours. I have the weirdest gigs up here. <br />
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8. More on this later...There is a man from Texas named Skip Rhudy who wrote a novella called One Punk Summer back in the 90s. It is an important book in my life, so I wrote him some fan mail by Facebook, and he wrote back! I hope he doesn't think I'm a crazy stalker. This book deserves its own blog. I shall write one later, when I'm not rushing off somewhere. Which probably means "Christmas break" at this point.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-49713889810535744162012-08-17T08:14:00.001-07:002012-08-17T08:14:15.497-07:00Rule, Britannia!All summer I have been working on a Norton Anthology-inspired reading list for my British Literature I students. More than any other class, I have longed to teach this one. I cannot believe the time has come.<br />
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Nor can I believe how difficult it is to choose wisely. It would be so easy to make this Early British Literature That I Love Most. But it can't be that. My job is to give them a good grounding in British liteature from the earliest writings to the icky 18th century, when satire and incredibly boring tracts abounded. We can't just read <em>Beowulf</em> and lyrics and loads of sonnets. We have to read some drama too. It's in the approved syllabus. We can't just skip Pope or DRYden. We can't skip "The Faerie Queene." Except that we are going to.<br />
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I'm teaching British Literature mainly to students getting an associate's degree in liberal arts. They just need a literature class. Of any kind. Most of them probably chose mine based on timing rather than interest. (Or, in the case of at least two of them, because I begged and pleaded and promised it would be "like studying metal," which was not a lie). So, what do I give them (poor as I am)? <br />
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Actually, that little poem excerpt, which we learned as children from a book of Christmas poetry, does apply:<br />
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What can I give him, <br />
poor as I am?<br />
If I were a shepherd<br />
I would bring him a lamb.<br />
If I were a Wise Man,<br />
I would do my part.<br />
Yet what can I give him?<br />
Give him my heart.<br />
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-- Christina Rossetti<br />
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I AM poor, in the grand scheme of things: I am a young scholar, in the world of scholars. I am not a great poet or a great writer. I went to The University of Southern Mississippi, not Harvard. And of course, although one of my grandmothers' families came from England, I am not British. I am Creek. So, what can I give them, my students? I can give them my heart, which since infancy has been filled by my father with British literature. I must trust that the heart will inform the training, but also that the love will not overshadow the practicalities...at least, not too often. <br />
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Sometimes, like when one is convincing 19-year-olds to love Christopher Smart, it is perhaps best to let it go. Then, they need "Listen to this FANTASTIC cat poem that I LOVE!!" Not, "Note the interesting structure of Smart's line and meter."<br />
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But all this has been but a means of avoiding my reading list, which I must now turn into a schedule of events. And which must not turn into my opening the anthology to something like Spencer's sonnets because if that happens, the love will take me over again, and I will start on a crazy poem about my love of British literature...<br />
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For I will consider British literature.<br />
For it is my life and my salvation.<br />
For it is my favorite thing in the whole wide world.<br />
For I always hear it in my father's voice.<br />
For when the real world does not correspond, I am disappointed.<br />
For there is so <em>much</em> of it.<br />
For it can creep.<br />
<br />Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-47246509905841175522012-08-16T13:31:00.001-07:002012-08-16T13:32:11.487-07:00Your Head Was On the Floor and Rats Played Pool With Your EyesYou'd think after my beautifully lazy summer I would be impervious to stress, but several stressful things have occurred at once lately, and it turns out I am not. I shall not elaborate on them but only on their effect, which was a massive tension headache that knocked me all the way down yesterday. I don't usually have even normal headaches, so when one like that hits, I'm a big ol' sissy.<br />
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Today I feel as if I have a band of duct-tape-sized pain stuck across the front of my brain, but it is a dull pain, not like yesterday. My husband informs me that I am to be still, be lazy, and make an appointment with the opthamalogist because some of this may be related to the eyestrain I gave myself over the weekend, planning all my classes in one fell swoop. I did make the appointment. <br />
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Laying around is a challenge for me. I like to think that's because I'm like Karl Wallenda or Peter the Great or Bruce Dickinson...those people who can't sit still for accomplishing things. Except I don't accomplish. I just putter with a mighty will, doing one and another thing vehemently and enthusiastically, but not too productively.<br />
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Typing this blog hurts my eyes and my head, unfortunately. But that's not why I was away. My internet was down. As you can see, it's back. And I'll be back, the minute I get my feet centered on this tightrope again. <br />
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Here are my accomplishments for the day:<br />
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1. Watched <em>Trick or Treat. </em>I'll have a whole blog on that later. Very comforting, that movie.<br />
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2. Made a list of potential topics for the three-day novella contest, which I am entering over Labor Day weekend. Yes, 80-100 page novella in three days. Unlike NaNoWriMo (my favorite holiday), Three-Day Novel is an actual contest in which you can win one of three prizes, the first of which is publication. My colleague, whose name shall heretofore be Godzilla, is in this contest also. I imagine we shall both wind up with gray hair by the time it's over. He did it last year and came up with a very cool horror novel.<br />
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3. Checked the mail. We are in the process of changing from our New York bank to a local credit union. The checks came in. Thrilling.<br />
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4. Read <em>Decibel</em>'s Women in Metal issue, which I had been avoiding for a month because I was afraid I would be offended and lose my favorite magazine to wrath. But they came through, as I should have known they would. The articles are fair, funny, respectful, and very concious of the problematic nature of "Women In..." projects in general. My faith is restored. I'd write a whole blog about it, but that sounds like work.<br />
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5. And now, I shall go to YouTube and look up all the bands whose names I highlighted as I read the reviews. That is absolutely one of my favorite activities. It is also the only way I keep from being totally overwhelmed by the amount of and access to metal of these trying times. Back in the olden days of the late 80s/90s, you had to accept what you could find in record stores or through tape trading. Much less overwhelming.These days...but that's for another blog.<br />
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6. It's a beautiful sunny day, but I just can't go out in it. Invincible yellowjackets are living above our front door. I have been stung on the head twice already, and at the moment, I just don't want one more thing that hurts, even a little. Bring on the mindless YouTube excursion...Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-21087267441302160602012-08-12T05:42:00.000-07:002012-08-12T05:42:32.043-07:00Not What I Meant At AllYou might remember that I mentioned in my summer break blog that our friend was severely injured in Afghanistan. Since then, we have prayed so hard...so many kinds of prayer, like praying while we worked out, willing our healthy bodies to infuse their vitality into his. Like when I got stung on the head by yellowjackets (twice in two days) and offered up the searing pain to decrease the emotional strain on his wife and daughter. Prayers that are supposed to be secret but which I am sharing now because grief causes me to no longer care what is appropriate. Of course, you realize that means our friend passed away. His name is Greg Trent. I can say it now because everyone knows.<br />
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My grief is not the story, although this is my blog and I suppose it could be. But I'm Creek. We have big families, tight communities. We learn to grieve from an early age, when we are taken to funerals as babies and grow into our roles in communal grieving. And I've lost friends, also, not just relatives. To suicide, which is the most terrible. To war, which is also terrible in its own special way. Grieving is familiar, but the loss of each dear, special person merits pain as individual and specific as the love they gathered in life.<br />
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Joseph met Trent, or T, as he was called, and his wife Beth when he first moved to Italy. They were in the 173rd Airborne together. I came along a little later, and by that time they were already fast friends. Joseph constantly told me I would love the Trents, and he was right, immediately. For here was a couple so in love that they glowed with it. They were smart, funny, and direct in a way that I had always wanted to encounter. I assumed it was because they were from the East, but now I know it was just their way. They could speak the truth, be it serious or funny, with such grace and courage that it made me feel free to be as brave -- something that is difficult for a new Army wife, for we often feel bound to say only the positive, the practical, the safe.<br />
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They were best friends, and they, like all Army couples, knew the fragility of life. So they LIVED. They had a beautiful little baby, who has grown into a beautiful little girl. They went on vacations. They celebrated good things. At Christmas, they made their house the gaudiest, brightest, merriest house in the neighborhood. Beth's updates about it on Facebook were a hilarious part of my holiday season. They had hard things happen just like anyone, but joy is deep and abiding, and they had that.<br />
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No matter what I write, it is not quite what I meant to say. The time for struggling with it is not now, and not here. I won't write about our friends again in this blog, but when I write of other things, it won't mean I have forgotten. We never do.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-6203826970643112822012-08-09T04:49:00.001-07:002012-08-12T05:44:50.735-07:00The Mist and AllThe Mist and All<br />
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I like the fall<br />
The mist and all<br />
I like the night owl’s lonely
call<br />
And wailing sound<br />
Of wind around.
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I like the gray<br />
November day<br />
And dead, bare boughs that coldly
sway<br />
Against my pane<br />
I like the rain.
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I like to sit<br />
And laugh at it<br />
And tend my cozy fire a bit<br />
I like the
fall<br />
The mist and all.<br />
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-- Dixie Wilson<br />
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When I was little, our aunt and uncle in Kansas brought us a set of Childcraft encyclopedias. You'll probably hear about Places to Know in another blog because for awhile it was my favorite book. But this poem was in Poems to Know. My sister and I read that book constantly. It's not that we didn't have other poetry books. Our father loves literature and taught English; we had anthologies galore. (I was going to say we were "well-versed in poetry," but I thought your eyes might roll right back into your head and not come out again). But this was a book of poems especially selected for children, with interesting illustrations and poems we hadn't read before. We would take turns reading them, and we memorized several.<br />
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(If my sister is reading this, she will laugh when I write, "The gingham dog and the calico cat, two by two on the table sat...")<br />
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We always knew the writers of poems because that was important in our house, but we didn't pay as much attention to them in Poems to Know for some reason. Thus it was that I didn't know this little poem was written by a Ziegfield Follies chorus girl. That makes it even more interesting, but I'm actually not here to talk about poetry and poets, despite what it looks like. (My students would say, "Isn't your thesis supposed to match your essay?" And I would say, "Only if you want a good grade. Blogs are for anarchy.")<br />
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I posted this poem because every fiber of my being is trying to rush ahead and look forward to fall. I know better. Northern New York people have taught me not to rush summer, for its lease hath all too short a date. There will come a time when I am freezing cold, coming home with a bag full of papers to grade, and I will think back to a summer day that I didn't properly appreciate -- this one, perhaps, when I am thinking about apple cider and beef stew, earlier dark and students unwinding scarves and patting down their hair to quell the static. <br />
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Winter is my season, but I do like fall, the mist and all. And when I've had a good summer, I don't dread its coming. But it doesn't start until September 22, so I'm trying not to rush it. <br />
<br />Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-26228059654276349292012-08-08T10:32:00.001-07:002012-08-09T04:50:15.865-07:00Introducing the Cast of CharactersI am drinking detox tea and eating a great big pastry. There, in that image, is my life. I feel guilty for neither and see no contradiction. A good blogger would use it as the center of an entry about her philosophy of life, but I'm not a good blogger. I'm a person who eats a great big pastry with her detox tea.<br />
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But, as I think I shall write more regularly (at least for awhile), I thought it might behoove those of you who are not Daddy (my main and best reader) to know who I am talking about when I give people nicknames -- a practice that seems like good blogger etiquette.<br />
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Obviously, I know more people than this. I have many, many cousins and many musician-friends, along with many work-friends and acquaintances and Army friends. They will get nicknames as they come along in the blog. For now, here are the main people you are likely to hear about:<br />
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1. Daddy. He is my actual father. He is brilliant, witty, and talented in every way. The sun rises and sets at his will. He loves literature; I love literature. He taught English; I teach English. He plays guitar; I play guitar. You see how it is. He is also probably the only person reading this. (Hi, Daddy!)<br />
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2. Mama. She is my actual mother, and she too is brilliant, talented, and very...what is the word now? Hip? Cool? With it? (I'm sure it's not that one...) She is it, and I am not it. She, perhaps, will understand the joke of the last sentence, but you will not, and I won't tell you. That's how you remain hip. Cool. With it. She won't be in here much, not because she is not ever-present in my life, but because she probably wouldn't appreciate being in a blog.<br />
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3. The Airborne. He is my husband, and he actually is a paratrooper. I'd say "was" because he is now with a non-Airborne unit, but if you live with a paratrooper, you know that this does not matter. When Daddy talks about him, he calls him The Airborne, so I will too, here. Where he is, there is Eden. <br />
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4. The Great. He is my nephew. I call him HisActualName the Great, but as I'm not using actual names here, he becomes The Great. He just turned 1. You should see him. He is magnificent. He is also the only grandchild in a family of three girls. He is the boss and the tv star.<br />
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5. I have two sisters, but I haven't come up with names for them yet. I must consult them first. Otherwise, they will become Coka and Biting Bull. They may not like that. Or they might. If they are reading this, they should let me know.<br />
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6. Tula. That is her actual name. She is our black and white rescued cocker spaniel. If I figure out how to post pictures, you will see her. She has crooked teeth and a neurotic soul. Mostly, she lies around like a beautiful stuffed animal, waiting for someone to drop food.<br />
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7. The Nik. That is is actual name. (Well, it's Nikki, but we call him The Nik.) He is our peach and white (it even says so on his vet records) rescued Tibetan spaniel (or so it said on his adoption papers). He used to have really crooked teeth that stuck out of his mouth, but he lost one in a skunk battle. He lost the other in an oral surgery extravaganza, along with 11 other teeth. He weighs 17 pounds. When we got him, he had just recovered from a broken jaw he got fighting a pit bull. When he is not fighting dangerous animals, he lies with all his legs sticking out, more like an area rug than a dog.<br />
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8. The Big Unit. That is his actual name. He is our blue and red King Betta fish. The King Betta as a breed is disputed, but that's for a long blog you may want to avoid unless you are particularly interested in fish. So far, he has been kept alive for almost five weeks. He is my reward for completing one week of the Insanity workout. I have since earned him rocks, a betta hammock, a skull house, and soon, an aquarium vaccuum cleaner thing. He is named after the only baseball player I have ever known about. Because he is big.<br />
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9. The Monstrosity. You will think I am a terrible person for calling our giant aloe vera plant that. If I was a better person, it would have a lovely, encouraging pagan name like Freya or The Green Lady. But I can't quit calling it The Monstrosity. It is truly huge. It looks like it could climb off the shelf and walk around. It's arms are as long as baby arms. If you burn yourself at my house, never fear; we have plenty of healing aloe for everyone in this county. It is the joy of my life. It is also the only plant that has ever survived my good intentions for this long.<br />
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10. Cinderella. She is 21 years old and used to be my student. She needed some adults on her side, so we stepped in. Despite bad odds and our fumbling, she thrives. She is a semester away from graduating college on the dean's list. She is also a beautiful ballroom dancer who looks unfailingly elegant, yet does not act embarrassed to be seen with us. She will also thrash you in badminton and Bible trivia, so don't let yourself be hustled. <br />
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11. The Wedding Guest. He is 22 and also used to be my student. He is a writer with big ideas and a metalhead who can endure my long-winded lectures on The Gallant History of Thrash. As the Ancient Mariner found the one who "must hear [him]," so I found the Wedding Guest. Never has a mentor been as inept as the one he has found, but he endures my badgering, questionable advice, and (probably embarrassing) cheerleading. And he has completed two novel manuscripts, one of which he just finished revising and which it is my job to read. Amazing.<br />
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I think that covers the immediate characters. As I said, more will be added as they come along. And they will. I'm an English-teaching, guitar-playing Creek military wife metalhead...My address book runneth over.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-58584578224688805822012-08-07T05:09:00.002-07:002012-08-07T05:09:34.080-07:00Real Summer BreakIt has been so long since I wrote in this blog that everything about it has changed and I don't know what I'm doing. I can't figure out how to look at old blogs or change designs (not that I knew how to do that before) or anything. So I hope this gets to all two of you who read this. (Hi, Daddy!)<br />
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Despite what it sometimes looks like, I am a hard worker. In my profession (teaching college English), much of the hardest work happens inside one's head. You wouldn't think that would be tiring, but it is. My wise father warned me of this when I went into teaching, and of course, he was right. And of course, I didn't <em>really</em> listen. Thus it is that I have spent every glorious summer break of my teaching career planning lessons, reading for lessons, thinking about lessons, and, most of all, feeling guilty any time I wasn't thinking of or doing these things. Finally, I got so exhausted that my little well ran almost entirely dry. When I sent down a bucket for a lesson plan, it came up with mud. And then dust. And then nothing.<br />
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So this summer, I cut off my long hair and made the momentous decision to have a real summer break -- no work, no thought of work. At first, I tried to cheat by working on my upcoming conference presentation. I did it on the porch with a glass of tea, but it was still work. Then I tried to revise one of my novels -- not the one I wanted to work on; the one I thought I <em>ought</em> to work on. My soul rebelled. <br />
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It's like I forgot how to have fun that wasn't actually some kind of work.<br />
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But gradually I figured it out. I went to Niagara Falls and watched Nik Wallenda's historic and inspiring tightrope walk. (I meant to blog about that, but it felt too much like work. I'll do it someday.) From there, I went to Oklahoma and spent some time with my always-fun relatives and baby nephew (who is 1 as of yesterday!). We watched the Oklahoma City Thunder in our matching blue shirts. We had a cupcake birthday party for my mother and aunt. I rode around with my other nephew, the drummer for an excellent Black Sabbath-sounding metal band, and talked about music. <br />
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When I got back, it was The Airborne's (that's what my father calls my husband) leave, but he couldn't go beyond an eight-hour radius because of a complicated Army thing I'm probably not supposed to talk about in my blog. OPSEC is everybody's business, after all. So we went to Buffalo and hung out with my sisters-in-law and niece, then spent some time in the actual city of Buffalo. It's much more fun than you think -- especially if you happen upon a pit-bull rescue benefit featuring rockabilly bands and a burlesque show. <br />
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After that, we went to Connecticut to visit one of Joseph's gun friends and my college roommate, who now works at ESPN. By then, I was definitely on vacation and it was great fun to see her after all these years -- and talk as if it had been but a very eventful week since our last visit. We got the "friend tour" of ESPN, which was very interesting and exciting because she is part of it, and I knew her when we were just learning AP style. We also visited Mark Twain's majestic mansion and Harriet Beecher Stowe's efficient little house. We also missed several things I hope to see when we go back. Who knew Connecticut was so fun? <br />
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Soon after that, Mama came to our house in New York, spontaneously. She was here for about four days, and we went on the St. Lawrence River tour boats and spent the day in Kingston, ON. She seems to approve of The Land of Mist and Snow. At least in the summer, when it is the Land of Flowers and Sunshine.<br />
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I'm not sure what I've been doing since then, but it hasn't been work. Once she left, however, a strange impatience began to grow within me. I began to have dreams about forgetting to teach class. I suddenly wanted to buy autumn-themed tea towels for the kitchen. And that is a sign that I have had enough summer break for once. Now, I am ready to think about how to share literature, not just consume it. <br />
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Several terrible things have happened in the last few days: A good friend was severely injured in combat, so we wait for news and pray without ceasing. Another friend and former student is being sent home early from a volunteer trip to Sri Lanka because she is so sick and malnourished. The Airborne now knows for sure that there is a deployment on the way (which isn't unexpected or that terrible, but which is always surreal if looked upon directly). <br />
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I don't mean this in the selfish way it sounds, but I am glad I decided to have a real summer break. My part in all dealing with all of these things will be made easier for having fortified myself with sun and good books and travel. <br />
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Today, our new professor is coming over to have lunch and talk about teaching. I am ready for that kind of lunch (aside from the table being piled with old student papers and gun parts). I know very well how much harder my life could be, so I am glad I was smart enough, for once, to enjoy it during the easy part.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-42242730426903251412012-02-07T16:44:00.000-08:002012-02-07T16:56:29.723-08:00Groundhog DayOn Feb. 2, it was Groundhog Day and the groundhog came out in my favor, but you wouldn't know to look at my surroundings. It is still warm -- in the 40s, most days -- and the green grass is everywhere. Even the little piles of snow that came while we were in Oklahoma have melted all away. Now it's just muddy and cold, like spring.<br /><br />I can't decide whether to give up on the idea of snow or keep trying the magic my students have taught me. My 1:25 students tell me that if I give up and quit wishing for snow, it is more likely to come. They are my main source of magic tricks for bringing snow, as most of them are from around here and learned all the spells when they were little. They are starting to feel sorry for me...except my two ice fishermen. They are starting to secretly join me in the magic spells, I think. <br /><br />I'm not writing very well tonight. I am distracted. But I just wanted to let you know, in case you are interested, that winter has yet to arrive, and it is almost spring. But I was born in the coldest, snowiest month at home, so maybe snow will come yet. We had a little today -- hard pellets of snow that lasted for just about 20 minutes. It didn't count, but it was something.<br /><br />If I have hope, I'm afraid the snow will not come. But what if I give up, and that makes the snow not come? I'm not sure of the proper attitude...although my students, already learning to turn my writing advice around on me, say I should go with the flow and fix it later.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-5318085724109594992012-01-29T05:54:00.000-08:002012-01-29T05:58:22.838-08:00Land of Wind and RainWhen I first moved to northern New York, my students taught me something important: If you want it to snow, you must sleep with your pajamas on wrong-side out and backwards. For two winters, I practiced that. This winter, I forgot! You can see what happened: We have had wind. We have had rain. We have not had snow. You can see the grass.<br /><br />But some of my colleagues reminded me of this snow magic, and so I tried it. We've had a little snow. I asked my new students if they knew any others. Yes. To bring snow, you must sleep with a spoon under your pillow. To bring snow, you must flush three ice cubes down the toilet. And from the Wedding-Guest, putting a Pop-Tart in the freezer can bring snow.<br /><br />I'm thinking of having a study, complete with control group, among my students to find out which of these methods is most effective. As for me and my house, we shall sleep wrong-side out and backwards, flush ice down the toilet, leave Cinderella's (more on her later) chocolate Pop-Tart in the freezer, and sleep with spoons under our pillows. I will let you know what happens.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-74604983367433606942012-01-19T18:28:00.000-08:002012-01-19T18:33:39.301-08:00And now there came both mist and snow, and it grew wond'rous cold...FINALLY it is snowing! "At first it seemed a little speck, and then it seemed a mist. It moved and moved and took at last a certain shape, I wist." That's how the snow came too: At first, walking the dogs after work, I heard the wind like a far-off train, and then like a skateboard coming up behind me. Then, I went out to get the mail in tiny flakes that didn't count to my greedy self. And then the next time I looked out, there were more of them. And then I looked out and the wind was back, and it was blowing all the flakes every direction, and all was white again, including the horrible muddy patch of grass that used to be our front yard.<br /><br />It's not a blizzard. Ice mast-high will not come floating by any time soon. I doubt the ice fishermen can even come onto the lake yet. But there is mist and snow. Already, I see that it is slowing down. Perhaps it will pick back up while I am sleeping, and perhaps the sun that is predicted for tomorrow will just make the still day colder for all the sparkling it causes instead of melting all this back into horrible grey-dirty ice.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-61641621793241520022012-01-18T19:06:00.000-08:002012-01-18T19:16:52.606-08:00A thousand, thousand slimy things lived on...and so did I.Cats never like me. They never want to come to me. They never want to stay with me. I know why: I like them. I want them to come to me. I want them to stay with me. They don't like that. For cats, I am the equivalent of the clingy boyfriend who wants to marry you after the first date. <br /><br />Apparently, I am the same to the snow: It doesn't like me. It doesn't want to come to me. It doesn't want to stay with me. It just wants to be friends.<br /><br />We had no snow today either, and the sun came out. We had nice big gusts of wind that knocked down trees and took out the power last night, but no snow. Today I see even more grass, even more mud, even more dirt in the icy snow we do have left. It looks like spring.<br /><br />My weather forecast shows a picture of snow and clouds. I hope that comes true, but I'm trying not to hope it too much. I'm trying to go about my business, not think about it constantly, not check the window and the forecast all the time, not want it too much in case that will make it want me.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-82207992884083532942012-01-17T17:58:00.000-08:002012-01-17T18:10:20.459-08:00And when I awoke, it rained.It is the middle of January. We are supposed to be hemmed in by snow. We are not. We got a little snow -- about a foot -- right before we returned to New York, but today the rain came and washed too much of it away!<br /><br />Still, I only complain a little bit for now. The rain cleared the roads, and the temperature was so warm that it didn't freeze. The meant I could drive to Cape Vincent, pick up the Wedding Guest, bring him here and hang out for a few hours. We didn't get much accomplished, research-wise, but we did catch up on each other's lives and, as he so often does, he brought deer meat with him! And cooked it in butter. We had rice with broccoli and seedless green grapes and, of course, iced tea. Outside, the rain fell little but constant, uncovering the muddy green grass and making my snow gray. But that's okay. I was glad to have an easy drive back to Cape Vincent later and a very nice one home, checking out the countryside and small towns I haven't seen in almost a month.<br /><br />And now...here in the evening...the storm-blast comes, and he is tyrannous and strong. He strikes with his o'er-taking wings. The wind is big and gusty. It is not like Oklahoma wind at all. Even when it is big, it never seems to last very long. And it very, very seldom swirls into a tornado. I don't fear it. I find it an exciting change of pace, and I wish I could walk down to the lake with my coat-tails flapping and see what it does to the water. <br /><br />I'm so glad to live here. I hope winter is riding back in on this wind, like a big, bearded biker roaring into town to take charge.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-9934493589428828892012-01-16T19:07:00.000-08:002012-01-16T19:26:20.555-08:00Snow SelfishnessNone of my friends from New York love the snow as much as I do. That's natural; you seldom love what you've always had too much of. I, of course, grew up with piddling Oklahoma snows that lasted a week at most but were usually just a few inches that melted at noon and turned to ice in the evening. <br /><br />So I am constantly wishing for snow, celebrating snow when it comes, and wishing for more snow no matter how much we already have. I want whipping winds of snow through which I cannot see. I want giant slow flakes or curtains of tiny sparkling flakes. I want it now, and more.<br /><br />It is selfish, when so many of my friends and co-workers hate snow and/or have Seasonal Affective Disorder, to wish so hard for more of it -- for grey skies and gusty wind and so much snow that we can't remember what it was like to see the ground. It is selfish, but I can't seem to stop it. <br /><br />But then I find myself in this kind of bind: I have a very dear young friend here in New York who lives about half an hour from me on the St. Lawrence River. He is my Wedding Guest, the one to whom "my tale [I must] teach." He's also my research assistant when I do metal projects, so beyond enjoying his company, I benefit from his patience with internet research. I have been in Oklahoma the last few weeks, so we haven't seen each other in about a month. Beyond needing to get truckin' on the research (which is due in MARCH!!!!), I just really look forward to visiting with him -- and, of course, butting into his life with nosiness and advice.<br /><br />I was going to announce that the thought of this visit made me for once unselfish about the snow because I am hoping it will hold off for a day so I can drive out there and get him...but now I realize that I am STILL being selfish, asking it to stop because something better has come along.<br /><br />The nature of snow is not to care about my plans, which is one of the things I love about it, but I just had to write this entry to commemorate one of those rare times when I kind of hope the snow (or even worse, ice) will not come down for one day. But just one day. After that, I hope we get a blizzard.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-8713083977129830752012-01-15T15:29:00.001-08:002012-01-15T15:43:45.840-08:00Dog WalkMy first winter here, my husband was deployed. We had one dog, Tula, she of the crooked teeth and dubious breeding (we got her from the animal shelter). We had no fence around our yard. So every morning I got up 30 minutes early in order to layer on, over pajamas, the following: snow overalls, fleece scarf, fleece jacket, puffy ski jacket, hat with ear flaps (lined with fleece), $40 North Face ski mittens, and fur-lined snow boots...all so I could walk Tula to town. Upon returning from a day teaching college, I put all the same on over my work clothes and walked her to town again -- before dinner, which if you know my Hobbit eating habits, is a huge sacrifice. In the middle of the day, a dog walker came and walked her again. She was in good shape.<br /><br />But I always felt bad that our little dog was only ever outside on a leash. (For Tula runs away and does not come back when called. Or chased.) And, we thought, it would be so nice to just let the dogs out in the morning instead of having to walk them before breakfast. So, just before he came home, we had a fence put up around the yard -- and, in the meantime, got a dog for Tula, Nikki -- a Tibetan spaniel also from the shelter, whose teeth and breeding are even more questionable than hers.<br /><br />Thus it was that when the next winter came, we could -- and did -- just let the dogs out in the mornings...and, after awhile, also sometimes in the evenings when we just didn't feel like going outside after working all day. <br /><br />You know where this is going: Even though my dogs are AWFUL to walk, I miss the walks. I miss knowing the snow levels and how many ice fishermen are on the frozen lake. I miss the orange streetlight glow on the snow. I miss the moon sparkling on it. I miss knowing its sound. I miss knowing whether the cold that day will take my breath away or just feel fresh and clean. <br /><br />We walked the dogs this evening, and I hope to get back into the pattern of walking them. It's better for them, and of course, us also. I'm going to start with the evening walks for a few weeks and just do the morning one when I feel like it. I know myself: If it feels like punishment or an unnecessary obligation, I won't do it. After awhile, I'll add the morning walk back in regularly and see how that goes. I did it before, so surely I can manage it again. And my little dogs will feel more like dogs, perhaps. My lungs will feel more like lungs. My winter will feel longer, bigger, colder, closer.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-84649548346165439872012-01-14T09:11:00.000-08:002012-01-14T09:18:17.721-08:00Return to the Land of Mist and SnowWell...It's been awhile, again. And again, I say I will try to do better. And I will not even TRY to catch you up on goings-on. Anyway, if you are reading this, you are probably my father and know everything anyway. We all know you, Daddy, are the real audience for this blog. And so, as I used to do on carousels as my horse came around to where you were standing, I will wave at my first and most loyal audience.<br /><br />This year, the land of mist and snow has been the land of 60-degrees and sun all winter. No snow on Halloween. No snow on Thanksgiving. No snow on CHRISTMAS. So we went home to Oklahoma for a few weeks. Now, we are at the home of my husband's sisters in Lockport, a suburb of Buffalo. We had a nice sunny drive here...decided to spend the night and have been snowed in for two days now. Hurray! <br /><br />Except not quite hurray because we have to drive home in it today, as my husband must sign in from leave today. (In case any of you are NOT Daddy and don't know, my husband is a soldier.) Still, I am so glad to see snow. Real snow. Big snow.<br /><br />Except Alaska has so much snow that their cars are buried. They can't open their doors. And so I have snow envy. I hope once we do get home to our beautiful blue beta fish, Li Ning, and our incredibly pricy heating oil we will get dramatic snow as well. I hope it never stops. I hope it is still snowing in May.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-73031670380924623222011-04-23T05:26:00.000-07:002011-04-23T05:46:31.967-07:00Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...I last wrote in October. The season of mist and snow (but still not enough to satisfy me) came and went. In October, I said I'd write tomorrow, but I lied. Around that time, everything became too much, so I trimmed whatever I could from my life, and this blog was gristle. But here I am now, in April, the day before Easter.<br /><br />It's a windy, rainy day. I call this Research Weather because the first day I ever did official, formal research for a class was on a day with weather like this. I wore a white knitted shirt I'd inherited from my glamorous Aunt Mary and a satiny tye-dyed orange/yellow/red skirt I'd sewn together myself. It was full and came to the floor, and the waistband was sewed on wrong-side out. And I wore brown gladiator sandals I'd inherited from my cousin, Mary's daughter, Cinda, who had decided they weren't her style. That became my favorite outfit because it always reminded me of that day.<br /><br />I was in high school, working on my junior English research paper about Andy Warhol's Factory. My thesis sentence used the word "microcosm." I used the paper as an excuse to buy <em>The Velvet Underground + Nico</em>, which was life-changing. My father bought me a huge, heavy coffeetable book full of black and white pictures of people and happenings at the Factory. I was immersed. I wished and prayed and begged God to bring me to New York. (And, as you can see, he answers prayers.)<br /><br />Back in the olden days, research was conducted using real, live, wooden card catalogues, microfilm, microfiche, hardbound periodicals on the second floor of the NSU library. I remember standing on the shaky round stools to reach books on the top shelves. I remember how my eyes would blur, watching the microfilm whirl by. I remember how cool I felt when I could use both microfilm and microfiche without a librarian's help. I remember opening the coffeetable book and finding a picture of Edie Sedgwick dancing with shadows at a Velvet Underground show, listening to them while I looked at it, putting on make-up and cooler clothes, trying to feel what it might have felt like for them, knowing I couldn't quite...that research can only take you so far, but farther than you could go by just casually observing.<br /><br />My mother dropped me off at the library that morning. It was a Saturday. She picked me up around lunch. I changed into a red and white tie-dyed shirt and leather skirt she had made in the 1960s, and we went out to a gathering of artists and art-lovers who were eating and philosophizing and generally having a good time as they waited for a bust of potter Anna Mitchell to be fired. <br /><br />It was not a time that I thought my mother was cool. She was the Maker and Enforcer of Rules. (Not that I had many...I had incredibly liberal parents who raised us with a minimum of interference.) But I talked to all kinds of people there who thought she was, and their praise began to convince me. And, best of all, I had something to talk about with all those art people: My research.<br /><br />It was on a day with weather like this that I discovered how to dis-cover the mysteries of the world, to gaze at them, touch them, listen to them, put them into my own heart and mind, find they are even more mysterious than I originally thought. Research Weather is almost as good as mist and snow. Almost.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-81046320199151604572010-10-19T18:08:00.000-07:002010-10-19T18:22:12.274-07:00Time for mist, not yet for snow?It's been awhile...It was summer. It was hot. I was in Oklahoma all summer, and even the land of mist and snow had neither, and still doesn't...but I miss writing, not to mention my main audience, Daddy. And so, even though it's just autumn, I'll write.<br /><br />It's been a very hectic and tiring semester so far, but I'm not ever here to talk about work. I am here to talk about the very bright red, yellow, orange and multi-colored trees that are everywhere...except I'm nearly missing them for spending all my time in the office or at the library table at home, grading papers. It was thus last fall as well.<br /><br />It's strangely warm, and I hope that means we will have a big, giant, long winter. My New York students tell me their grandparents say so. That's what happens when it's weirdly warm in Oklahoma too, so I hope it's true. I want snow so high I can't open the door.<br /><br />I wanted to write this, but now I can't seem to write. Alll the words I know seem like the wrong ones or the boring ones. This is not an auspicious return to my blog. But here I am. I will try to be more excited and exciting tomorrow.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-81932694900639619882010-08-19T16:31:00.000-07:002010-08-19T16:39:38.031-07:00Death AngelOn Thanksgiving of 1989, my cousin Eddie and I were hiding in a bedroom from our giant extended family's loving but overwhelming gathering. We were 14-year-old burgeoning metalheads with black clothes, long hair, and a bleak outlook on the world. We could only be pleasant in short bursts, and our bursts for the day were over.<br /><br />"Listen to this," he said.<br /><br />Things move slowly in Oklahoma, and we were too young to keep up even then, so Death Angel's album (which was on cassette tape for us) The Ultra-Violence had just now reached him. And that Thanksgiving, it reached me as well. We sat there on the bed, and I loved each song more than the one before it.<br /><br />We were already Metallica and Slayer fans, so of course we liked the style of Death Angel, but there was something else. They were a little more melodic, perhaps. Mark Osegueda's voice was more beautiful. And there was something good-natured and positive about them, even when they were singing about violent or scary topics. Normally, we wouldn't like that, but Death Angel did it in a way that made us believe they could possibly be right.<br /><br />And of course, like many bands at the time, they sang about the unity of the metal community. At that time, it did feel unified. Yes, we spoke with disdain of "false metal" and "poseurs" and all that, but ultimately, we took care of each other and believed we were part of something monstrous and mysterious that could pull us through anything. For many of us, it was in our nature to find life shallow and disappointing, but this music reminded us that there was more to it than we could touch or see. So when I was sitting in Pre-Algebra, and people were passing notes about whose boyfriend was seen with whose girlfriend, and the Oklahoma sky was coming in the windows annoyingly blue and cheerful, and the teacher was talking about something I didn't understand and didn't care about, I would write metal lyrics in the margins of my notebook and tell myself this would not always be my life.<br /><br />Metallica, Slayer, Testament and Megadeth were big bands. They were all larger than life to me -- Big, strong men who made music that helped thousands of people survive. The music was big too, and commanding, and far away, like God. Death Angel's music was powerful, but it was also more personal somehow. When I needed to feel like I was enough to be part of the whole thing, it was Death Angel who reassured me.<br /><br />I've been trying to write that last sentence for awhile now. It's still not quite what I mean. But I'm going to just skip ahead.<br /><br />Fast forward (like I used to do to hurry up and get to "Voracious Souls") about 20 years. At the beginning of this summer, I had a conversation in which I lamented never having seen Slayer. So I went on the internet to see if they would be anywhere near me any time soon. (They would be but alas, I could not go.) Along the side of the website there was a list of other bands who were on tour. Death Angel was on that list. I thought, "Hmm...I love Death Angel. I'll have to see where they're playing."<br /><br />An hour away. Later that night.<br /><br />I have responsibilities. I’d stayed up late the night before with a friend kept awake by a broken heart. The next morning, I had to take my father to the doctor an hour away. And drive him home. But this is the age of Facebook. I posted a status update lamenting the fact that I shouldn’t go see Death Angel and questioning whether I should just go anyway. Lo and behold, seconds later came responses from metal friends new and old reminding me that this is what we DO.<br /><br />So without thinking it over too much, I called my niece and nephew – young metalheads both – and told them to put on their black clothes because we were going to see Death Angel. They did not need to be asked twice.<br /><br />The Marquee is a small, dark club – just right for metal, I think. We got there early enough to support most of the local bands who opened, and all of them were good. If this wasn’t so long already, I’d tell you about them, but surely you are getting impatient already.<br /><br />So, as I said before, Death Angel was never that famous, and they are less famous now. But those of us who love them are diehards. We were there with our children – in my case, my sisters-in-law’s children – talking over what songs they might play, how long we’d been listening to them, what we were like when we’d first heard them, who we liked now (Acrassicauda seemed to be the consensus band in that crowd)…It was good to be with family.<br /><br />And then Death Angel came out.<br /><br />We were standing right at the edge of the low stage, in the middle. Mark Osegueda was right there, looking even more beautiful than he did when I was 15 and, yes, still wearing a very similar outfit to the one I had on, even though I hadn’t been keeping up all these years. They had a new bassist and a new drummer, both of them excellent. They played every song I love. They reached down and shook our hands in between songs. They ran here and there, and their long hair flew wildly, as did all of ours, in time to the music. I’d almost forgotten how disorienting headbanging is when you begin it, and the trance-like state it becomes after a few songs. But sometimes I had to stop, so I could look at Death Angel and realize we were in the same room at last.<br /><br />It was my niece’s first metal concert ever. A few songs into the show, the new (young, gorgeous) bassist reached down and handed her his pick. She was the first person for whom this happened that night. She’s at an age when gorgeous guys doing anything is exciting, so it was a big deal made even bigger by the fact that the swirling people, the dark room, the loud music were new to her. I saw all this happen, and I will always remember her blue eyes widening, and the surprise of her smile, and her Gryffindor-colored hair standing out in the crowd. They were that to me: Metal, and guys, and something that relieved the pain of growing up, and it was incredible to see them be that for her too.<br /><br />Every song was powerful and big and just right. Death Angel succumbed to the overproduction of their time, so some of their later albums were not rough enough for me. Live, the edges were broken off jagged, and all the songs were violently beautiful.<br /><br />Toward the end of the night, they played a song I love, “Seemingly Endless Time,” and during the second chorus, Mark knelt down into the crowd, right by me, with the microphone the distance between us, so all our voices mixed together. We were so close I could feel the warmth of his skin. His dreadlocks brushed against my face. I closed my eyes. I turned away for a second, because this was too much…but metal is too much. That’s the point. So I opened my eyes again, and sang with him, and he smiled at me…or maybe I imagine he did. Maybe he was just smiling because he wrote that song, because he was making metal, because Death Angel was playing, and even when you’re in it yourself, that’s exciting.<br /><br />Then when he stood up, he reached for my hand, and stepped back on a monitor, and didn’t let go as he leaned back off of it…didn’t let go until I did, at the last minute, when gravity forced me to.<br /><br />It’s what they’ve done for me all these years: Not let go until I did. And when I did let go, they didn’t stop. They kept on, and just when I needed them again, they were there. That is Death Angel, in my life.<br /><br />They are releasing a new album this fall. They played some songs from it. It’s going to be good. I’ll buy it, and when I haven’t gotten enough sleep, when I have too many things to do, when I am worried, I will listen to it and think of being 15, feeling like I couldn’t make it, then being 35 and realizing I did. This music never deserts us, even if we wander away from it. We come back, bedraggled, and it kills the fatted calf. We reach out for it, and it reaches back. It pulls us through.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-25881038201163544192010-05-16T15:28:00.000-07:002010-05-16T15:44:21.073-07:00Some Notes on Ronnie James DioI just found out that Ronnie James Dio died of stomach cancer early this morning. Some of you may not know who that is, so I will tell you: He was a pioneering heavy metal singer. A very small man with a very huge voice. He dressed unabashedly dramatic, in capes and armor. He carried a sword in most of his videos. There were often dragons and pyrotechnics at his shows. He was the age of my father, and his heyday was a bit before my time, but if you know metal, you know that we respect our forefathers. <br /><br />In addition to singing for Rainbow and Black Sabbath, he did his own thing, which was just called Dio. Their logo was a lovely calligraphy that all the metalheads learned to draw -- except this one. But I had friends. So my notebook too had "DIO" emblazoned across it in that perfect calligraphy all through junior high and high school.<br /><br />His wife's report to the media said he died peacefully, and I'm glad for that. He was young for a normal person, but old for a rock star. I'm glad we had him for as long as we did and that he died in a dignified way, with his family beside him.<br /><br />I'm not a huge Dio fan. I tend to favor deep, growling, harsh voices. Ronnie James Dio was an operatic-style singer. But I always appreciated his focus on the battle between good and evil. One of the reasons I began to love metal when I was 14 was that it addressed spiritual matters in a serious way. Dio is part of the reason it does that, and so he is part of the reason this music has been such a comfort and inspiration to me for such a long time. <br /><br />And so this is the little thing I've written in order for my voice to be added to the many who pause to mourn and celebrate him. As a performer, he was grandiose, and fun, and a legend who never disappointed us, even in death.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-14232667751242170772010-05-14T07:08:00.001-07:002010-05-14T07:15:40.212-07:00Been a long time since I rock 'n'rolled...Sorry I've been absent! In the land of mist and snow, there is little mist, there is no more snow...Except I heard there WAS some snow while I was down south in Brooklyn last weekend! <br /><br />Here's a quick update, and I'll get back to regular blogging eventually:<br /><br />1. We are finished teaching for the summer! I'm still going into work to grade, have meetings, etc., but at least I don't have to enact lesson plans or deal with "I didn't do my homework, so what am I supposed to do?" scenarios. (Answer: You are supposed to quietly make the best of the situation. You are an adult. Figure it out.) (But 90% of my students are scholarly angels.)<br /><br />2. There is green everywhere in the village. The restaurants are open, the boats are out. Lawn furniture is coming out in yards, and the summer people are airing out their cabins and lake houses. <br /><br />3. The people who lived here before us planted red and purple and violet-and-white tulips, so we have flowers.<br /><br />4. They are putting in a new sewer line in front of my house, so every day these men come with machines that look like giant chainsaws that you can drive. So far, they are digging huge holes. I don't know what they'll do next. It's neat to watch. <br /><br />5. My house is a disaster area. That's because I wrote another novel. When I do that, everything disintegrates around me. And I have an idea for another one. I think. So before that one gets started, I'm going to try to get this place at least hygenic.<br /><br />6. Because I'm going home to Oklahoma soon. Really soon. Dreadfully soon. Northern New York is so beautiful and fun in the summer! But I'll be glad to see my family, my tribe, my musician friends...and I'll be glad to be really, really hot. They don't get really, really hot up here. It only gets into the 80s. <br /><br />7. Okay...I have to actually go to work now. But we're nearly finished!Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-12146900137818693592010-04-11T18:41:00.000-07:002010-04-11T19:22:13.250-07:00A Professional Blog, Mainly Directed At My FatherI talked to my father on the phone for two hours yesterday, yet we did not get around to the subject I am about to address here. So, to shave some time off the next call, I am going to put the foreward of what I want to talk about here. I'm putting it here instead of in an e-mail because someone else reading this may have an opinion also. But if not, that's okay. As is often the case, this blog is mainly for my father.<br /><br />And here is the subject: Introduction to Non-Western Literature (the artist formerly known as "World Literature")<br /><br />As I told you, I will be teaching this class in the fall. (For those of you reading this who don't know what I do for a living, I teach in the English department of a community college.) In the olden days, the course was World Literature, and it dealt with the old epics and things like that. Now, it is Non-Western Literature, and its purpose is to introduce students to the literature of non-western countries in order to give them insight into the relationships between people in our global community. A noble pursuit, and I will include it also. BUT one of the reasons I was so glad to get this class is that I've had a shocking amount of students, from the first day of class, ask if I would teach them Dante's<em> Inferno</em>. Only one of them wanted to read it because of the video game. The others had just heard about it, tried to read it, and found it too difficult without help. I tell you this to explain one of my reasons for designing the course to include some western literature and more of a focus on the old stuff than might be strictly appropriate. <br /><br />Anyway, for all of you, here is the first part of my dilemma: I am choosing a textbook, and I very much want to teach out of the <em>Norton Anthology of World Literature</em>. I learned from the Norton anthologies, so their font and paper feels like "real" literature to me. They use good translators also. They are sometimes accused of being old-fashioned in their arrangements and choices, however. I can get around that, if I decide it's the case (but I won't decide it because I am so blinded by Norton love). What I can't get around is the fact that the Norton costs about $20 more than the other anthologies out there, and it's in two volumes. <br /><br />I teach at a community college in a region that is suffering economically. Can I really ask my students to buy the more expensive textbook when the others have mostly the same works in them? The reason I want to have them buy the Norton is because those who are taking the class with me on purpose really want to know the epics. Some of them, in their individual Dante attempts, deliberately chose old translations to get a feeling of Literature with a capital "L," even thought that made it even harder for them to understand. I think they would love the Norton because it makes considered choices about balancing the beauty of language with accurate translation (I think)...but what of the people taking the class because they need another humanities credit and it's the only one that fits in their schedule? I'm not teaching English majors, for the most part, so they won't need to keep this book forever like we did. Still, I think it's worth it to have them read from the Norton. Do you? Or do you think I am letting my own nostalgia and bias interfere with this important decision?<br /><br />And this question is REALLY for my father, but if you happen to have some insight, by all means, share it! So Daddy, you taught English at a high school with students the world expected little from, and often, they believed the world. The temptation would have been to bring in things "on their level," but instead you taught them <em>Beowulf</em> and <em>The Canterbury Tales </em>and Shakespeare. And to this day, they come up to you at the grocery store and speak of these works as if they are the most common knowledge. How did you DO that?!<br /><br />I partly know, as I was raised by you. I know that 98% of your secret is not to speak of literature as something we learn but something that is in our lives. To recite bits of it in the context of real life, whether seriously or humorously. To make it something we have together, do together, are together, not something we study. To always make time for it (or was it me you were making time for?). To make reaching for its meaning both a social occasion (I'm thinking of when you read me <em>The Black Cat </em>when I was about 10 years old) and an individual pursuit (like when you sent me off at 13 to read <em>The Wanderer</em> because it was good, and then I was proud to have something to say about it later when you asked me). <br /><br />But how does that translate to a college classroom? How did it translate to a high school classroom? (Although, come to think of it, your high school students had you before I did.) How do you give them literature as a heritage, not a skill set? Because I think my students want that very much. Some of them are coming back to school after years of being away in jobs or the Army, and they want to <em>feel</em> Educated (capital E) besides just knowing things. Some of them are young, and came to our college because they cannot afford to leave home, or fear leaving home. But they want their minds to leave home, even if their bodies cannot. And some choose to be here with us, and I must not disappoint them in that choice. And so they deserve a big experience. I can't give them the relationship with literature that you gave me because I am not their parent, but perhaps I can give them a bit of the relationship you gave your students.<br /><br />So, think how you did that, and that's what I want to talk about this week. I'll call you. My schedule is frantic, and you, as you remind me constantly are a retired gentleman farmer, a man of leisure, the lord of the manor.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-62398774194562857412010-04-11T05:30:00.000-07:002010-04-11T05:44:39.814-07:00The Cruelest MonthIt turns out that I love the deep, blood-curdling, all-encompassing cold. I knew I would. We are only a few weeks into spring, and already I miss the vast white fields and frozen lake. I miss my snowboots, my snow overalls, and the long-handled broom I used to push snow off my windshield every morning. <br /><br />It's the half-cold I can't stand. We've had sunny days and some gray rainy ones. The gray rainy ones aren't so bad, but the sunny cold ones make me crazy. They remind me of winter in Mississippi. There, the sky was always so extradordinarily blue and lovely -- but in the winter, a cold that felt like it came outward from my core appeared. But it wasn't even the cold itself; it was the fact that there was cold at all in this place that was usually so extremely hot. The cold didn't suit Mississippi. It never felt natural. It was like the weather was wearing someone else's ill-fitting clothes, and I was relieved when it threw them off and put on the heat again.<br /><br />But at least it's not like Oklahoma spring. There, we have to worry about tornadoes. The snakes and ticks wake up. The wind blows. At least it gets beautiful, though. Out in the woods, you find bouquets of Easter lilies and wildflowers. The little trees have buds on their tips, then flowers, then bees and butterflies.<br /><br />In Italy, spring seemed to come overnight. I went to sleep in winter and woke up to flowerboxes and fields of poppies and women in bright sundresses and silver sandals. The farms and the mountains were almost unbearably picturesque. We'd walk along the canal at Marola wearing sweaters and I wouldn't believe I was awake, living in Italy, in love in the spring. Because spring was when Joe would deploy then. So the in-between springs, when he didn't, were magical.<br /><br />Anyway, spring here is muddy and cold. We've had a few actually warm days -- in the 70s and 80s -- and those gave me a terrible longing for summer, when, perhaps, it will really be warm. In the meantime, the breeze off the lake is cold, and the sun is a trick. I can't figure out the right configuration of layers to wear, and the dogs' paws are muddy all the time. And when it rains, there are worms all over the sidewalks. I just walk staring straight ahead to get from one place to the next. When the sun comes back out, they dry up in hieroglyphics. It seems unfair. And that is spring.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-53980418135998663802010-04-01T12:56:00.000-07:002010-04-01T13:07:46.814-07:00DirtBack in November, when my husband was still home and we were on Thanksgiving break, all our neighbors made piles of leaves and sticks. They raked them to the curb and the village trucks came around and picked them up. We raked some of our leaves -- the ones in the front yard, mainly. But we were on break, so we left some of the leaves in the backyard. Okay, truthfully, <em>most </em>of the leaves in the backyard.<br /><br />Then The Airborne (as my father calls him) went to Afghanistan. It snowed. The snow never melted. Until now. <br /><br />Last week, the neighbors all raked up their remaining leaves, the new sticks, and whatever else was in their yards. They made piles of sticks. I was scrambling to keep up with my work and told myself I was too tired and it was too cold to do my own yard. I kept putting it off. But now I am on spring break. I fear I may have missed the village trucks, but I'm not sure. I saw a few people still raking when I walked the dogs this afternoon.<br /><br />It's about 73 degrees. I forgot what it feels like to sweat in the sun. I forgot that piles of leaves are wet on their undersides and that when you rake them, the smell of cool, moist dirt wafts up at you. Under the leaves, little white-green shoots are coming up out of the soil, which is the color of wet coffeegrounds. <br /><br />I can't believe we left so many leaves. I've been raking them and pulling up these dead stalks that The Airborne hates. For two hours I have been doing this, and my yard now has piles of things but doesn't look that much better. At least it smells of spring out there now. I have no idea what to do with the piles if the village doesn't come to get them. I don't live in the country, so I can't just burn them. <br /><br />All I can think about is how I'm so glad I'm not in Oklahoma because a yard like mine would be crawling with copperheads. <br /><br />I know I ought to go back out there and work some more, but I'm feeling a little defeated. I'm working on the terrible script and the metal novel that is the love of my life but not going so well. I want to write them. I miss living in the country, where Outside takes care of itself. <br /><br />The dogs were tied to the deck. They rolled over and slept in the shade and are now covered with tiny pieces of leaves. My hands have the beginnings of blisters. My piece of New York is out from under winter and trying to breathe.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-46891304192131127942010-03-31T23:07:00.000-07:002010-03-31T23:11:16.206-07:00Attention!Some of you may remember that I participated in National Novel Writing Month last November. The resulting 50,546-word novel was a joy to create (except when it was agonizing). So I've decided (as of about 11:30 p.m. on March 31) to participate in Script Frenzy this year.<br /><br />It's the same concept, but with a script: To "win," you have to write 100 pages of a script during the month of April. I came up with a bad, bad idea and began right at midnight. That's why I am up at 2 a.m. as I write this.<br /><br />So...I thought you might like to know. Four pages down...96 to go!Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124939145661334163.post-64111781784843833512010-03-26T19:43:00.000-07:002010-03-26T20:19:24.524-07:00SouthI love New York. I always wanted to live here, and here I am. It is never disappointing. Every day, I remember that I am lucky. Every day, it is my job to check on Black River Bay, and this is a good job.<br /><br />And so I do not say what I'm about to say in order to convey any kind of sadness, because I am not sad.<br /><br />For the last three weeks, I have dreamed over and over about the coast of Mississippi. I used to live down there...not quite on the coast, but just up from it. We were stationed in Italy, and the Iraq part of the war had just started. When my husband went to the war, I went to south Mississippi. I was getting my doctorate down there and had to go to class. Then, after a year, he came home, and I went back to Italy to stay with him. But the next year, he went to Afghanistan, and I went back to Mississippi. And so on, until I finished my doctorate and we moved way up here, to New York.<br /><br />The first part of the war was incredibly awful. Communication was difficult and slow, and people kept getting hurt and killed. And graduate school, for those of you who haven't been, has some difficult parts even though it's fun. So it was a hard time all around. But I lived in south Mississippi, and there were no sharp edges there for me.<br /><br />My apartment was on the second floor of a two-story building. Long into the hot nights, me and my neighbors -- college students and National Guard people stationed at Camp Shelby -- would sit out on the balcony drinking tea, passing around the resident baby, petting the stray cats our landlady encouraged us to spoil. In the day time even, on the weekends, I'd sit out there boiling, reading inscrutable literary theory and making notes for my papers. And sometimes, when the war was too terrible or the sky was that deep blue it only gets in Mississippi, I'd leave everything I ought to be doing and drive 45 minutes to sit by the ocean.<br /><br />Sometimes I'd drive straight from work. I'd be down there in the dirty sand wearing my dress shoes, sharing donut holes with the gulls. This was before Hurricane Katrina, so if I looked one direction, there were lovely huge houses and if I looked the other direction, there was the bay. To a girl from Oklahoma, smelling the ocean is miraculous. My Mississippi friends teased me for loving it. They didn't consider their beach a beach or the bay the ocean, but it was salt water, there were jellyfish, and I couldn't see its end, so to me, it was the ocean. It was everything I needed right then.<br /><br />Every time I drove toward it, I'd feel like I was going to find out it wasn't really there. That's how much I loved it. And unfortunately, one day, much of it really wasn't there anymore, after the hurricane. It was a long time before we could drive down there, and even then, driving down there wasn't the right thing to do unless you came to help. So I came to help sometimes, but not enough. And I never helped the Mississippi coast as much as it helped me.<br /><br />I hate that every time I talk about it now I have to talk about the hurricane.<br /><br />I haven't been dreaming about the hurricane. When I dream of the coast right now, it's like it was before -- a little dirty, a little tacky in places, a quiet place where I could sit on the sand and watch banana boats. There used to be a restaurant with a lobster on its roof and a casino shaped like a pirate ship. The Mississippi coast wasn't an idyllic place, even before the hurricane, but there are a lot of beautiful things missing from it now. <br /><br />Still, I love it, and I wish I could go there. I think I dream of it because it still sometimes seems weird that my husband is deployed and I'm not in Misssissippi. I never considered being anywhere else. I keep dreaming I park my car by the pier in Gulfport and start walking along the beach, then forget to stop and realize I've walked all the way to Alabama and it's getting dark. Last night in my dream, there was a party going on all along the water's edge, so it wasn't scary walking back. Everyone was making big vats of shrimp and dancing. <br /><br />I'm so happy in New York, and this deployment is no worse than any other so far. Like I said, I'm not sad. But there is a longing that is not sadness, and that's what I have: Wishing so deeply that if I just blink my eyes real hard I'll find I dreamed myself in New York but I'm really lying across my bed in Mississippi with the window open and the humid heat all through me and my car full of gas so I can just get in and drive through the longleaf pines until I can't go any farther south.Daisy B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03289237289200230147noreply@blogger.com1