always throwing a punch of some sort…

(Renoir’s Alfred Sisley….photo snapped at the Chicago Institute of Art, allowable as long as no flash is used.) This image was chosen because it looks like he’s thinking about what Ernest is saying, below.

“What a writer has to do is write what hasn’t been written before or beat dead men at what they have done.”

-Ernest Hemingway

Thanks, Ernest. You have such a way with words. No, really.

One Fish, Two Fish – Books, Flags and Fishy Stuff

flags at Missouri Botanical Garden Japanese Festival

The wind refused to blow as I snapped photo after photo of a these flags.  I thought about asking HM to shimmey up the pole and blow on them, but he was kind enough to wait as I stood in the middle of the road to get any shot at all and likewise, he prevented the SUVs and muscle cars from running me down.

Trying to take good pictures always puts me in mind of the fantastic shots we see and take for granted. How often do you wonder where the photographer was in order to get the picture? Was he on a roof, hanging from a glider, pimping his own beliefs to hang with some sort of crowd in order to get their pictures, walking along the edge of something swampy or sly, risking his or her life, or sliding through the ocean or nearly falling off a cliff or hanging in some sort of human twist to catch a glimpse on camera of some gorgeous thing growing out of the skin of a tree twenty feet above ground?

Of course thousands and thousands of photos imply no risk at all. They are the wondrous magic of timing. Of being there. Of seeing. So many blogs willingly and freely put marvelous remarkable shots out there for others to see. Those are my mentors. I learn and learn, and then I go and take a dumb-ass picture anyway. But photos are  another way to communicate. You see them. You feel the stories and look more closely and get even more.

I had no intention at all of talking about photos, but I must express my delight to ALL those who post pictures. Who climb up on their desks and the backs of their couches to get shots of their desks and manuscripts, of their offices, who stand on porches, fences, hills, knee-deep in water, or in the grocery store, the streets of Paris, the waterways of Venice, the Outback of Anywhere – everywhere out there, in places we cannot get to and see without being time travelers.

Back to the topic: Fish.
I am a Pisces. This “fish” thing is important to me when it applies. Thus, the above photo taken at the Festival.

Book recommendations

But what of having read books about fish?
‘”Course there was PINOCCHIO, with the whale, not really a fish but a mammoth mammal and a scary one when you’re a kid….
and then there was MOBY DICK and I pushed the entire senior class in a Maine high school through that book, propelling them towards the apparent final battle between Ahab and Moby….
and then there was THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA and you know what?  I read that book far too quickly. I read it just to say I had read it. Foolish. I must go back. Not to look at the story; I know full well how that goes. I have to go back and look at the language. 
You can buzz on over to Scobberlotch and hear Hemingway’s Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, plied with pictures of “Papa” and evocative. Especially for those who write. Have a look. 
And then there was ONE FISH TWO FISH RED FISH BLUE FISH when the kids were little.  Not completely silly, you know. It’s the memories such books create as much as the silly rhymes which they remember as well.

Do movies figure in this aimless rambling riff? Let’s say ‘yes.’ Consdier  BIG FISH. It’s a fantasy. It’s a story of a son and his father and the former trying to understand the latter. (That is a terrible over-simplification!)  Watch it if you haven’t already, just let it happen and avoid making sense. You’ll feel  it, which, we could say, is the essence of fantasy.

OK, here is my book recommendation for this “fishy” entry:  It is…
SHARK’S FIN AND SICHUAN PEPPER – A SWEET SOUR MEMOIR OF EATING IN CHINA by Fuschia Dunlop.
I won’t give you a long complicated review on this one since it would pre-empt the review I just handed in to an editor (but you can read it in October’s SAUCE Magazine.)
Needless to say, anyone I know in book blog world will like it. Not the shark’s fin and maybe not the pepper, but certainly the writing, humor and info all wrapped up in a to-go box with chopsticks. The book is good. She is, in fact, one of the finest “foodie” writers I have ever read. So British, so open-minded, so talented, so humble. Don’t tell me you don’t care much about Chinese food. Me, either. This book, though, I’m telling you, even if you read any chapter, out of order, will weave you true tales, tell you anecdotal history, chat you up on why, why, why an expat in ’90s China longed and lusted to learn cook like a Chinaman (cooking school was rife with guys; Fuschia was odd “man” out in that sense). And she does.

Are there other books with fish in the story or the title? Oh, thousands, likely. But without coffee, this little tug has run out of steam. Wishing you a wonderful week ahead….

the writers tour … involving a wee drink in historic places

It was a bit of rainy day. Enough to make a person want to tour some of the city’s haunts where writers of remark and reknown had trod before.  Enough to incite bookish activities.  Think bookish thoughts. See what other writers might have seen.

It began with a hop onto the streetcar which runs the length of St Charles Avenue right smack into Canal Street which edges the French Quarter.  I will never pass up the opportunity to buy St Charles again during a classic game of Monopoly. It is a beautiful street stretching from urban fringes into the gorgeousness of the Garden District. 

There is much to behold along the streetcar route. But you must keep your head and fingers inside the window. There is no air conditioning, so the windows will go up and down as you like. Sometimes there’s nary an inch between you and the branches, streetcars and trucks just beyond your window.  Sometimes the branches of the crepe myrtles flick right inside the window.  It’s $1.25 to ride the streetcar.  The driver is nice, affable though ready to yell and smile at other drivers who unwittingly drive over the tracks in front of him or swoop close at a corner. It’s entertainment of a sort.  He opened the door to the car to yell at a woman in a BMW who was pinching his access and he coached her, with a yelling voice, to back up, while offering some humor as an aside to us, his passengers. He let a bum get on the streetcar and ask others for enough fare to pay his way. We rattled from stop to stop. And got off at Canal and Bourbon.

This is the ritual of absinthe.  Certain size glass. Fancy silver salver laid across the top. Sugar cube placed on top. Absinthe poured over the sugar. Sugar cube then lit and burns, carmlizing the sugar cube which drips into the absinthe in the glass below. When the flame goes out, the bartender gently scrapes sugar off the salver and drops it into the drink. Now ice water is slowly poured through the salver into the glass and the absinthe slowly, slowly “turns” color (gets cloudy), known as the louche effect.

Yeah, it’s legal now. Not too trippy unless you drink several I guess. I dunno. 

Above, a glimpse of the interior view at Jean Lafitte’s Absinthe House. Hundreds and hundreds of business cards are taped, tacked and tucked on the wall. There are plenty of historical pictures framed and hung on the wall as well, yet (oddly), there are football helmets on long strings, hanging from the ceiling. The helmets are very dusty.

Don’t be fooled. There are plenty of places that call themselves the “absinthe house.” But this one, Jean Lafitte’s, might have special meaning to writers. One reason: O Henry lived across the street on Bienville, reportedly while hiding from the police for embezzlement charges in Texas.  General Andrew Jackson and pirate Jean Lafitte were said to have met in a secret room on the second floor of this building  to plan the defense of New Orleans. Chances are, Tennessee Williams wandered into the place as well.

Just like the Court of Two Sisters.

Above, the sign of the famed restaurant/club with its famed sunday brunch. Below, just inside, the courtyard entrance to the lovely place. We didn’t go in. We didn’t fill like another drink (yet) nor sitting at a linen-ed table. So, who hung out here? Well, our goodl Mr. Williams loved it, especially sitting at the patio bar and made reference to it in his work Vieux Carre. It’s also referred to in Ann Rice’s novel  The Witching Hour.

Above and below, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop on Bourbon has always been a hang out. Built in 1772 it is seemingly falling in on itself. It’s an odd little place. Walk in and feel as though you belong or as though you really don’t. A huge old stone fireplace is smack in the middle (the smithy’s), loud music plays and find your spot at the bar or table. One wall has photos of celebrity visitors. There’s Nick Cage, Jason Alexander, James Dewhateveritis (Tony Soprano). Very cool. We didn’t stay here, though. Just stopped in to check things out.  But duly note that Tennessee Williams liked this place. Surprise.

The picture below is in the lobby of the Monteleone Hotel. Yes, Williams stayed here, with his grandfather. He also worked on Camino Real. He also rec’d a basket of fruit after the staff realized who he was. It is also safe to say that the author may have had a drink here.

Truman Capote was almost born here at the Monteleone where his father had procured a suite. But no, as it happened, Baby Truman was born at the Touro Infirmary.

Do you recognize the “reference” in the picture below to John Kennedy ‘Toole’s Confederacy of Dunces?

It’s “Lucky Dogs,” which figure in the book bigtime. (I only know from HM. I did not read the book. I started it and stopped somewhere around page 15. )

And this is only a very teeny, tiny tip of the literary iceberg in the Crescent City. Laissez les bon temps roulez.

Something fishy …

 There are some places where funky mailboxes are de rigueur. Florida hosts hundreds of ’em.   Florida is theme-a-cali-fragilistic in wonderful ways. Don’t be fooled. Florida is a completely different animal from all the Disney trump you hear about.  There is so much there, so many layers, so many wonderful people, all ages, going at all different speeds, from all kinds of places, experiencing a geography that is nearly magical yet primitive.

Book Selection …

THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Hemingway. Fine. You would have guessed I’d mention that one.
THE LITTLE MERMAID by HC Andersen. No? Too sad? Yes.
TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA by Richard Brautigan. I read it while in college. It’s referred to as a “thinly veiled novel.” I thinly remember it except for the title and the book cover and I thought the whole thing was cool, rather experimental the way he set it up. But then, plunk, it fell off the expectation level. Still, it’s worth reading for the “times”  in which it was written.
THE GIRLS GUIDE TO HUNTING AND FISHING by Melissa Banks. I read it twice. Because I didn’t remember that I’d read it once already ’til I got near the end the second time. That’s fairly telling.

Mess with the clock, mess with my expectations …

Gimme a sign of Spring
Oh, baby
to get me through the night.

I can’t take the bleak gray 
baby
Bring on the Spring sunlight.

unrecorded and spontaneous lyrics by a totally cabin-fevered Oh
(note to BB King – um, yeah, this is just a little Blues dittie; no need to write me with a WTF? )

But wait, surely these are signs of Spring …

 

 The irrepressible crocuses …er … croci?

 Nope, not a pussy willow – this is a magnolia, getting ready to pop out of its furry little pods!

In the northeast, the sighting of a robin is the first sign of Spring. Not true here in the Midwest but still, Monsieur Robin brings a surge of  joy to this writer.

BOOKS SELECTIONS…

THE TORRENTS OF SPRING by Ernest Hemingway…
What????
I never heard of this one ’til searching for books to put here relating to “spring.”
Honestly, how many suitcases with novels in them did this man lose?

This one was apparently published in 1926, kind of a predecessor to THE SUN ALSO RISES.  Well, kudos to you if you’ve read this one…or even heard of it.

SILENT SPRING by Rachel Carson – written in 1962 and now credited as one of the top 25 science books ever, Ms Carson called everyone’s attention to the damages of DDT particularly on our bird population and led a decade later to the banning of the radical pesticide.
Good writers rule!

Stirring and stewing … and I’m not talking about food …

I should be reading and writing.
Should. should. should.
I am not interested in “shoulds” today.
Tralala.

It’s the last few days of vacay before the corporate structure (though let’s be honest; schedule and creativity and socialability in the work place are positives, too.)

I will finish writing a review for KROC so it’s on her desk Monday morning.
And, I have this awesome stack of magazines to go through, including VOGUE, Poets & Writers and several New Yorkers.

And then …

I have SNOBS, a novel by the same guy who wrote Gosford Park. (did you see that movie? egads, I loved it.) And so, look forward to the book which I found (and here I shiver) on the Remainder Shelf at Barnes and Noble.

And I have Nicholas Nickleby which was impossible to finish in December though I am well underway and adore it. I can’t help it. I’m a sap for Dickens. But also, for Hemingway. And Franzen. And Faulkner. And plenty of other contradictory writing styles. Go figure.

And I want to get my hands on some chick lit. Today.
Can’t help it. Need some NYC/publishing nilth. (Nilth means, herein, neither harmful nor gainful nor anything really.)

And, I’ve just met with Margaret Pundmann, author of The Emerging Woman which Linda and I helped her with in terms of editing and direction. And am now toting a signed copy which aesthetically looks good. Will have to read it (again!)

And, there is purpose in the leather-bound journal (not pictured and can’t find my camera)  that Snarl gave me that so easily fits into my purse. I am now on Day 3 of tossing off a poem (or prose, written in poetry form) in there. An idea from dear friend Fritz who was in my writing group for 8 years. She is very talented, also by the nature of what she puts together: her art work with her own words.

Let’s see how many of the above are underway, stacked, piled, open, written on, discussed, read aloud and in the living rooms for easy access by late tonight!

TBC …

More paper…

Sometimes the words won’t come and the closest I can be to paper is to play with it and after drawing in my journal (an utterly ridiculous pasttime because an artist I am not) and still, nothing to write or say, I play with my photos and scissors.

Such was the occasion several weeks ago. Card-making. Something to do with photos that were laying about without album, shoebox or anywhere to call home. Often I’ll tuck the orphan photos into a letter. But when words won’t come, letters to friends and family don’t, either.

HM was working at the dining room table (he refuses a desk at home though I’d love to get him a “Hemingway” desk) and I sat down with him, surrounding my corner of the table with various papers, a cutter, a pile of homeless photos and glue, and started sticking things together.  It seemed like a good thing to do at the time and I have seen many a fine card rendered by others on the Internet (check out Etsy, too). They seem to tap into something magnificent somehow, be it minimal or maximal. I just kept going that day at the table with HM and came up with a few very very homemade looking cards.

One day at work, weeks later, RWick showed me stationery a friend had made for her. It was stunning. Simple. Classy. And packaged in tissue in a large box. A lovely gift. Inspiring. This week I looked at my “paper” stuff.  I have a significant amount of it, collected, and laughed conspiratorially when I saw the piles of quilt stuff Redness showed on her blog.

I shall rage on in an attempt to create something useable. I am surrounded by creativity. It is now only a matter of tapping into it…somehow.

Perhaps the key is two-fold. Clean up my (at-home) office and start better time management, not in a strict way, but in such a way that allows for thinking my way into “create time.”

I will begin today with getting rid of piles of stuff (again) on my writing/craft table.

So many of you manage multi-interests brilliantly. Maybe you plan. Maybe you don’t plan. Maybe I should set a “loose” schedule. Any tips on juggling a full work week, family and productive creative time? 

signed,
(momentarily) Stymied