When I ask her what she loves about Dahl’s writing, she says, "He is hilarious!"
And then she launches into a story about Grandpa Joe leaping out of bed when Charlie finds the golden ticket, and this somehow segues into an antecdote about the absurd trickery of Mr. and Mrs. Twit and then she starts listing the books she’s reading next.
She has to stop to take a breath. Her whole face is gleaming.
This is a child who is sometimes a tad bit blasé about school.
Discussing the relative merits of Dahl’s illustrators — Quentin Blake as compared to Lane Smith or Patrick Benson.
Discussing whether it’s sad — even a bit sad — that kids disappeared from Willa Wonka’s factory faster than you could eat a Hersey’s kiss.
And she would keep discussing various, interesting aspects if she wasn’t so desperate to get back to her book.
And I would keep talking about how delicious and compelling a fixation this is if I weren’t so worried about what’s going to happen when she runs out of Roald Dahl books?
It’s going to be worse than a three-year-old giving up her pacifier, I’m afraid…
For some people, it’s being sorely unprepared for a final exam.
For others, showing up naked (or otherwise shamefully vunlnerable) in public.
For many, there’s nothing worse or more frequent than a work-stress dream — endless piles of paper, dissatisfied customers, botched projects.
I’ve had some of all of those.
In one memorable college exam scenario, I was handed a buebook with an F on the front. And inside? I had apparently drawn countless woodland animals. Nevermind that it was political science exam.
That was a bad dream.
So were the ones from my waitressing days where dozens of customers waited, but the kitchen didn’t turn out any food.
But my only real recurring nightmare involves an intruder and total disempowerment. My limbs hang heavy so that I can’t run or wave or kick. My voice grows either garbled or silent so that I can’t shout "No!" or "Help!" Sometimes I can’t even control my eyelids.
The real horror of the dream is that. Worse than the intruder (though that’s definately creepy) is the sense that I’m completely disabled by fear. The sense that I have no body, no voice and no free will.
I’ve had this dream since adolescence, and I had a version of it last night. This morning, feeling more lucid than I did at 3 a.m., I think about what I can do to shake this puppy once and for all.
On a practical level, in real life, I move and act and write. I have body, voice and free will. In spades.
On the Jungian level, not so much. The cure? I don’t have the foggiest.
Maybe I oughta see if I can go back to waiting tables, or drawing woodland animals in my bluebooks…
We live in Austin, which is well inland. We are apt to get some wind. And some rain. And thousands of evacuees.
Storms have ripple effects, to be sure.
For example, our kids will get out of school at noon on Friday because the roads into and around our city are likely to become impassable with traffic from the coast.
Traffic. Meaning: tired, hungry, worried people — looking for hotel rooms that are sure to be all booked up. Their dogs & cats mewling from carriers in the backseat, their photo albums safe in the trunks of their cars…
Today I’m posting rain poems, mostly because that’s where my head’s at. But also in the hopes that if we feed the beast he’ll turn it down a notch.
Take it easy on us, ol’ Ike…
(Like Rain it sounded till it curved) — Emily Dickinson
Like Rain it sounded till it curved And then I new ’twas Wind — It walked as wet as any Wave But swept as dry as sand — When it had pushed itself away To some remotest Plain A coming as of Hosts was heard It filled the Wells, it pleased the Pools It warbled in the Road — It pulled the spigot from the Hills And let the Floods abroad — It loosened acres, lifted seas The sites of Centres stirred Then like Elijah rode away Upon a Wheel of Cloud.
Poem(In the morning, when it was raining) — Delmore Schwartz
In the morning, when it was raining, Then the birds were hectic and loudy; Through all the reign is fall’s entertaining; Their singing was erratic and full of disorder:
I am sorry for your vunlnerability and your regrets.
I am sorry about Norman Rockwell and Salman Rushdie and the fact that you think Catherine Keener may matter more than you do.
I’ve got nothing against Catherine Keener, or James Gandolfini, or Dave Eggers, really.
But Mr. Sendak?
You’re beyond compare.
In your work is the beauty and the despair, the exquisite and the blunt, the truth and the mystery.
In your work is the stuff of Mozart, Keats and Blake; Melville and Dickinson.
In your work is the stuff that ignites a passion in a lot of us.
Not just tomorrow, but yesterday and today.
I am sorry about the rubber bullets that never penetrated in the way that they were meant to, but I want you to know that in your work is the stuff that penetrates us all …
(Edited to add: This letter is written in response to a New York Times article about Maurice Sendak that was rather full of doubt and sorrow. When I look at Sendak’s life work, I do not see doubt and sorrow. I see Little Bear and Where the Wild Things Are and Night Kitchen and Higglety Pigglety Pop. I see insight, bravery, wit and vivid imagination, all in good measure. And I hope that somewhere inside Sendak’s tired, "curmudgeonly" heart, he does, too…)
This post is not exactly timely, but that’s what happens when you take the summer off to kick around in the sand.
The piles you come home to grow arms and legs. The plans you made grow fungus. The lists you made grow long. er. and longer.
So, forgive my tardiness in congratulating editor Allyn Johnston on the official launch of her new imprint: Beach Lane Books!
Some of you might remember that Allyn went through quite the professional upheaval last winter, only to land herself firmly on her feet. Of course.
Since then, she’s been busy setting up shop — in a lovely, sun-filled space in La Jolla, with another former-Harcourt editor, Andrea Welch. Setting up shop, in this case, included the business of packing and unpacking a number of manuscripts she’d brought with her from Harcourt, including mine.
So, this serves as official notice that my books World and Wind will both be published by Beach Lane Books, a Simon & Schuster imprint.
The former, illustrated by Marla Frazee, is done, spit and polished and will hit the shelves next summer. Squee!!!!!
I worship Meryl Streep. And I get a huge kick outta ABBA. And if anyone has ever had as much fun making a movie as the folks who just made Mamma Mia, I’d like to hear about it.
I mean, this was not the sing-a-long version that we saw and still, we were bringin’ the house down. Whoa-boy, is it a hoot. If you haven’t gone yet, I’ll go with you. I want to go again. Soon.
In the meantime, my Poetry Friday is of the Swedish pop variety. Enjoy, my friends. Enjoy…
Chiquitita, tell me whats wrong You’re enchained by your own sorrow In your eyes there is no hope for tomorrow How I hate to see you like this There is no way you can deny it I can see that youre oh so sad, so quiet
Chiquitita, tell me the truth Im a shoulder you can cry on Your best friend, Im the one you must rely on You were always sure of yourself Now I see youve broken a feather I hope we can patch it up together
Chiquitita, you and I know How the heartaches come and they go and the scars theyre leaving Youll be dancing once again and the pain will end You will have no time for grieving Chiquitita, you and I cry But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you Let me hear you sing once more like you did before Sing a new song, chiquitita Try once more like you did before Sing a new song, chiquitita
There is so much good stuff out there, I’ve got to tell you about some of it:
First off, the charming Ms. Jama of Alphabet Soup is celebrating her 30th wedding anniversary with a contest! If you’re like me and you grew up in an era when "Disco Dancing" was a unit in P.E., you’re gonna want to get in on this. We’re supposed to guess their song! Go on… go wish them happy, happy and take a gander.
Next, on a more serious note, if this isn’t an eloquent rant, I don’t what would qualify. I’ve got two daughters and I don’t need anyone leaving them alone in the dark, that’s for darn sure.
And speaking of political, our very own witty writer Ms. Carrie Jones has a thing or two to say here.
OK, and onto something lighter: the new Babymouse is out!!! My girls are gonna flip, ‘specially Tall One, whose favorite color is orange. (That’s a hint; the latest B.M. looks different than the others…)
Also, Rick Riordan’s announced his fifth and final Percy Jackson book and it’s going to be a long, cold time ’til May, don’t you think?
So, if your kids are just sitting around twiddling their digits until then, maybe you should get them crafting! Look-see what my buds Bernadette and Kathie have cooked up. Saving the world… one stitch at a time.
And speaking of saving the world, Cynthia Leitich Smith does her part. She is a connector and a teacher and a cheerleader and a giver and a mover and a shaker and a darn hot writer to boot. And this week, she was recognized with an Arte y Pico Award, for hosting a blog that inspires others. No kidding. And then she coulda knocked me over with a feather by passing on the same honor to me, among other fine and intimidating folk.
Whoa. So. Along with trying to live up to Cyn’s praises, I need to do the following:
1) Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award, creativity, design, interesting material, and also contributes to the blogger community, no matter of language.
2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3) Each award-winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4) Award winners and those who give the prize must link to the Arte y Pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.
5) Show these rules.
OK, then. First off. Thanks, Cyn. I’m humbled. You inspire me, times ten.
Over the years, I’ve gotten rid of all the onsies, the high chair and the tricycles, most of the board books and lots & lots of toys.
My girls are 7 and nearly 10; plastic stacking cups and big-piece puzzles are in our rearview mirror.
Still, there were a few favorites I couldn’t bear to part with, and those are in big plastic bins waiting eagerly for babies and toddlers to come by for a visit.
Last week, one did.
So out came the Fisher Price barn, complete with hayloft and moo-ing doorway. Our little visitor toyed with them all and then promptly fell asleep for the evening.
The barn was left to rest in its big plastic bin… for a bit.
Then, my 7-year-old — fledgling 2nd grader, reader of thick books and memorizer of big facts — pulled it out. Every day for a week, in fact, she nonchalantly sauntered up to that barn and settled in next to it, talking quietly as she moved the farmer and friends from place to place. She was enchanted, and so was I.
It made me think about how long there is youthfulness inside each tall and competent body. How long there is playfulness inside each student. How long there is whimsy inside all these learning minds.
It made me think about how we rush things. How we pack up the toys to make room for equipment and gear. How we swap free time for lessons. How we stop reading aloud.
It made me think that we oughtn’t. Really. What’s the rush?
Once a year in Austin, the yoga community hosts a free day of yoga.
I have a regular practice of my own, but I like to use the free day to try out a new space, style or teacher. Twenty-some studios participate — most of which I’ve never been to — and I figure what better way to close the labor day weekend than a little union (of body, mind and spirit) on the mat?
So yesterday, I gathered up my girls and headed off to Kula Yoga where, lo and behold, children and adult classes were being offered at the same time. Win-win. And did I mention they were free?!?
In their studio, the girls roared like lions, fell like rain and turned their downward dogs into a tunnel.
In mine, we went through an hour of very slow and attentive hatha.
Now, I gotta tell you, slow and attentive is not necessarily my style.
I regularly practice Astanga, which requires presence and attention but also, often, blood, sweat and tears. Which is good because it’s partially that hard work that keeps me present and attentive.
Straight-forward, silent meditation just about kills me.
I often say that my yoga practice has not made a peaceful guru of me — it’s just prevented me from being a complete depressive-neurotic, and driving myself and my family around the bend. True enlightenment’s still a long way off.
So yesterday, I found myself in the midst of slow and attentive, and my first reaction was to speed it up and roll my eyes. I wanted to Move. Sweat. Transcend. Afterall, I’d paid for this class. Oh, wait. No, I hadn’t.
OK. So. Slow and attentive. In I went.
A long series of spine rolling postures took me through a meditation on New Orleans and how those levees would hold and streets would dry and houses would stand in the face of Gustav.
During the forward bends, laying one half of my body along the other, I felt the relief and tenderness I’d been yearning for since the night before when I ran Nike’s Human Race through the hilly streets of Austin in 96 degree heat. And believe me, I use the word "ran" rather generously. It was bru.tal.
My mind was clear during the sun salutations, and my body was on automatic. I was pretty much all breath.
As we twisted, I began to free-associate!
And by the time we were on our backs for savasana, I was in the ultimate open dream state.
And you know what my first thought was, at the end?
That it wrapped up a little too quickly. Seriously. I wanted to slow it down. I wanted to stay immersed in what I’d been avoiding 55 minutes earlier.
