Writers Reflect on Reading: Part Two

I am certain that everyone has stories. I’m equally convinced that everyone is capable of writing these stories up into novels, short stories, articles, letters, notes, emails, blogs, texts, bumper stickers, billboards, songs, or graffiti. Writing is the legacy of our opposable thumbs and our ridiculously labyrinthed brains.

However, just as not all runners are equal, nor all athletes, all writing is certainly not equal. At some point during my college years I promised myself to never, ever waste my precious time reading junk. Never. Unless it’s a magazine. Then it’s all bets off.

For several years I only read the classics. Only the names bound in those Literary Anthologies you read in college: Hardy, Whitman, Woolf, Shakespeare. Under my definition of “classic”, Steinbeck was a bit of an upstart. Then after living in Nepal, I went through a long bout of only reading Indian writers—preferably ones who used magic realism. Do you know how difficult it was to make a steady diet of this writing? Salmon Rushdie hasn’t written that many things, nor has Gita Meeta, nor Tagore. It was like eating a very limited diet of only orange vegetables.  Yummy, but limiting.  My creativity, like a body on such a diet, was grinding to a halt.

Then I befriended someone who existed on a diet of everything, with a generous helping of sweet reading candy. Marianne read several books a week, reading them to sleep and waking to them before work. She read whatever was in front of her, whatever she found, whatever, whatever, and loved it. Marianne was a sweet novel addict and, as such, had the enviable ability to talk books with whomever she met. She called me a book snob and I called her a book whore. We were best friends. We parted—listen up Red and Blue voters—by mutually respecting one another’s views.

After meeting Marianne, I expanded my views. Here’s my adjusted creed: If for entertainment purposes only, and if (this is my caveat) the reader is intelligent enough to know the difference, and game enough to throw in superbly written novels, then the average reader may read crap.  The aspiring writer, though, is an exception.  To become exceptional, a writer must read more like an Olympic athlete in training.  A great writer must, like an Olympic athlete, read a well-balanced, varied diet. I know, I know: it works for Billy Bob Thornton to only eat orange food (okay, to set the record strait, he eats only raw food, not necessarily orange. Big difference), but not for the writer.  Sorry.  Even a straight genre writer should cross train.

With my new creed in mind, I joined a book group. It was kind of like the Nutrisystem for me. A prescribed diet of someone else’s food, just enough to pry me from my old habits, and get me on the road to a healthier diet. I’ll admit that I didn’t like all the books my group chose. I don’t care if he does write a pretty sentence; Jonathan Franzen struck me as a pubescent boy stuck with a nasty god complex. Mostly, though, I read wonderful books I never would have chosen with my own sensitive nose.  I was introduced by Mandy to Iris Murdock’s The Sea, The Sea, by Maureen to Peter Carey’s Parrot and Oliver in America, and by Tracy to Jennifer Vanderbe’s Easter Island.  The camaraderie of a group to gush over or trash a book is added fun I didn’t take into account when I joined.

Like many people who have kicked an eating disorders, I maintain my Nurtisystem support group, but I also go on my own hunts. These days I’m like a reformed meat-eater who now leads groups on urban mushroom foraging. I will spend my late hours on the Internet searching the Independent Publishing sites such as Dranzen Books, Algonquin Books, Other Press. This search has led down some strange paths, such as The Mullet: Hairstyles of the Gods, or Shitting Pretty. It has also put some gems in my hands.  On these excursions, I have found Galore by Michael Crummey and The End of the World by Sushma Joshi.

While most of my college promises to myself (big hair, stonewashed jeans, cheap beer, Nihilism) are better off dead, my promise to stay away from bad writing has solidified like cement beneath the post of my own writing.  I have many coaches.  Thomas Hardy and Virginia Woolf will always be there, but so, too, will Louise Erdrich, Orhan Pamuk, Gao Xingjian, and Cormac McCarthy.  I may not make great art yet, but with the help of these Olympic coaches, I can strive for more.  Who knows, with time, practice, and lots of good reading, I could break the record–or put a deep scratch down it so it won’t play on the record player any more.

Writers Reflect on Reading

Recently I wrote a list of books that influenced my writing and I thought it would be interesting to pose a question to my writing group, The Guttery. Tell me about a book or author that inspires your writing.  The Guttery responses were (not) surprising.

Bruce Greene's writing scratches like fingernails down the vertebrae of class and culture.  Listen to the performance, Love Outlives Us, and you'll appreciate that the writers who influenced Bruce were Kenneth Patchen and John Steinbeck.  Bruce claims that he likes them both because they tackle "big ideas and are thought provoking." Bruce does too.  His "Goldfish" piece read in the Moonlit Guttery's reading  of Love Outlives Us uses the metaphor of a harmless goldfish to pry open the box of the Vietnam war. My mother, whose brother's life was shattered by his three tours in Vietnam, could not sleep after listening to Bruce read his piece. She told me that Bruce's story gave her a new perspective on her brother's life and the cultural forces that led to his decision to do three tours.  Bruce has published his memoir of his Vista years on the web,  Above This Wall.  Here is an excerpt from Bruce's memoir. It is a section of  his statement of conscientious objections to his Vietnam Conflict draft board:
To be sure, I have been influenced by the great thinkers of non-violence, Gandhi and Martin Luther King, however, my increased interest in poetry led me to my most profound influence, the American poet Kenneth Patchen. Patchen’s works encompass the totality of my religious beliefs.
There is only one truth in the world:
Until we learn to love our neighbor,
There will be no life for anyone,
Force cannot be overthrown by force,
To hate any man is to despair of every man,
Evil breeds evil—the rest is a lie:
There is only one power that can save the world—
And that is the power of our love for all men everywhere.

When A. Molotkov (Tola) told me that Milan Kundera was his one author, a felt a thrill of recognition.  Tola said of Kundera, "I love his capability to be modern and innovative, to play with the narrative and with character development, all the while discovering poignant human truths that are relevant to all."  This, is Tola's writing.  He's pushed and sifted enough sand to create a world in which all his character and two in particular, Zungvilda and Goombeldt, attempt to stand.  From Tola's work The Melting Hourglass:
Goombeldt walks in
folding his umbrella
why is he carrying an umbrella?
it’s not raining.
As with Kundera's writing, that's the point--why do we carry an umbrella when it is not raining?  How is it that we stand on such sticky, stilted ground?

Cameron McPhearson Smith writes that his favorite book is Craig Childs and his book The Secret Knowledge of Water. If you haven't read Childs' book, it is a fascinating, poetic adventure of man's inexhaustible pursuit of  water sources in the desert.  Cam writes that Childe's book is "inspiring because every word is so carefully picked; the book is a lesson in craftsmanship."  Cameron is an adventurer whose writing strives to include the reader in Cam own sense of  wonder and fascination with nature.  In this recent excerpt from Cameron's blog, his prose is as haunting, poetic, and evocative as Childs:
Funny that when the stars come out, we go in, and sleep, and dream...sometimes of the stars or of impossible distances, or of near-infinite energies, or of other infinitudes. Then, as the stars are winking out, we wake and step outside, the lit sky blocking our view and thoughts of a larger universe.
David Cooke was the last to share his favorite writer: Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakoy's Master and Margarita.  This book was called THE masterpiece of the twentieth century by The Times of London.  Having not read it yet,--I ordered it at Powell's Books online yesterday--I can't speak to the parallels between Bulgakov's writing and David's; however, in reading about this novel I found a similar trait.  Allusion.  One of the novel's predominate themes is good versus evil made through heavy allusions to Faust.  This reminded me of David and his use of allusion and his love of grand themes. In the first stanza in his prize winning poem Edges, the allusions transcend the experience of one life to an exploration of our lives.
I don’t know where to start.  Far before the moon pulled the tide
to your chin.  Before your groin became a grotto.  Before the brine
washed away the haloes your feet squeeze into the sand.  I don’t
believe in the alchemy of eels and their mud.

Random Act of Kindness

Random Act of Kindness

Don't Worry!

I want to translate the phrase don’t worry, and I call for those who use it to consider using the translation because it's much more accurate.

The first time I heard this phrase was after the movie 101 Dalmatians came out.  We had an older, cranky Dalmatian. After that movie came out, wherever we went, kids would race up to our leashed Dalmatian as their parents smiled and called out, “Don’t worry, our kid is good with dogs.” 

I would respond, “But mine’s not good with kids!”  Luckily, our dog never bit a kid, not even the little three-year-old who tweaked our dog’s nose while his dad said, ‘aw, how cute.”

Then we got our little ten-pound, rescue, complete with a pathetic limp and a timid disposition.  I thought, “Now I don’t have to worry about people getting into my dog’s space!” After months of training, I introduced him to the dog parks last summer. 

Shortly after we started going to dog parks, a pit bull owner saw that I was hesitant about having his large dog play with mine and he told me, “Don’t worry, my dog is good with other dogs.”  Right after those words, his dog mistook mine for prey and crushed my little guy’s jaw.   After jaw surgery and eight weeks of a muzzle and cone, my little guy recovered physically.

However, when many people shook their heads and said, “You shouldn’t have brought a little dog to a big dog park”, they exacerbated the ordeal. When the pit bull dog owner refused to accept any responsibility or even to acknowledge his dog’s aggression, I was put in a really difficult position.  Of course, he explained his dog's behavior with another of my favorite phrases: “My dog never did anything like that before.”

This Saturday, four months after the incident with the pit bull, I decided to take our dog to a dog park designated specifically for little dogs, Normandale Park.  I sighed at the decision because the lazy in me would much prefer the three parks within walking distance.  But, maybe all those people were right; a ten-pound dog should not be in a park with big dogs. 

Normandale is a nice park for dogs.  Two enormous fenced in play areas for any dog, and then one smaller area for little dogs.  All areas are well gated and marked.  Being a Saturday, the two larger dog park areas were crowded and rowdy, but the little dog area was empty and peaceful.  A great way to reintegrate our dog into the world of dog parks. 

My daughter and I brought our dog into the little dog area and, for the first time in four months, we let him run without a leash.  It was nice to see him relax and sniff around, and I started to think about how I could fit this park run into our busy lives.  That is until two women with three large dogs nonchalantly let themselves into the little dog area.   My dog sat down and started to shake as three enormous dogs pounced all over him.

“Don’t worry, our dogs are good with other dogs,” they called out, but I didn’t smile and play nice.  I did the unthinkable.  I challenged the implied authority of the don’t worry. I explained that this was a little dog park and that I drove to Normandale just to use this one park designated for little dogs.

Offended, they told me, “Our dogs are friendly.  They’re not a problem.  Your problem is not letting your dog play with other dogs.”   All in a huff, they finally left the little dog park. As one woman was telling the other, “You told her!” their unleashed dogs bounded straight over to jump on a little kid in the children’s play area.  The father raced to pick up his son, but the women invoked their get-out-of-jail card, calling out in dulcet unison, “Don’t worry, our dogs are good with kids.”

As I watched their dogs pawing down the front of this child, I finally got it.  Don’t worry is code for I’m an asshole and I can do whatever the hell I want.

A Guttery Great at Tony’s Tavern

A Guttery Great at Tony’s Tavern

This was a fun night at Tony's. The MC didn't show up, and so David moved the the table, set up the chairs, and we played. One Tony regular showed up, but otherwise it was just us. There was something so fun about the unexpected spontaneity of the evening. I love when things don't go as planned.

bookfutures: discuss

bookfutures: discuss: "http://futureofthebook.org/social-reading/ is your link to Bob Stein's Taxonomy of Social Reading which was unveiled at the Books in Browser..."

Show and Tell Gallery

 Last night I did a reading at Show and Tell Gallery.  I'm not sure about the expression on my face, but it was supposed to be comical piece.  I guess, if nothing else, my face made everyone laugh. 

From the Show and Tell Gallery Website:

Melissa Sillitoe started Show and Tell Gallery in her living room in 2007, a DIY gallery open at Everett Station Lofts on First Thursdays that included live musical and spoken word performances as part of the arts format. Friends showed art and volunteered showing guests from the lobby to her living room.

Show and Tell Gallery Productions–which includes collaborators Luke Lefler and Nikia Cummings and volunteers–now hosts a weekly invited reading and open mic at Three Friends Coffee House. 

Stonehenge Studios

Stonehenge Studios Poetry Open Mic

10/10/10

I read an excerpt entitled "Revolution" from my book, Only Ghosts.

Facebook Your Way to Publishing Your Book

Facebook Your Way to Publishing Your Book

Only Ghosts: October 2nd Performance at Beach Books

Only Ghosts: October 2nd Performance at Beach Books

A Tharu Family In Dang, Nepal

Batuwaa is a made up village set near the village of Parasi in the Lumbini District of Nepal.  It also takes on some characteristics of the village in Dang where I took this photo.  I gave a health training there in the early 1990's, and I knew I would write about it one day.  Thus, Only Ghosts.

October 2nd Performance at Beach Books

Saturday 10/2/10 (5-8pm) at Beach Books in Seaside, OR: A poetry and musical experience featuring five local artists. These Portland poets will weave their work into a tapestry with full musical accompaniment.

A. Molotkov is a writer, composer, filmmaker and visual artist. Although he has been writing fiction and poetry for over 25 years, his more recent involvement with other art forms allows him to approach the creative process from various angles, with individual parts contributing to a greater whole. Molotkov is the author of several novels, short story and poetry collections and the winner of the 2008 E. M. Koeppel Short Fiction Award for his short story “Round Trip”, which was nominated for a Pushcart. His fiction and poetry has appeared in or accepted by the Hawaii Pacific Review, Peralta Press, Acquillrelle, Gival Press, Epicenter, Suger Mule and elsewhere. His debut CD “Can You Stay Forever”, an ambitious project utilizing 15 musicians, has received glowing reviews. A. Molotkov is quickly becoming known in the Portland poetry community for his exceptional skills at oral presentation. In February 2010, Molotkov spearheaded a one-hour performance “Love Outlives Us” presented by the Show and Tell Gallery and repeated on KBOO in June.
www.amolotkov.com

John Sibley Williams is a poet and book publicist residing in Portland, OR. He has a previous MA in Writing and presently studies Book Publishing at Portland State University, where he serves as Acquisitions Manager of Ooligan Press and publicist for Three Muses Press. His poetry was nominated for the 2009 Pushcart Prize, and his debut chapbook, A Pure River, is forthcoming from The Last Automat Press. Some of his over 100 previous or upcoming publications include: The Evansville Review, Ellipsis, Flint Hills Review, Euphony, Open Letters, Cadillac Cicatrix, Juked, The Journal, Hawaii Review, Cutthroat, The Furnace Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Aries, and River Oak Review.
www.TheArtOfRaining.com

Before landing in Portland, Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk lived all over. She learned kickboxing in Turkey, faced-off with a rhino in Nepal, discussed the weather with Queen Elizabeth in England, and was chastised by Mother Theresa in India. Portland has been her home for ten years. For the last four, she has been collaborating with members of The Guttery. Some of her readings have been published by The Peace Corps Digital Library, The Oregon Literary Review and Show and Tell Gallery as well as featured on the site Love Outlives Us. She writes novels about what happens when the will of the individual and the collective muscle of a culture clash. Her latest novel, Only Ghosts, is about the changes to a village in Nepal during the democratic movement of 1990. More at www.kalirati.blogspot.com

David Cooke was raised Catholic in Oakland, California, and now lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon. His debut poem Edges won the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize and was nominated for a 2010 Pushcart Prize. His work appears in Flatmancrooked, Hunger Mountain, A River & Sound Revie,w and in performances at the Blackbird Wine Shop, Show and Tell Gallery, Stonehenge Studio, and KBOO’s Talking Earth. He is also known as The Lawn Guy throughout Portland and Lake Oswego for his lawn maintenance business. Much of his current work is included in his forthcoming chapbook, Discretion.

Ragon Linde is a musician specializing in eclectic jazz. He plays the guitar, drums, and bass. Ragon moved to Portland in 2006 from Tulsa, Oklahoma where he lived most of his life. While in Oklahoma, Ragon played in a wide range of musical groups over the last 35 years whose styles included big band, psychedelic jazz, heavy metal, acoustic folk, classical, and western swing. Much of his work has been recorded and his latest album of work titled My Own Private Jihad can be found on his MySpace site, www.myspace.com/RagonLindeMusic.

Love Outlives Us

LOVE OUTLIVES US
by The Moonlit Guttery Team

love outlives us like trees
love outlives us
like the air we breathe

A. Molotkov: text, spoken voice, vocals,
duduk, percussion, handsonic
Bruce Greene: text, spoken voice
Shawn Austin: text, spoken voice,
percussion
David Cooke: text, spoken voice
Ragon Linde: guitar, electric guitar,
percussion, musical direction
Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk: text,
vocals, spoken voice


Love Outlives Us

Peace Corps

50 years of Peace Corps volunteers tromping around the world. From 1990 to 1992, I worked in Nepal (PCN170) as a teacher, teacher trainer, women's health trainer, and smokeless stove builder. My novel, Only Ghosts, comes from this time. Also, I've written some articles about my service. My narrative essay, "Assimilation" can be found in the Peace Corps Digital Library. Happy 50th Anniversary, Peace Corps.

Assimilation

The Guttery Website

My writing group, The Guttery, has finally gotten our own website.

Theguttery.com

What I like about the site is that we're blogging on it. So if you'd like to read what some writers think about the craft of writing, or what creative events are happening in Portland, Oregon, check out our site.

I'm excited about it.

Love Outlives Us to be performed on KBOO

Missed the Three Friends' Coffee House performance of Love Outlives Us?

Love Outlives Us by A. Molitkov's Moonlit Guttery Team will be performing on KBOO's Talking Earth.

Monday, June 14th
10:00pm - 11:00pm
Talking Earth
Hosted by: Barbara LaMorticella
Poetry, spoken arts, prose

Peace Corps Nepal

Baglung Pani Miss

Recently, I've begun to write personal narratives. It is a nice break from writing fiction. Here's one about my experiences as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Nepal from 1990-1993.

The Baglung Pani Miss

A word of advice: avoid moving to a village where a volunteer preceded you.

When I moved to Baglung Pani, Andy Walker was my own personal Freddy Krueger, popping into every conversation, and shredding my every deed. At each “good morning,” people would point to the hostel next to the school and tell me, “Andy Walker built that. What are you going to build?” At noon, the woman who gave me tea would drill me with questions in rapid Nepalese and then announce, “You don’t speak as well as Andy Walker. He spoke Gurung too. When are you going to learn Gurung?” At dinner, I listened to my host family tell stories of Andy Walker’s humor and wit. I gritted my teeth through the nightmare of comparisons until the remarks grew less frequent and trickled to the occasional. I made friends with those who never knew Andy Walker and soon with those who did.

About a year into my stay, I was taking a bus back home from a training in Kathmandu when an older Nepali man offered his seat and asked me where I was going.

“Baglung Pani,” I answered. The man’s eyes lit up with a look I now recognized as the Andy Walker look and I sighed. “Yes, I know” I said flatly. “You met the volunteer there.”

“She is wonderful! Do you know the Baglung Pani Miss?” he asked, and before I could answer the man was off telling me about her perfect Nepalese, her sweet Gurung, her friendly nature, her wonderful singing voice, her skill with the children.

I sat up in my seat and beamed in anticipation of his delirious bubbling at discovering me. This was my moment of vindication! When the man slowed enough for me to get in a word, I exclaimed, “I’m the Baglung Pani Miss!”

The man’s smile faded. “Oh, no, you can’t be the Baglung Pani Miss,” he argued. “Your Nepali isn’t good! You can’t even speak Gurung.”

“No,” I said, at once indignant. “I am the Baglung Pani Miss!”

“That is not possible,” the man replied, equally adamant. “She is just like a Nepali, but look at you. You are not!”

I took a deep breath, ready for battle when Andy Walker came to mind. I sank back down and nodded. “You’re right.” The man huffed in agreement and turned away. I stared out the window so that the man could not see how giddy I looked.

Who was I to trifle with the myth of the Baglung Pani Miss?

To read other articles about my Peace Corps experience, click here.

To My Father on His Birthday.

My sister started a new tradition in our family where, on a family member’s birthday, we each tell that person why he or she is special. This felt strange on my tongue the first time we did this for my mom’s birthday this last November. We’re not a family who gratuitously compliment, our compliments are shy; they hide within jokes, or are implicit in gestures. So, in anticipation of this new tradition for my dad’s 67th birthday party on Sunday, I thought I would write what is difficult for me to say.

All my life I hear the same phrase: you’re just like your father. In the childhood years I go without combing my hair; during my middle-school years when eons before environmentalism is trendy, I carry a lunchbox to school because it is less wasteful; in everyone’s fear that I choose to move as close to Manhattan as I can for college; in my mother’s anger that I decide to travel even farther to the Peace Corps; and in my poor family’s frustration when I marry someone no one thinks is right for me. All these times and more, I hear, in the face of my fierce purposefulness, you’re just like your father.

Pragmatic New Englander my father very much is, and very much is not. He works hard; his accomplishments are as vast as the cords of wood that corral the property of my childhood home in New Hampshire: the farmhouse in Jaffrey that takes years to restore, the antique cars, the maple syrup, stained glass, and every sort of home improvement. His ventures, however, I’ve come to realize, are not always the systematic or calculated moves of a pragmatist like, say Hilary Clinton. In fact, some of his decisions, like moving to North Carolina, are instinctual, even whimsical. In all of my dad’s choices, there is a commonality: a Thoreau-like call for a life well-lived. Dad and Thoreau would have been friends for more reasons than that they are from the same state. Dad’s life is testimony to Thoreau’s words, “Be true to your work, your word, and your friend.” My dad does not leash himself to his lucrative computer programming job, nor to his place of birth, nor even to his homes that he painstakingly polishes to showcase beauty. Instead, my dad takes chances. Not all of them pan out--some rise to greatness while other shatter--but all of them are his legacy. His actions have taught me to value life, to create it, fight for it, and to pay stubborn attention to my visions.

My father walks a softer road in his love of family, and most importantly, his relationship with my mother which winds back as far as middle school. I know that many people say this, but in my father’s case it is true: he has never looked at another woman. When I was a kid, I watched women, married woman, fall all over themselves over my dad, and I watched his Ataturk-blue eyes seek refuge with my mother. My father has only ever had one best friend: Mom. To this day, he is uncomfortable when she is gone for too long. All three of his kids are solid committers. None of us have ever cheated on anyone, and all three have entered our relationships earnestly and with faith in our partners. That faith, that earnestness is a gift given to us by our parent’s marriage.

I have a little secret that should be shared on my dad’s 67th birthday—about time, right? I don’t mind when people tell me I’m acting like you. In truth, I’m proud that I’m just like you.
Happy birthday, Dad.

Support Haiti by giving to Partners In Health (PIH)

Haiti. You see the images, hear the appeals, and want to help. I recommend Partners in Health.

When I first heard about the devastation in Haiti, I immediately thought of the nonprofit, Partners in Health, founded by Dr. Paul Farmer and Ophelia Dahl. If you read Tracy Kidder's Mountains Beyond Mountains, which tells Paul Farmer's story and his enduring commitment to health care in Haiti,then you surely had the same thought as me: give to Partners in Health. No aid organization understands the health needs in Haiti as well.

According to an e-mail I received from PIH, "the PIH/Zanmi Lasante team was designated by the World Health Organization to serve as the coordinators of the public hospital, Hopital de l' Universite d'Etat d'Haiti" PIH team members were some of the first on the scene, they have one of the best health care infrastructures in Haiti, they're recognized by the World Health Organization and, most importantly, they are respected by the Haitian people.

Find out more about PIH, what they're doing, what they need, and how to contribute by going to this site: PIH IN HAITI


If you don't want to take my word for Partners in Health, here's an article that ran in the St. Petersburg Times

Join Us At Three Friends Coffee House

Coming February 8: CAFFEINATED ART #80 – A. Molotkov, Bruce Greene and the Moonlit Guttery Poetry Team – “Love Outlives Us”

7 p.m., Three Friends Coffee House
SE 12th and Ash, Portland, Oregon
Love Outlives Us

A. Molotkov, Bruce Greene
and the Moonlit Guttery Team
an evening of words with music

Bruce Greene:
text, spoken voice

The Team:

Shawn Austin:
text, spoken voice
David Cooke:
text, spoken voice
Ragon Linde:
guitar, electric guitar, percussion, musical direction
Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk:
text, vocals, spoken voice

A. Molotkov:
text, spoken voice, vocals, duduk, percussion, handsonic

Luke Lefler:
sound

Based on texts by A. Molotkov, Bruce Greene, Shawn Austin, David Cooke and Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk, “Love Outlives Us” is a symbolic exploration of the value and meaning of a human life, the character-defining nature of human interaction, and each individual’s responsibility for the world in which they conspire to exist. The tone of this performance is balanced around a stark contrast between A. Molotkov’s mysterious and laconic verses and Bruce Greene’s real life stories, in this case his experiences as a teacher in the years following the war in Vietnam. Shawn Austin, David Cooke and Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk contribute their own unique visions to make up a whole that has a sense of unity, despite its many edges. Ragon Linde’s musical contribution and several sung compositions by A. Molotkov expand the palette. Backed up by music, words acquire a greater levity, contributing to the listener’s ability to be entranced and whisked away on an hour-long tour of self-discovery through meaning and metaphor. Several audience participation numbers allow the listeners to become part of the performance in a more tangible way than possible in a passive listening mode. “Love Outlives Us” seeks to engage the audience on all levels, to ask questions that will linger in one’s mind long after the performers have left the stage.

love outlives us

like trees

love outlives us

like the air we breathe

Bruce Greene, David Cooke, Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk and A. Molotkov are members of The Guttery, www.theguttery.com.

Shawn Austin and A. Molotkov are the founding members of The Moonlit Poetry Caravan, www.meetup.com/MoonlitPoetry.

Luke Lefler is the Digital Media Producer for Show and Tell Gallery.

Bruce Greene

Bruce Greene taught English, history, and psychology in the Bay Area for many years. He now works with beginning teachers at Marylhurst University. In his eclectic writing career, Bruce has been a correspondent for a national thoroughbred horse magazine and published everything from poetry and educational research to creative non-fiction and memoir. He is always looking for another river to fly fish, coffeehouses conducive to writing, and an agent for his recently completed memoir, Above This Wall: The Life and Times of a VISTA Volunteer 1969-70.

Shawn Austin

Shawn Austin would like to thank his wife for putting up with and supporting him. A poet first, Shawn draws on an eclectic approach to poetry stemming from work in the Social Services, Mental Health field, and also from his youth where he credits his poetry, “Being nurtured from the kneecaps of parties.” Much of those perspectives can be found operating in his poetry today. Shawn sees great poetry much like the kitchen, patio, refrigerator, or a toilet; “An inflected space” in a strange house where the reader steps into and interacts. Shawn is a founding member of a poetry meetup group in Portland called “The Moonlit Poetry Caravan” and has started an artistic movement in poetry, called “Inflectionism.”

David Cooke

David Cooke is an award winning poet living in Lake Oswego, Oregon. His poems have been described as vivid, assured, startling, sustained, lucid, satisfying, lyrical, gorgeous, beautiful, and mysterious. The poems are complexly layered while preserving a first reading cohesiveness. His facility at blending everyday language, puns, and natural images with the scientific, mythical, and religious is enviable. “Edges” received the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize in 2009. “Mentimos Cuando Soñamos” and “Elliptic” will appear in Discretion, the first collection of his poetry. He hopes that you will be quite smitten with each poem.

Italics drawn from written comments by Charles Atkinson, Miciah Bay Gault, and the staff at Hunger Mountain Journal.

Ragon Linde

Ragon Linde is a musician specializing in eclectic jazz. He plays the guitar, drums, and bass. Ragon moved to Portland in 2006 from Tulsa, Oklahoma where he lived most of his life. While in Oklahoma, Ragon played in a wide range of musical groups over the last 35 years whose styles included big band, psychedelic jazz, heavy metal, acoustic folk, classical, and western swing. Much of his work has been recorded and his latest album of work titled My Own Private Jihad can be found on his MySpace site. Ragon is particularly excited about the February 8th performance as this is his first since moving to Portland three years ago.

Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk

Before landing in Portland, Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk lived all over. She learned kickboxing in Turkey, faced-off with a rhino in Nepal, discussed the weather with Queen Elizabeth in England, and was chastised by Mother Theresa in India. She’s now proud to declare herself a coffee mug carryin’, microbrew drinkin’, Powell browsin’, environmental stumpin’, trail hikin’ Portlander. She writes novels about the adventures that occur when the will of the individual and the collective muscle of a culture clash.

A. Molotkov

A. Molotkov is a writer, composer, filmmaker and visual artist. He lives in constant stress, torn between a multitude of projects in various art forms – way too many for any one sane individual to handle. Born in Russia, he moved to the US in 1990 and switched to writing in English in 1993. He is the author of several novels, short story and poetry collections and the winner of the 2008 E. M. Koeppel Short Fiction Award. The winning story “Round Trip” has been nominated for the 2009 Pushcart Award and accepted by Intramel for publication in Italian. A. Molotkov’s poetry and short stories have appeared in over a dozen publications, both in print and online. His inclination to break the rules and his interest towards blending art forms tend to get him in trouble a lot, including the challenging performance of Love Outlives Us. Visit him at www.AMolotkov.com if you have an hour or a week to spare.

An Anonymous Poem From Iran

Iran has one of the richest cultures in the world. I have hope for Iran. I have hope.

Nelson Mandela's favorite singers

After watching Invictus, I was struck by the strength of forgiveness. Anger is easy, but to be soft in the face of anger and righteousness is difficult. I couldn't sleep, so I read up on Nelson Mandela--one of my heroes. And I learned that while in prison for those 28 years, he was deprived of music. Today one of his greatest pleasures is to listen to music while watching a sunset, specifically classical. He said that one of his favorite singers is Paul Robeson.

Here's a link where you can hear Robeson and read a bit of this New Jersey native's own struggles.

Paul Robeson

When I talk about South Africa and music, I have to add a link to a video of one of my favorite songs by South Africa's Johnny Clegg. Listening to this reminds me of road trips with my friend Marianne. It is a touching song and a great story.


I Never Betrayed The Revolution

A Show and Tell Gallery Reading at Three Friends Coffee

The Reading

I tried a poetry slam

Tony's Tavern

Listed as a "dive bar," Tony's is a fantastic place for a poetry night, especially great for the beer-drinking poet or just the beer drinker. David, a member of my writing group, The Guttery, has been entertaining us with stories of Tony's Tavern. When David asked some of The Guttery to try out the mike on Thursday, I couldn't resist the possibility of drunken poets falling into the crowds. I decided to bring my little poem down. My poem is not raunchy, no mention of masterbation or sex. Not a slam, but it was all I had, and I've always had this thing for dive bars. I decided to bring it.

Thursday night, hidden beneath my Mao cap, and propped up with my Doc Martins, I was ready. The small reading was crushed into the back of the bar, but no one seemed to mind the close confines. I got there while a man dressed like a superhero changed hats with each of his poems. Most of the poets knew each other, and when I say "knew", I heard history in their stories, roommates, old friends, people from the same state and similar states of mind and innebriation. I tried not to think of the mild vomit smell coming from someone near me, and enjoyed the show.

When I went on, the Tony family was polite and friendly. I didn't get any crazy cheers or kisses and no drunken poet fell on me, but I had a great night.

Coranna has a friend Sleep Over

These are mile markers in a kid's life. I can still remember the excitement of having a sleepover. This is Coranna and her dear friend Mito. It is an evening of Pokemon cards, dancing to music, and play, play, play.

Japanese Festival

On the last hot day of fall, Coranna performed at a Japanese Festival.

Taiko



Richmond Japanese Immersion's Taiko



Coranna with her group waiting to perform



The Ponyo Song in Japanese

A Reading at Blackbird Wine Shop

The Oregon Literary Review has published a video of the September reading I did with my writing Group, The Guttery.

The READING

It was an amazing experience. I hope to do this again.

Portland Mercury Announces Guttery Reading

Guttery Reading

Oregon Literary Review co-hosts First Wednesdays, a series of readings, performances and wine-tasting at the Blackbird Wine Shop, 3519 NE 44th off Fremont, 7-9pm. This show is 21 and over. Contact Julie Mae Madsen at maemadsen@gmail.com for more information.

The readers for September 2 are Bruce Greene, David Cooke, Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk, A. Molotkov, & Evan Cooper. GUTTERY
This night features writers of a successful Portland writing group The Guttery

Bruce Greene taught for 33 years at an urban high school in the San Francisco Bay Area. As a teacher-consultant for the Bay Area Writing Project at UC Berkeley for the last 20 years, he’s published numerous articles on educational issues in his own practice as well as personal essays based on his experiences and observations. An avid thoroughbred horse lover, and frequent contributor to The Blood-Horse magazine, he served as Northern California correspondent from 1985-2000. Bruce now lives and writes in Portland, Oregon and is currently looking for three new streams to fly fish, two more coffeehouses conducive to writing, and one literary agent for his recently completed memoir, Above This Wall: The Life and Times of a VISTA Volunteer 1969-70.

David Cooke is a former middle school special education teacher who operates a landscape maintenance business aptly named The Lawn Guy. He is a founding member of two writing groups– Leora: A Writing Group and The Guttery. He graduated from both the University of California, Santa Cruz and the Portland State University Masters of Special Education program. Raised Catholic in Oakland, California, he now resides in Lake Oswego, Oregon with painter, Jessica Acevedo. His debut as the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize winner is available in The Hunger Mountain Journal online and in print. He is currently compiling a chapbook entitled Discretion.

Before landing in Portland, Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk lived all over. She learned kickboxing in Turkey, faced-off with a rhino in Nepal, discussed the weather with Queen Elizabeth in England, and was chastised by Mother Theresa in India. She’s now proud to declare herself a coffee mug carryin’, microbrew drinkin’, Powell browsin’, environmental stumpin’, trail hikin’ Portlander. She writes novels about the adventures that occur when the will of the individual and the collective muscle of a culture clash.

A. Molotkov is a writer, composer, filmmaker and visual artist. Born in Russia, he moved to the US in 1990 and switched to writing in English in 1993. He is the author of several novels, short story and poetry collections and the winner of the 2008 E. M. Koeppel Short Fiction Award. The winning story “Round Trip” has been nominated for the 2009 Pushcart Award and accepted by Intramel for publication in Italian. A. Molotkov’s poetry and short stories have appeared in over a dozen publications, both in print and online. Visit him at www.AMolotkov.com

Evan Cooper is a writer of fiction. He holds a B.A. in English Literature from Willamette University and an M.A. in Media and Culture from the Universiteit van Amsterdam. He often rolls them up and uses them for house fly-icide and K-9 reprimands. He lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.

The Strange Fate of Fire Horse Women
Women born in the ominous year of the Fire Horse have been persecuted throughout history. Today many authors and screenwriters are reviving the myth of the Fire Horse women. Can they change the stigma for future generations?
http://www.associatedcontent.comarticle/1754142/the_strange_fate_of_fire_horse_women.html

Maya

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My dog, Maya, died today. She was a thirteen-year-old Turkish street dog. I found her when she was a puppy and she's been my shadow, my friend, my companion ever since. A friend e-mailed me today to remind me of a great story. When my daughter, Coranna, was born I was walking with her and my dog in the park. A woman stopped and said, "she's beautiful. How old is she?" I told her that she was about seven and the woman gave me a strange look. I realized then that she wasn't talking about my dog, but my daughter. As my friend said, Maya was my first born.

Rhino Beetles

I've been thinking about giving the female protagonist in the novel the nickname of rhino beetle. I'm trying to find the Nepali name for them. I remember these guys as being harmless but noisy like a helicopter.

Growing up with diaperman

This is a photo of my daughter with my brother and his son, Luke, this past summer. Yes, they are wearing life jackets as if they were diapers and bike helmets too. My brother, Brent, donnes the diaperman outfit when he takes his team camping, he's a coach. My daughter and I had just arrived to his house and he brought this out as an introduction, a way to break the ice. As you can see, my brother is funny. He's fun and funny. Back in high school, people used to either love Brent or hate him. When we lived together when he was in college, I noticed that most people liked him and few hated him. I think he had perfected his sarcasm, brought out more of his silliness. I'm not sure how people see him now, but his home is in constant flux as people, students, team members, neighbors, whomever come and go. These visitors are borrowing, lending, fixing, dropping off cakes. Few just stop to say hi, everyone knows that my brother is a kinesthetic guy and any convergence is rapid and with purpose. They hope for a laugh and usually find one.

My brother has a visceral reaction to anything that reminds him of me: theater, the arts, reading. Oddly, I realize that I am just as forcefully repelled by sports. As I've been putting more and more humor into my writing, I realize that I'm breaking an unwritten family rule. Humor is my brother's domain. I'm the serious one, the bookish oldest. Yet, I can't help but put my characters in humorous situations. I feel apologetic when I do this, and this feeling is something no one, with possibly the exception of my brother, could understand. It's part of the paradox of family.

More photos

I can't get all my photos on the post below. Here are some more.

The More Things Change

So much has changed in my life since coming to Oregon in 2001. I realized that my family's outing today is one of the few exceptions. Today follows the thread of a tradition that started when my parents came to visit that first Labor Day: a day in the Hood River area picking apples. For several years we've been going to the Kiyokawa Family Orchards. This year, Chris, my brother-in-law decided to begin a new family tradition of locking his keys in the car. Speaking of the more things change. . .it brought me back to the days of working with Chris in Turkey when he would come into my building to ask me if I had seen his keys. This time it was AAA to the rescue. I'm the picture taker so there aren't ever any pictures of me, but this year I handed off the camera for a couple mother-daughter shots. I need something to send the relatives, and Oregon is showing her most photogenic side in the fall.

Time To Write

I had coffee with some friends today, and one friend, a poet named Jenn,talked about going for her MFA. One aspect of our conversation has been eddying around my head all afternoon. She was telling us that the program expects its writers to put in about 20 hours a week on their writing. I'm not heading out to get an MFA any time soon. It was the time aspect that really has me thinking. I do want to finish my second novel by the end of next summer. Am I putting in enough time each week? I write on the weekends and a bit during the week, but is that enough? All said I may be putting in five to six hours a week writing and another one to two reading works from my two writing groups. How can I eek out more time? It is easy to say that I can write more when I'm sitting here on Sunday evening refreshed from the weekend, but at 9:00 on a Tuesday after I've been racing around since 6:00 am, it's harder to do. Isn't that, though, what separates the dabbler from the writer?

I can't give 20 hours a week to my writing. Not now. But, I can do 10. I'm sure of it. I am setting a 10 hour a week goal from now until winter break.

Crescent by Diana Abu-Jaber

Reading the haunting lyricism of Diana Abu-Jaber's Crescent. It is a book about people in exile from country, from soul, from love, from desire. People who ache for a homeland, a love, a friendship, a loved-one, a taste from childhood. How stories, food, friendship, writing, can fill an ache if only temporarily. The story strips the skin back, rattles the reader's ghost bones, dares the reader to find peace.

The main character, Sirine is a middle-eastern chef. Food, obviously, plays into the novel. Yesterday I made Mousakka, today cumin-infused lentils. Middle East tastes are like comfort food. Above is a photo of my daughter, Coranna, making her first Baklava. I made one pan for my book group and she made another pan for my writing group. Now what I want is a hot cheese-dripping Kunefe with milky vanilla salep to remind me of wandering the cold, wet cobble streets of Antakya in December.

Here's my Baklava secret:
Use crushed pistachios instead of the walnuts. Also, don't use honey, use sugar for the sauce. After the sauce has boiled and thickened, add lemon juice. The lemon juice gives it a remarkable tang.

Richard Russo

Magic, humor, and class were the topics tonight. In listening to the first speaker in the Portland Arts and Lecture Series, writer Richard Russo, I discovered much about my own self. And I thought much about my own writer's voice.

A magic realist Russo is not, but a humorist who believes that adults need to be reminded of the magic in our mundane, every day surroundings. Isn't that magic realism, in some small strand of its definition. In that, somewhere in the weary task of survival (in whatever form that takes, maintaining the loft in the Pearl or foraging for food in the wild), our brains find explanation for every gap in the continuity of our rational minds. So if we see a commode, to use Russo's example, in the yard, we decide that the workers are working on the bathroom. Our adult, linear minds do not allow us to wonder at the vision of a commode in such a wide open space. Writers, said Russo, make the readers see the wonder.

Humor. Russo is a humorist who finds the funny in the serious and the serious in the funny. He said that when he first started writing, he didn't know what his writer's voice would be, only that he wanted to be a writer. He hoped that editors would publish his work and find it profound even though it wasn't. I related to that. I fought my narrative voice, wanted a deep, thought-provoking, serious voice. When in life, I'm a goof. When I workshopped Secret of the Plains, the writers in my group latched onto my humor, and soon I realized that I could not fight that part of my personality, or my way of relating to the world. My writing is earthy, and ghostlike, but it is also goofy and silly just like me. Russo helped me to articulate that about me as a writer.

Class. When I was getting my masters, I loved studying Marxist Literary Criticism because it looked at class. I've always been fascinated by class, which is one reason I like writing about Nepal because class, or cast, used to be barriers that people wouldn't even question or consider crossing. Now it is messy and that has caused much tension in the villages. Russo came from a small work class New York town, probably not far from where my brother-in-law, Chris Russo, grew up. I know east coast working class, am a product of that culture. And so I understand Richard Russo's experiences and the moral imperative he feels about putting that lens of class before his readers. He touched on the fact that talking about class has become almost an old-fashioned notion, and he warned against such sentiments. I agree with him.

Great night.

TAKTSER RINPOCHE, ELDEST BROTHER OF THE DALAI LAMA, PASSES AWAY

TAKTSER RINPOCHE, ELDEST BROTHER OF THE DALAI LAMA, PASSES AWAY

Washington DC, September 5 (ICT)—Taktser Rinpoche, the eldest brother of the Dalai Lama, passed away earlier today (September 5) at home in Indiana in the United States having been ill for several years. He was 86 years old.

Taktser Rinpoche - whose given name was Thupten Jigme Norbu - was recognized at the age of three as the reincarnated abbot of Kumbum monastery in modern-day Qinghai, one of the most important monasteries in Tibet, and was therefore already a prominent figure in Tibet's religious hierarchy even before his brother the Dalai Lama was born.

In the immediate wake of the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1949-1950, Taktser Rinpoche played important intermediary roles first between the Dalai Lama and Chinese Communist officials and then later, when in India, between the US State Department and the Dalai Lama during the protracted negotiations between Beijing and Lhasa surrounding signature of the controversial Seventeen Point Agreement - the document which was intended to give legitimacy to China's rule of Tibet.

Taktser Rinpoche was deeply mistrustful of the Chinese Communist Party's intentions in Tibet, and was a prominent voice advising the Dalai Lama to leave Tibet in the face of what was perceived as direct threats to his own personal safety as well as to the integrity of Tibet itself.

In 1950, when the Dalai Lama was still in Lhasa, Chinese officials attempted to persuade Taktser Rinpoche to travel to Lhasa and convince the Dalai Lama to accept the "peaceful liberation" of Tibet, even promising to make him the governor of Tibet if he succeeded, according to one account. Taktser Rinpoche eventually agreed to travel to Lhasa to see the Dalai Lama, but evaded his Chinese escorts on route and instead conveyed to the Dalai Lama his deep misgivings about China's influence in Tibet, and urging the Dalai Lama to retreat to the border with India.

Although a devout and dedicated follower of the Dalai Lama, Taktser Rinpoche nevertheless took a different stand on Tibet's status to his brother, calling instead for the complete independence of Tibet as opposed to the model of autonomy put forward by the Dalai Lama.

An extremely energetic individual, Taktser Rinpoche dedicated his life to serving the Dalai Lama, Tibet and the Tibetan people, including serving as the Dalai Lama's representative in Japan. Upon leaving Tibet in the 1950s and over a long and prolific writing career, he wrote several academic papers and books on Tibet including his own autobiography, Tibet Is My Country, one of the first books on the Tibetan experience to have scholarly credibility. He went on to serve as Professor of Tibetan Studies at Indiana University in the United States, where in 1979 he founded the Tibetan Cultural Center.

Taktser Rinpoche was a tireless advocate for the protection of Tibetan culture and the rights of the Tibetan people in Tibet. Each year - including this year prior to the Beijing Olympics - he participated in long walks and cycle rides to raise awareness of the plight of the Tibetan people.

He is survived by his wife Kunyang Norbu, and three sons.



--------------------------------------------------------
Tsewang Phuntso
Liaison Officer - Latin America
OFFICE OF TIBET
241 East 32nd Street
New York, NY 10016
Tel: (212) 213 5010 extn. 11

Research

When I first trolled the internet and went into the Multnomah library to research Tharu culture for my second novel, I felt discouraged. A couple sites about tourists passing through left more questions than answers. I questioned myself in writing about a culture I know less about than Gurungs who I lived with in Nepal. But, I enjoy a research challenge. Besides, Nepal is a country I know. There are people I know who live in Nepal, work in Nepal, and still visit Nepal regularly. Many of my friends stay informed. So, as I researched the Tharu culture, I sent out two e-mails. Just two to a listserve of PC volunteers and to someone I know who lived in Nepal and still works with Nepalese artists. The response showed me, again, why I chose to write about Nepal. I'm still getting e-mails of photos, stories, titles of books, names of articles, and even documentaries. There is a monsoon of information out there, and people who want to talk about their experiences, who want to share.

This is Damian Jones' site. As written on his site: "Aid Through Trade™ was founded with a desire to bring the artistry and craftsmanship of Nepali designers to a western market, while at the same time improving the social and economic status for the artisan groups involved." His is one person I met in Nepal who never let go of the concept of "service".

Another person whose involvement in Nepal has been lifelong, and whose opinion I respect is Laurie Vasily. Laurie is a member of UNMN and is still actively working in Nepal.

Though I haven't gotten anything from Ravi Vadlamudi yet, I need to mention him. Ravi was my neighbor in Nepal and has been like a brother to me. He and his family just moved to Kathmandu so I'm sure I'll be picking Ravi's brain. Here's an article about Ravi's clinic in New Orleans. He's in the photo in front of his clinic.

Finally, Cora Clark. She was a Peace Corps Volunteer with me in 1990. Now she lives an hour away and has been a great sounding board. Here she is still talking about the Peace Corps.

Dog Mountain

Every Labor Day my family has had the run of a private camp. Acres of trees, and just us. It's on the Gorge so we enjoy the vinyards and the hikes. This year my brother-in-law and I hiked up Dog Mountain while everyone else went wine tasting.

The trail split at one point, to the left an easier hike, to the right a steeper grade. Next to the more challenging path were several warnings written by past hikers. Chris and I pondered for a moment if they were sarcastic, but then at the written warning of dragons, we both nodded. Chris turned to me said, "this is the zombie trail." Note to those who hike with others, never hike with someone who is deep into a zombie novel--they see zombie apocolypse hideouts in every cave and dark cavern of the trail. While Chris scanned for zombie hideouts, I breathed in the pine air, and tried to imagine the lush trail in the heart of wildflower season. We kept a good clip and I felt warm and comfortable until we crested the top.

The mountain next to Dog Mountain is called Wind Mountain. We hiked it last Labor Day, and stood sweating in the still, warmth at the top. This, Dog Mountain, should have been named after a scavenger dog or dingo because it must have stole the wind from poor Wind Mountain. At the top of Dog Mountain, gusts ripped through my jacket and chilled the sweat on my back. Gorge wind is famous, and as we started up the goat sized ledge to the apex, I was brought back to Nepal.

My village was on top of a 6,000 foot hill just below the Annapurna Himals. The Himalayan wind blew against me on my hour-long daily ridge walk to my school. I didn't wear a jacket, because Nepalis didn't have jackets. Instead I would cacoon myself in a green shawl and walk as fast as I could. I got into pretty good shape, and my cheeks took on a nice rouge red. I also remember that, during the winter months, I spent my time running from fire to fire, and filling my stomach with the most scalding tea available, not to mention that I hate tea.

Not having a fire or scalding tea, we scanned the beauty of the Columbia River and decided to run down. Besides running down a mountain is good training in case there is a zombie appocolypse.

I'm back

It's been almost two months since I've written. For a consistent blogger, that's a long vacation. This break was intentional. I wanted to slow down and just check in.

I was diving.

Tonight I was reading a piece from a member of my writing group where he describes what it feels like to sit at the bottom of the sea. I think that's what I've been doing since the start of July, sitting at the bottom of the sea, dredging up my past, feeling it pass through my fingers. Neutral buoyancy. I remember when my friend Marianne was diving in Turkey. Her favorite thing to do was pick the frail sand dollars from the bottom of the sea, to hold them in the palm of her hand as she learned neutral buoyancy. She knew she'd gotten the trick when she stopped crushing the sand dollars. But,try as she might, she would always crush them in her ascent to the surface.

I confronted my past in the Carrie-Ann way--head one. Family, lot's of them: my brother and his family, aunts, uncles, cousins, and childhood friends. Great-aunt Virginia who has 51 great-grandchildren and remembers all their names, and whose mannerism reminded me of my grandmother. My two best college friends. Three of my dearest Peace Corps friends. And because we couldn't get together, a long three-way call with two of my long-lasting friends from Turkey. Add to that, heart-to-hearts with my friends here, and check-ins with Sheila when she was state-side. Phew! A lot of silt swimming at the bottom of my sea. No wonder I could only maintain.

I am a different person than the woman who met all of those people I swam with this summer, but I'm also very much the same. I am the sum of all these experiences, and cannot be crushed like a sand dollar in my ascent to the surface. It is time to surface, but I'm ready.

Magic Realism. . .concerts at the Portland Chinese Garden

My daughter, Coranna, and I attended the Tuesdays By Twilight Concert Series at the Portland Chinese Garden. I used to believe that the Cisterns in Istanbul were the most surreal concert venue, but now I'm voting for this one. The Vancouver Chinese Music Ensemble played traditional Chinese instruments: erhu, ruan, dzeng, and pipa. The erhu, similar to a violin, was my favorite. Watching over the water with the Chinese temple arches framing the musicians was magic. I Should also add that Coranna was perfect. When the woman playing said that she wrote a piece to resemble the feel of candlelight, Coranna closed her eyes and tried to feel how the music was candlelight. Careful not to speak outloud, she raised her thumb to indicate that she felt it.

Magic realism is like this night was for us. It disarms you a bit, maybe even makes you gasp as you realize that art can transcend to a place that is intuitively beyond the realm of words. Placed in a real world, it sparkles with magic.

Vikram Seth

I rediscovered an old love this weekend.

Last month I went to Powell's and was poking around the stacks looking for Indian authors to read while also talking to my friend Sheila on the phone. Sheila just returned from Thailand so we were intermixing conversations about Thailand with books and I think I got all jumbled and chose a Vikram Seth book. I remembered his name, but I thought it was from his novel, A Suitable Boy. Sheila, who knows me so well, and probably read every Indian author I've read agreed that surely that was how I knew Vikram Seth. So, I bought An Equal Music without really reading much about it. Just to clarify - I'm sorry I'm so excited about my discovery that I'm gushing faster than I can write this story - I'm reading Indian author's to get my feel for the rhythm I want in my second novel. It is set in Nepal, and I want it to have a breathless, folklore like quality to it. I want the village to be a character, and all the characters to tie into the voice.

Yesterday, I felt tired after not sleeping Thursday night because I was excited about the half-marathon, and tired from running the half-marathon in, what I now realize where shitty shoes I bought off the sale rack, so I only went to one cookout and didn't go over Nadja's to watch the fireworks. Instead, I stayed home to read Vikram Seth's An Equal Music. At first, I was disappointed because it was set in London and there was nothing of the Indian lyrical quality about the book. I almost put it down, except the writing was so alive, so electrical, I couldn't stop. Then I realized that the main character lived in Bayswater, very near where I lived in London, and the central motif of the novel was music. As we know, I love music so I just kept reading. Maureen called, upset because she found a home for her little pit-bull puppy, and I had to stop reading to console her. Then today I had things to do, a cookout, shopping. But, I kept picking up this magnificent story, and something about the style, the soul of this book reminded me of a past love. I ran to it at each interval, and finally, just now, finished it.

As I do when I'm so in love with a story I want to soak more from it, I looked over Vikram Seth's other works. I was shocked to discover that he wrote Golden Gate. Have you read this book? I devoured it in the nineties while I was living with Sheila in Washington, DC. That's probably why Sheila recognized his name - I was in love with this book and have thought of it often through the years. It is a novel set in verse about people in San Francisco. But the author is so true to his characters, so shrewd about human nature, that I never forgot it. The book wasn't mine, probably borrowed from our other housemate, Monica. Otherwise, it would have been a book I held onto.

So,in reading An Equal Music, I rediscovered my love for Vikram Seth. Deep breath. There, now I've gushed. I'm content. But, I don't want to let this story go. As my fourteen-month-old nephew says, putting his little fingers together in sign "more, more."

Nepal by Districts

This is a great map from Nepal's Election Commission. map by districts

I'm using the map to think through where I want to set Hara Shankar. It needs to be in the Terrai of course, but otherwise I'm not sure. I have three ideas.
a.) On the boarder of India because of the Indian influence. Also, the boarder towns were the driest places I experienced.
b.) Somewhat near Chitwan National Forest. Where there would have definately have been jungle at one point.
c.) Closer to the hills. Could see the outline of the himals in the distance.

By the way, I lived in Lamjung district above Beshishahar.

108 Sun Salutations for the solstice

I went to an interesting class at Yoga Shala last night. 108 sun salutations for the summer solstice. Actually, I didn't complete all 108 because I did a few variations in there, but for the most part, I tried to keep the rhythm going for the entire two hours. I wanted to flow into the sun, the feel the energy of summer radiate from my core. But, with all the running I've been doing I took a pragmatic look about half way through and realized that I could also get some much needed stretching in too. The balance between the plan--aka do the entire 108--and the inspiration--hey I could get a good pigeon stretch in right now. Each solstice I learn a bit more about myself. I heard, and more importantly paid attention to, the message that I need to let go of the plan. When I joined the Peace Corps, the PC macho phrase resonated too well in my New English rugged individualist soul. I have softened. I really have. But I also have hardened. Balance. Be nice. To myself and to my world. I repeated these mantras as I dipped down into each forward bend-that would be 216 forward bends, if all had been completed.

I put the number 108 in the first paragraph of my second novel. It's a good number with meaning in Hinduism and Buddhism. It is round and rolls of the tongue. And the number enabled me to stay in the yoga room for two hours feeling a rhythm and just being present with my breath. That in itself is of sparkling importance.

Byron

A Lovely poem by Byron

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
____________________________________________
I love the last two lines because that is what it feels like to stand in nature and realize the diminutive nature of our lives.

I'm realizing that nature and ghosts infuse my writing. It could be that I grew up in the woods and my grandmother instilled in me an awe of spirits. I spent much of my childhood silent standing in nature trying to hear her breathe. Now, as an adult, I need to stop and listen more. Perhaps that is what writing is to me. Tonight after I worked out I decided to do my stretching in the club's hottub. I don't know how long it took me to realize that I had been stretching over my leg for an indeterminate period of time completely traveling down a scene in my novel, watching it rather than my environment. I get lost in thought like that a lot when I'm not "on duty" either with work or my daughter. And when I'm in nature I'm lost.

Bunburyist

In Shaw's The Importance of Being Earnest, the irresponsible main character, Algernon, creates a fictional friend named Bunbury who is always "getting sick" and calling him to the country, thus freeing Algernon to explore. Algernon tells his friend who has a secret life in the city, "What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know." I am an unabashed bunburyist. I realized this today as I was tooling around the streets of downtown Portland while my daughter was in theater camp. I'm happiest when I'm clicking down unknown paths, watching, searching, bunburying. Today I walked all over the Pearl district, poked my head into stores, listened to conversation, tromped down busy streets, residential areas, and construction sites. When I lived overseas that's what I did most weekends, I wore through the soles of most of my shoes. Now that I have a child, I don't wander as much as I used to, particularly because Coranna hates to go on walks. But when I do, I feel whole, right, in my own skin. I can't put it on my resume, but I'm really good at bunburying.

I suppose it is no accident that my first novel would be a journey. I don't travel much any longer except in my writing and in reading. That's fine because I know I'm tilling the soil for my daughter, but it is strange for a milkweed to land and take root. I guess how else could you grow other milkweeds.

It's been awhile

I haven't written in a couple weeks--the longest I've gone. Blame my silence on the end of the school year. Sometimes it takes superhuman effort to pull me through the thick seaweed of tasks and obligations, but I can see the open ocean up ahead and I'm smiling at the sight. Just one more week, and then I'll do a Kirtan to clear my head, and drift into my summer. Spend lot's of quality time with Coranna, get caught up with some old friends too. I also plan on upping my workout times and running distances. I want to hit some trails and get to ten miles by July. And I will write. Write. Write. Write. And lastly, I need to think. I experienced a lot of change this last year and I really need to reorient myself. I've been looking at some of the Buddhist centers near me, and I think it is time to go back to meditation. Still my mind so that I can think more clearly, really figure out what I need to be doing with my life. It is difficult to listen to your soul when you're racing between appointments.