Pastiche

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Greeting Card Collage
To collage the classics. To repurpose. Two weeks ago, I concluded with a promise (to Eileen) to look further into these concepts. Here, for example, is the visual collage that I created in my undergraduate Women's Studies Class, a successful completion of the assignment, I'm sure:

However, it became a problem when I took a similar approach to my written work as well. I was warned against the pastiche: "literary patchworks formed by piecing together extracts from various works by one or several authors" (A Handbook to Literature, Holman & Harmon). But I liked the pastiche! And I like that it comes from the French pastiche = "a medley made up of fragments from different works" . . . and from the Italian pasticcio = "medley, pastry, cake, pasta, paste." Which brings us to collage = "a pasting." Perfect!

Last time, it was a bouquet of flowers; this time it's a tea tray of pastries. Sweet! Who could object? The pastiche may be derivative but Wikipedia assures us that the pastiche celebrates! And so does my friend Paula! Although she doesn't use the precise word, she offers these encouraging words about pastiching (is that a verb? it is now!):

"I’ve been reading lately that it is bad for one’s blog (GASP! O no!) to post bits and pieces of the web with just a little text of my own, because it will cheapen my brand and make me seem like a moocher. I generally try to follow that advice. Hey, wait! What brand? Aging baby boomer pinko crank? Who am I trying to kid here? The fact is, that’s somebody’s opinion, and there’s every chance in the world that it’s wrong, since I never read one piece of advice without reading its exact opposite within 24 hours. Does that happen to you too? But, since this blog ain’t a money-making, mind-blowing dream machine pumping out pro-blogger amounts of traffic, who cares?"

When left to our own devices, we feel free to pastiche, collage, re - purpose, and juxtapose. To connect! Go Paula! Go Eileen!

I learned to love the literary pastiche early, thanks in part to this this well - worn anthology of middle - brow poetry. Perfect for a middle - schooler, this collection was among my favorite books for as long as I can remember.

The American Album of Poetry
compiled by American radio personality
Ted Malone, 1908 - 1989
As the story goes, my mother brought our old maroon copy home from work years before I was ever born, or maybe borrowed it from a friend and never got around to returning it -- something like that, you know, one of those apocryphal anecdotes of how a certain book was fated to enter your life and find a home on your shelf. Anyway, I have to trust that the original owner was a forgiving soul, because my young reader's heart was opened by the presence of that book in our household. It didn't have to contain the best poetry ever written, it just had to be tender and accessible and introduced by a companionable, articulate editor who knew how to polish each little gem and show it in its best light -- not with paragraphs of analysis but in snippets.

As pointed out in the introduction by Joseph Auslander, this was not your typical anthology, this was Ted Malone's album, containing neither studio portraits nor formal photographs, but snapshots of poetry; nothing well - known, yet everything familiar. Writes Auslander, "The treatment of the Album is distinctive. There are twenty - six sections, each with a fresh and engaging title ["But, Definitely!" "First Person, Singular," "Wit or Without, Brevity is the Soul," "Sing Me A Song of Social Significance"]. And throughout the book, connecting poem with poem, is Ted Malone's friendly running comment ["It isn't so bad, a crowd of people running through your mind, but only two or three tramping through your heart," "Hold your breath while you read this one," "Close your eyes and read this one," "Six days shalt thou labor, six days shalt thou dream"]. Even before I got to the poetry I was charmed by these chapter headings and insightful little prologues to every single poem in the book. It turns out Malone was blogging! Paving the way! He was doing way back then what I like to do now on The Fortnightly and The Quotidian.

I've featured a couple of my old favorites from Malone's Album on earlier Fortnightly posts: "Thoughts of a Modern Maiden" in Time to Write a Letter and "Blue Willow" in That Old Blue Willow. About ten years ago, when more and more vintage books started appearing on amazon and ebay, I was lucky enough to track down a couple of copies of The American Album of Poetry, so that my mom and I could each have our own, and she could at last feel free to return our original copy to its original owner. The results of my search were rather thrilling! For my mom, an autographed copy:

and for me, a copy with the following note inscribed inside:

SAVE
Reminder: Save! Do Not Discard This Book

I quoted last two lines on p. 38
in my second mystery story he
published for me in 1948 and
for which I used pen name of
Julie Masterson instead of
J. F. as he would have
preferred.
~ J. F. ~
I have yet to determine who "J. F." might be or why her nearest and dearest allowed this book out of their hands (I purchased it from a bookseller, not an individual or family). Will I ever solve the mystery of these mystery stories by "Julie Masterson"? Was it Ted Malone who published them? In the meantime, I turned straight to page 38 and found -- to my surprise! (or maybe not!) -- another of my old favorites, one that I often used when teaching simile and metaphor:

Words

Our words are flame and ashes, fleet as breath,
Plumes for adventure, pageantry of death.

Our words are color -- yellow, blue, and red,
Drumbeat for marching, prayer for bed.

Words are our armor, they are our intent,
The coin we used along the way we went.

Grace Mansfield
Thanks Ted Malone for sharing your snapshots, blossoms, and tea cakes -- and for being a pre - blogger!

Thanks also to my supportive sisters Peggy Rosenbluth and Diane Burrows; and brothers Dave, Bruce, and Aaron Carriker (click each name to read their various guest columns on The Quotidian Kit). They support my blogging enterprise in a dozen different ways: sharing old photos and memories; recommending novels, poems, and recipes; providing insightful commentary on the complex issues of our troubled times; reading what I have written and offering constructive criticism.

In the early days of my blog, my older brother wrote to say: "You are a true master in linking nuggets of wisdom, wit, and rational thought, but I see so little of the inner Kit. Or perhaps, I just haven't been reading enough of your blogs."

I really liked his comment about my nugget - linking skills, because that's what I want to do and what I think I do best -- pastiche! I know some entries are just a quotation and / or picture, but I like doing that -- and it's always a good match, one that no one else would have thought of, or even found (because I'm the careful reader, that's my gift). I took his words to heart and trust that, as he read further, he encountered to a greater extent the voice of the inner Kit -- which I'm sure is there! -- in addition to the cut and paste -- pastiche!

My creative writing teacher in college once wrote in the margin of my paper: "What's at stake here?" I have never forgotten that comment. I think my brother may be asking a similar question. What I took away from his advice was the need to take more personal risk, go out on a limb, embarrass myself a little bit, move beyond "So what?"

To conclude this pastiche, here is one last little pastry
from my most recent reading:

"The tales of our exploits will survive as long as the human voice itself . . .
And even after that, when the robots recall the human absurdities
of sacrifice and compassion, they will remember us.
They will robot - laugh at our courageous folly . . .
But something in their iron robot hearts will yearn to have
lived and died as we did: on the hero's errand . . .
the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention."
(202, 312)

from the novel The Fault in Our Stars
written by the awesome & multi - talented John Green
recommended by my awesome & multi - talented son Ben McCartney
read aloud by my awewsome & mult - talented husband Gerry McCarntey

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, February 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

The Second Page

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

January Sunrise

Advice for the New Year:
"Arm yourself with clairvoyance!"
from French Composer and Pianist,
Erik Satie, 1866 - 1925
This is the beginning of Year Four for my Fortnightly blog of Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony, a mental space where the threads of art and life intertwine until a pattern emerges from the chaos. Four years ago, as I was getting the blog underway, my friend Eve -- also a writer and a teacher of writing -- asked me if I had a Dream Job in mind for my Inner Scholar. Indeed I did!

Back in September 2009, I posted my Mission Statement of what I hoped to accomplish in every blog post: to generate some literary analysis -- scholarly yet painless -- about how literature fits into every hour of every day; to share and interpret what I have recorded and remembered over the years; to include a running update of my current reading; and to explain how it all fits together with the little things that actually happen in real life throughout the course of any given day -- in manner of Mrs. Dalloway!

To celebrate the New Year -- and because January is a time to look backward as well as forward -- I thought I'd gather up the positive responses that I have received from supportive friends and readers who assure me that there's something to my project of combining the life, the literature, and the visuals.

For example, I was inspired by Len's view of my blog as an "anthology," in the medieval "flowers of literature" sense of the word. I learned something new that day -- that anthologia comes from anthos (flower) + logia (collection, collecting) = flower gathering. Similarly, florilegium in medieval Latin derives from flos (flower) + legere (to gather) = a gathering of flowers. These collections of "fine extracts from the body of a larger work" were initially culled from religious, philosophical, or scientific writings, eventually coming to describe books of botany (actual flowers!) as well as collections of poetry, epigrams, favorite quotations, and "beautiful passages from authors."

Literary flower gathering! Definitely a Dream Job! Thus is today's bouquet gathered from the encouraging words and unique perspectives for which I owe my kind followers -- such as Jack, for instance, who always praises, comments, and shares -- many, many thanks! To those mentioned above and below and all the hundred others who goad me on my way . . . I get by . . . gonna try . . . with a little help from my friends . . . and family: Gerry, who not only "likes" but loves me; and Ben and Sam who delight me every occasionally with a "Hey, Mom, I read your blog!" [Okay, I'm saving my long list of sibs for next time!]

Len also said -- "your blog is a public service"

Melinda said -- "thanks for always showing us the second page"

Charlotte said -- "thank you, Kitti, Assembler of Beautiful Juxtapositions"

My "lasting literary fan" Cate said --
"So glad you document all of this.
When people ask you what you do just tell them that you are a documentor.
What's that?
I document things silly. I am the observer."

Ann and Paula were both kind enough to review my blog on their blogs!

Jill most sweetly posted -- "I'm inviting my friends to visit my friend, Kitti's, blog. You will find that she writes, most eloquently, about a variety of interesting ideas and topics, some of which will surely capture your attention and, possibly, your heart."

Jan is always willing to share and collaborate -- "My dear friend Kitti knows literature like no one else. When I first met Kitti in graduate school, she said, 'Literature helps me live my life.' I have always remembered that. Today, Kitti dedicated her Fortnightly Blog entry to my writing. I am so humbled and touched. It's delightfully Kitti, and it's also me! What a treat."

Kisses to our mutual friend Jes who wrote: "How courageous of you to insist on beauty and thoughtfulness every day in this, the 21st century! What a brave blogger you are! Thank you for drawing my attention to Jan's journal in your blog.

"Yay for both of you, journaling, blogging, thinking, creating! May the workings of your beautiful brains never cease. I've always had good taste in friends, you know. It's so reassuring to see that my instincts were then and are now perfectly sound"

And it must have been Victoria Amador who said -- "You have a way of synthesizing the ideas of literature and explaining them in a way that makes sense even in our mundane world. I think the essay is really your literary forte--forget about the collegiate constraints and go for your own book of essays." [Like Vickie, "I hate to brag . . . well, that's not true!"]

Etta wrote at length: "I told you about the dooce blog because it makes me think of you. It's snarky, funny and in the end she knows what to value in life and can express it. In the end, she describes how I feel about life. I know that lots of your friends see those same things in you that I do.

"I have been appreciating your blog. I think the best part is your use of literary quotes to describe the joy in your life. It is put together like the Hallmark cards I always imagined you creating, but better. Who knew you would be so computer savvy? Your entries are beautifully crafted and written and terribly literary. (Those who can, should.) Do you think you will ever add daily life anecdotes? You and your family are terribly interesting and I would love to hear more. Tell us a good story about your kids.

"You are going to be unstoppable now. Who knew that you would be so inspirational in your writing. It seems like the whole world opens up to you when you read poetry, and I know you have many poems just waiting to share with us."

[Etta concluded, "I wish I had the nerve to post a comment but I'm not sure I have the courage to have lots of other people read my writing." Well, Et, now they have! Thanks for being so optimistic on my behalf, and for sharing with us all!]

Eileen suggested that "The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker is a medium whose own being is a message -- not a mere channel but an offerer of love / motivation / comfort to fit the occasion. Better than seemingly random information coming at you from the great beyond, it aids the receiver in transcending, more of a transmission, in its best sense, vs a trance-emission.
‎
"Creatively chosen, there is agency as well as receptivity, but it seems to me that some folks do their thing with an eye toward referring back to 'authorities' while others use extant literature creatively to respond to current circumstances, each more or less (just my bias, no slur on the first sort, just not my tribe). I like to collage the classical stuff and ~ omg! ~ I think I am about to say repurpose."

Collage? Repurpose? No kidding, Eileen! These terms are going to be just perfect my next post . . . see you in a fortnight!

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, January 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Moons of Wintertime and Beyond

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

My Indian Maiden, with Rosemary Wreath
'Twas in the moon of winter-time
aka The Huron Carol
[click to hear sung by Chanticleer]

'Twas in the moon of winter-time
When all the birds had fled,
That mighty Gitchi Manitou
Sent angel choirs instead;
Before their light the stars grew dim,
And wondering hunters heard the hymn:
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria."

Within a lodge of broken bark
The tender Babe was found,
A ragged robe of rabbit skin
Enwrapp'd His beauty round;
But as the hunter braves drew nigh,
The angel song rang loud and high:
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria."

The earliest moon of wintertime
Is not so round and fair
As was the ring of glory on
the helpless infant there.
The chiefs from far before him knelt
With gifts of fox and beaver pelt.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria.

O children of the forest free,
O sons of Manitou,
The Holy Child of earth and heaven
Is born today for you.
Come kneel before the radiant boy
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy.
"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria."

1926 English translation
by Canadian poet, Jesse Edgar Middleton
based on the 1643 original by Jean de Brebeuf

Tonight is the Full Cold Moon of December, also called the Long Nights Moon when it is the full moon closest to the Winter Solstice, as it is this year. Unfortunately, the sky above my little spot on earth has been overcast every night this week, so I have not had any sightings of what is supposed to be an exceptionally bright full moon, the last and thirteenth (because August had two) full moon of 2012.

All I can do is keep checking the winter sky for a photo op. In the meantime, without boasting, please allow me share these extremely kind words from my friend Burnetta, regarding last month's moon:

Sometimes called, among other things,
The White Moon, The Dark Moon, or The Tree Moon
"The light in Indiana is a little different than the light here in Arkansas.

Kitti’s moons shimmer in bright light, vibrate in the colder northern air,
illuminating the landscape, with other worldly luminosity.

Her tree limbs reach out, touching the people who walk beneath the branches, attempting to alert them: watch out, walk softly, take your time.

Holidays glisten with still life arranged to celebrate the daily beauty.

Vegetables, fruits, flowers, garden implements, goblins, the little things that are taken for granted, until a day when rationality and identification demand that we look on our daily lives as parts of a puzzle, a desire to make sense of senseless life.

What is in a photo that gives us comfort and peace?
The moon, the trees, the things we use and throw away,
The light that is never quite the same."

~~ Thanks Burnetta! ~~

*******************

My Upcoming Full Moon Calendar for 2013

January (this photo by Ben McCartney)

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

click to see
Full Moons for 2014 ~ "Never Quite the Same"
&
Full Moons for 2015 ~ "Time for a Moondance"

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, January 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Day of Light

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Wall Tile for Lucia Day
by
Erkers Marie Persson
As with so many of the December customs, St. Lucia's Feast Day on the 13th is a celebration of light, vision, and enlightenment. Lucia, Lucy, Lux, Lucis -- all refer to Light. St. Lucia is a bringer of light -- in the form of candles, and breakfast in bed, early in the morning. And, as one who was violently deprived of her own eyesight, she has also become the patron saint of the blind.

Yesterday, Gerry and I brainstormed for a couple of songs in keeping with the day and came up with these; neither Christmas songs nor St. Lucy songs -- but a couple of our favorites on the theme of Light:

Blinded by the Light
"Mama always told me not to look into the eye's of the sun
But mama, that's where the fun is . . .
I tripped the merry-go-round
With this very unpleasin', sneezin' and wheezin,
the calliope crashed to the ground
Well she was
Blinded by the light
Revved up like a deuce
Another runner in the night. . . "
by
Bruce Springsteen
as performed by
Manfred Mann's Earth Band

and

I Saw the Light
"It was late last night
I was feeling something wasn't right
There was not another soul in sight
Only you, only you . . .
Then you gazed up at me and the answer was plain to see
'Cause I saw the light in your eyes . . . "
by Todd Rundgren

*******************************

ADDITIONAL LUCIA DAY TREASURES

1.
a Christmas song of "luminous light," perfect for the occasion:

Star of Bethlehem
lyrics by Leslie Bricusse
music by John Williams
from the Home Alone Soundtrack

Star of Bethlehem shining bright,
bathing the world in heav'nly light.
Let the glow of your distant glory
fill us with hope this Christmas night.

Star of innocence, star of goodness.
Gazing down since time began.
You who've lived through endless ages,
view with love the age of man.

Star of beauty hear our plea,
whisper your wisdom tenderly.
Star of Bethlehem set us free,
make us a world we long to see.

Star of Bethlehem, star on high,
miracle of the midnight sky.
Let your luminous light from heaven
enter our hearts and make us fly.

Star of happiness, star of wonder.
You see everything from afar.
Cast your eye upon the future,
make us wiser than we are.

Star of gentleness hear our plea,
whisper your wisdom tenderly.
Star of Bethlehem set us free
make us a world we long to see.

*******************************

2.

Thanks to my friend Cate
for these darling little Lucia Day Stickers

*******************************

3.
The most famous poem for this day,
John Donne's "Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day"
written back when the Winter Solstice occurred earlier in the month,
is featured in its entirety on an interesting blog: Gates of Vienna

It opens . . .

Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk . . .

And closes . . .

Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is."

Click to hear it read aloud.

*******************************

4.
See also my post from last year: "Santa Lucia"
Betsy McCall Celebrates Lucia Day

*******************************

5.
And take a look at this 2007 post,
direct from Sweden,
by Tiffany!

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, December 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "Day of Light"
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Like an Ant

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

The Visit of the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon
by Sir Edward John Poynter (1836 - 1919)

"Learn how to live
a joyful and constructive life in this world,
like ants. . . . The secret of a meaningful life
is not in the long-gone throne of Solomon and the like."
Sa'eb Tabrizi (1601 - 77)
Sa'eb's reference to Solomon's "long-gone throne" reminds me of the statue of Ozymandias:
" . . . Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies . . .
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my words ye Mighty and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822)
The kingdoms of Solomon and Ozymandias did not endure, their vast achievements dwarfed by an ant and a grain of sand. Padgett Powell, author of The Interrogative Mood presents a series of existential questions concerning this same dilemma of time, size and perspective. His inquiries suggest that we may have placed ourselves too high above the ant, especially when it comes to grasping the secrets of the universe:

"Is the human individual more important
than the individual ant, and if so by a factor,
what would you say, of what?" (10)

"Will you sing with me now: Oh let us be heroes,
let us have emotions pure or not pure be men
or not men, let us buzz and rumble the hill and
dale of daily insignificance just as confidently,
just as threateningly, just as humbly in its
cute red velour as does the velvet ant?" (34)

"Is it really tenable that a person has a a soul,
whether he has a cell phone or not,
and a grasshopper does not?" (160)

[See my book blog for more insightful questions from
The Interrogative Mood by Padgett Powell (b 1952)]

I like the way the lines of this painting by Leonard Orr
can be seen to resemble the elaborate architecture
of an underground ant colony!
Plaster cast reconstruction of an ant nest,
as illustrated in Wikipedia

I turned to Orr's paintings, confident that I would find something to illustrate ant - ness (as in, ant colony, ant hill, ant nest, ant industriousness, and so forth). Len generously responded: "If my painting manages to convey antness (the quidditas of ant, as Stephen Dedalus perhaps said), I am pleased."

"Although not immediately obvious,
there are quite a few people hiding here it seems."
~ facebook comment to Leonard Orr from Andrea Livingston ~

I decided on this painting, in part because of the accompanying commentary. Livingston's remark fits right in with the question of how different, really, are humans from ants. When I mentioned that I also wanted to include the passage about termites from Samuel Beckett's novel Watt, Len was one step ahead of me:

"For the only way one can speak of nothing
is to speak of it as though it were something,
just as the only way one can speak of God is to
speak of him as though he were a man,
which to be sure he was, in a sense, for a time,
and as the only way one can speak of man,
even our anthropologists have realized that,
is to speak of him as though he were a termite." (77)

Samuel Beckett (1906 - 89)
In the following poems, it is the family dog whose superior comprehension of the meaning of life edges out any knowledge that we mere humans might possess:

from Her Grave
Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think. . . .

Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you
do not therefore own her as yo do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
of her long slumber?

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know
almost nothing.

Mary Oliver (b 1935)
from New and Selected Poems (14 - 16)


Trickle Up?
Does human evolution have a future?
Even our dog is troubled by the limited
significance of our presence. He whines
at the door wanting to get out.

Ernest Sandeen (1908 - 1997)
from the Collected Poems (278)

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
of her long slumber?
~ Mary Oliver ~

Beautiful watercolor evocation
of autumn and bear - ness
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, December 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ Thanks David Kimbrel ~
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

There on the Edge of Autumn

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

"I am a leaf!"
All of today's connections are drawn from the writing and photography of my friend Jan Donley. References to her work have appeared several times on this blog (and The Quotidian Kit) right from the very beginning.* It was Jan who said, "September always smelled different from August. It just did." Likewise, October smells different from September; and November from October. As my son Sam said earlier today, "It smells good out here; it smells cold!" Yes -- it smells like November!

Excerpts from Jan's Journal

Gray / 21 November 2010
The bare trees covered the hillside, and from a distance, it looked as if the hill was covered in fur. Funny that way—how hard branches soften. . . .

The sun shone down from the western sky and pieces of light through the branches made stripes along the shaded ground.

[Out for a walk with her dog Gray] She could see her breath and Gray’s too as he panted along. They stopped at the edge of a drop, too steep to walk down. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and the air turned colder. She grabbed Gray up into her arms and took in the warmth of his coat against her bare face. He squirmed to be set free. So she put him back down and squatted next to him—there on the edge of autumn looking out toward winter.

Alone / 21 October 2010
Opal looked out the window. A gray overcast filled the sky. Leaves hung on trees—orange, yellow, red. She watched one fall. It twirled and almost seemed to shine against the dark day.

She put on her red jacket and her brown shoes.

“I’m going outside!” she called, knowing that Aunt Frances may or may not hear her. Aunt Frances had her own worries, and sometimes Opal felt alone.

She opened the front door and ventured down the stoop steps and onto the grass, covered with leaves that rattled under her feet.

She made her way onto the sidewalk—also leaf-covered. She shuffled through the leaves and watched as their colors tumbled over her shoes. They crackled and popped. The sound made Opal laugh.

Some leaves fell from limbs and other swirled up from the ground.

It was just a fall day. Opal knew that. Days come and go, Opal thought.

But something in the swirling and the falling made her stop.

She twirled herself one, two, three times.

“I am a leaf,” she called to the sky, to the trees, to the day.

She ran along the sidewalk, her red coat glimmering on that gray day.

She chanted, “I am a leaf” down the block and across the wide street to the park with the pond and the ducks and the caw cawing crows.

It was enough for the moment, to be one of many swirling through the day.

(Look closely! See the bench?)
And now some excerpts from Jan's short story "Blind"
Not necessarily an autumnal story,
but a back - to - school story,
so it must be Fall!
Sometimes you look up at the sun and you get blinded. You put your hand up as a shield, and you have sight again, but it’s kind of awkward to keep your hand there like that. And sometimes, you meet someone who blinds you, and even when you try to really see that person, it’s awkward. So you put your head down or look the other way. That’s how it was with Caroline.

She blinded me. . . .

The narrator here is Franny, trying to understand the complicated feelings she has for her classmate Caroline. One of my favorite elements of the story is their homework session:

“You really get these poems, don’t you?” And the truth was, I did. I could read a poem and figure out the puzzle of it faster than my mom could do the Daily Jumble in the Gazette.

For homework, we had to read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot. Mr. Zellner, our English teacher, got all teary-eyed when he talked to us about it. He carried the book around the classroom and read parts aloud:

“For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.”
I looked around and most everyone, including Caroline, was yawning or staring out the window. Me, I was listening.

Mr. Zellner asked, “What do you think Eliot is trying to convey when he writes the line, ‘It is impossible to say just what I mean?’”

I raised my hand. . . .

“Well.” I looked down at the words in the poem. “He has all these memories bottled up. He wants them to mean something, but he’s not sure they mean anything at all.”
“You got all of that out of one line?” Caroline asked.

“It’s poetry,” Mr. Zellner said, as if that answered everything. He read some more of the poem:

“I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.”
"Mermaids . . . .” Caroline stared at the page, and then she looked up at me. “Why mermaids?”

“It’s a metaphor,” I said.

Mr. Zellner smiled really big. “Yes! Yes! That’s right. Did everyone hear Frances?”

I wished he would call me Franny; but for some reason, teachers liked to use full names.

Mr. Zellner continued, “Our poet, Mr. Eliot, is using the mermaid’s song as a metaphor for missed opportunities, for loss, for—” Mr. Zellner stopped. He looked around the room— “what we wish we had done. Haven’t you all had moments when you wished you had done something different? The poem is about regret.”

“Yeah,” Caroline said. “I think I get it. Thanks to Franny.”

*****************
I love the way Jan has incorporated literary analysis right into the body of the story. Everything she says here about "Prufrock" is exactly what I've tried to tell my students in the past and what I told Ben & Sam when (luckily!) they were each assigned to read this poem in high school. [Click to hear T. S. Eliot himself recite.]

I also like the way that when it comes to poetry, Franny just knows. I earned a similar credential when discussing Jane Hamilton's novel A Map of the World in one of my long ago book groups. There is a sad, sad scene in the book when Alice's family kind of accidentally (not maliciously but simply because they don't understand what it is or how important) throw away her map of the world. When I asked my fellow readers if they had reached that scene yet, they weren't sure, so I pointed it out to them, since to me it was such a crucial turning point, not to mention that it totally illuminates the title of the book. Upon a second reading, I had to admit that no where is it specifically stated: "No! Wait! Stop! The family is throwing her map away!" Yet, when the group asked me, how I knew -- well, I just know!

Playing on the theme of "Blind," Jan writes that even Mr. Zellner "squinted a little" not to mention that he gets "all teary-eyed" when reading "Prufrock!" Franny at first averts her eyes out of shyness but later "nodded into the bright sun" of Caroline; and Caroline takes a moment just to look at the sky, nothing more, nothing less. The story concludes with the two young women sitting on a park bench in the late afternoon autumn sun, discussing the difficulty of making direct eye contact, the varying degrees of vegetarianism, and their upcoming Emily Dickinson assignment. Then, as Emily would surely have it:

"We stayed on the bench till the sun dropped.

In the dark it was so much easier to see."

View from the Bench
A few more Connections:

1. Jan enjoyed it awhile back when I told her that Franny's literary expertise reminded me -- in a good way of course! -- of Velma in Scooby-Doo. You know, that episode in which Daphne asks her, "Velma, do you have a book for every occasion?" And Velma replies, "Actually, yes." Which, in turn, brings to mind the question I was asked in college when I worked on the literary magazine: "Do you have a poem for every poem?" And, like Velma, I just had to say, "Actually, yes." Jan wrote back to me: "I am especially happy about your Scooby-Doo Reference. Diane loves her Scooby-Doo, and it's so much fun to have that allusion in the midst of Eliot and Hamilton, etc."

Scooby and the Gang
2. In other popular culture, Jan's description of Franny and Caroline sitting at the park reminds me of the leafy, sunny scene in the movie Harriet the Spy when the best friends all roll down the hill in the park:

Harriet and Friends
3. Franny puzzles over a comment that Caroline makes about various boys in their class -- "He wants me" -- and asks her to explain, “What does that feel like?”
“What does what feel like?” Caroline asked.
“Being wanted. What does it feel like to be wanted?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” . . .
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m kidding.” But I wasn’t.

This exchange made me think of a "fun fact" about the casting of The Graduate: Robert Redford was considered for the role of Benjamin before Dustin Hoffman. But Redford disqualified himself when the directors told him that the character had to portray a sense of defeat -- like being turned down for a date on a Friday night. And Redford said something like, "Huh? What do you mean?"

Similarly in the musical Jersey Boys the three macho Seasons don't want to sing the song "Walk Like a Man," written by the fourth, more "emo" Season (Bob Gaudio, in real life). The three dudes are complaining that it makes no sense -- "What do you mean, like a man instead of a woman? Walk like a girl?" Gaudio says, "No, like a man instead of boy. It's about growing up, standing up for yourself, not being twisted around someone else's little finger." The others just gawk at him uncomprehending. What? Apparently they're just not the type to ever have been twisted around anyone's little finger. What does that feel like?

4. Additional Favorite Journal Entries that I would recommend:
House
Washington Street (see text below, in "Comments")
The rain fell on yellow leaves

* 5. Previous Jan Donley Posts on my blogs:
Lucky Rock
Lost & Found
9 / 11 Retrospective [also on Quotidian Kit]
Dagmar's Birthday [also on Quotidian Kit]
Everyone Loves Stories

Scales
Sleight of Hand
The Little Door
Savor September!
Happy Birthday Coyote!

6. A bit more "Prufrock"

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, November 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com