Alina's Adventures

Watching from a distance, the weather.

Calls for bikes and being outside while my mother's estate calls for phone calls and phone calls and phone calls (most of which must be repeated to another person because someone mistyped a word and the world is nothing if not a series of misshapen words and oblong vowel sounds including oooooohhhh nooooo).

But on the happy front, the Eldest now pumps air into his own tires without assistance, not to mention he can find the air pump on his own. I watch him bike from the front window and try not to think of all the life I'm missing while digesting the legacies of death.

Admiring "The Female Man."

Getting the air ducts cleaned out.

Oh there's nothing quite so titillating and gut-wrenching as a weekend spent re-reading Joanna Russ' The Female Man. It should be required reading for any college freshman literature course. It should be the invisible shield within a backpack to protect young people from the sexual insolvencies of current gender norms. It should be required reading for all parties considering heterosexual marriage.

Let's see... what do I love about it? Well, for one, the familiar parts of the female protagonists' scripted life:

Now in the opera scene that governs our lives, Janet would have gone to a party and at that party she would have met a man and there would have been something about that man; he would not have seemed to her like any other man she had ever met. Later he would have complimented her on her eyes and she would have blushed with pleasure; she would have felt that compliment was somehow unlike any other compliment she had ever received because it had come from that man; she would have wanted to please that man, and at the same time she would have felt the compliment enter the marrow of her bones; she would have gone out and bought mascara for the eyes that had been complimented by that man. And later still they would have gone for walks, and later still for dinners; and little dinners tete-a-tete with that man would have been like no other dinners Janet had ever had; and over the coffee and brandy he would have taken her hand; and later still Janet would have melted back against the black leather couch in his apartment and thrown her arm across the cocktail table (which would have been made of elegant teak-wood) and put down her drink of expensive Scotch and swooned; she would have simply swooned. She would have said: I Am In Love With That Man. That Is The Meaning Of My Life. And then, of course, you know what would have happened.

Janet's story intersects with that of other females. One of my favorite scenes is a luncheon for which I've excerpted the particularly delicious parts:

    I knew most of the women there: Sposissa, three times divorced; Eglantissa, who thinks only of clothes; Aphrodissa, who cannot keep her eyes open because of her false eyelashes; Clarissa, who will commit suicide; Lucrissa, whose strained forehead shows that she's making more money than her husband; Wailissa, engaged in a game of ain't-it-awful with Lamentissa; Travailissa, who usually only works, but who is now sitting very still on the couch so that her smile will not spoil; and naughty Saccharissa, who is playing a round of His Little Girl across the bar with the host. Saccharissa is forty-five. So is Amicissa, the Good Sport. I looked for Ludicrissa, but she is too plain to be invited to a party like this, and of course we never invite Amphibissa, for obvious reasons.
    In we walked, Janet and I, the right and left hands of a bomb. Actually you might have said everyone was enjoying themselves. I introduced her to everyone......
    I shadowed Janet.
    I played with my ring.
    I waited for the remark that begins "Women-" or "Women can't-" or "Why do women-" and kept up an insubstantial conversation on my right. On my left hand Janet stood: very erect, her eyes shining, turning her head swiftly every now and again to follow the current of events at the party. At times like this, when I'm low, when I'm anxious, Janet's attention seems a parody of attention and her energy unbearably high. I was afraid she'd burst out chuckling. Somebody (male) got me a drink.

A ROUND OF "HIS LITTLE GIRL"

SACCHARISSA: I'm Your Little Girl.
HOST (wheedling): Are you really?
SACCHARISSA: (complacent): Yes I am.
HOST: Then you have to be stupid, too.

A SIMULTANEOUS ROUND OF "AIN'T IT AWFUL"

LAMENTISSA: When I do the floor, he doesn't come home and say it's wonderful.
WAILISSA: Well, darling, we can't live without him, can we? You'll just have to do better.
LAMENTISSA (wistfully): I bet you do better.
WAILISSA: I do the floor better than anybody I know.
LAMENTISSA (excited): Does he ever say it's wonderful?
WAILISSA (dissolving): He never says anything!

What starts out as a pristine pink filter...
[Yes, work with me on the metaphor here]

A handful of pages later, Janet and/or/plus Joanna enjoy an interaction with your average male. I like Joanna's use of italics to switch between the self she narrates- the public performance of a female self and the human within. Italics are so frequently overused or mottled in fiction. But not here:

    "But American women are so unusual," said the man from Leeds. "Your conquering energy, dear lady, all this world-wide American efficiency! What do you dear ladies use it for?"
    "Why, to conquer the men!" cried Saccharissa, braying.
   "In mah baby brain," said Janet, imitating quite accurately, "a suhtin conviction is beginnin' to fo'm."
    "The conviction that somebody is being insulted?" said Sharp Glasses. He didn't say that, actually.
    "Let's go," said Janet. I know it's the wrong party, but where are you going to find the right party?
    "Oh, you don't want to go!" said Sharp Glasses energetically. Jerky, too, they're always so jerky.
    "But I do," said Janet.
    "Of course you don't," he said; "You're just beginning to enjoy yourself. The party's warming up. Here," (pushing us down on the couch) "let me get you another."
 You're in a strange place, Janet. Be civil.
    He came back with another and she drank it. Uh-oh. We made trivial conversation until she recovered. He leaned forward confidentially. "What do you think of the new feminism, eh?"
    "What is-" (she tried again) 'What is-my English is not so good. Could you explain?"
    "Well, what do you think of women? Do you think women can compete with men?"
    "I don't know any men." She's beginning to get mad.
    "Ha ha!" said Sharp Glasses. "Ha ha ha! Ha ha!" (He laughed just like that, in sharp little bursts.) "My name's Ewing. What's yours?"
    "Janet."
    "Well, Janet, I'll tell you what I think of the new feminism. I think it's a mistake. A very bad mistake."
    "Oh," said Janet flatly. I kicked her, I kicked her, I kicked her.
    "I haven't got anything against women's intelligence," said Ewing. "Some of my colleagues are women. It's not women's intelligence. It's women's psychology.
    Eh?"
He's being good-humored the only way he knows how. Don't hit him.
    "What you've got to remember," said Ewing, energetically shredding a small napkin, "is that most women are liberated right now. They like what they're doing. They do it because they like it."
 Don't, Janet.
    "Not only that, you gals are going about it the wrong way."
You're in someone else's house. Be polite.
   "You can't challenge men in their own fields," he said. "Now nobody can be more in favor of women getting their rights than I am. Do you want to sit down? Let's. As I said, I'm all in favor of it. Adds a decorative touch to the office, eh? Ha ha! Ha ha ha! Unequal pay is a disgrace. But you've got to remember, Janet, that women have certain physical limitations."
    (here he took off his glasses, wiped them with a little serrated square of blue cotton, and put them back on) "and you have to work within your physical limitations.
    "For example," he went on, mistaking her silence for wisdom while Ludicrissa muttered, "How true! How true!" somewhere in the background about something or other, "you have to take into account that there are more than two thousand rapes in New York City alone in every particular year. I'm not saying of course that that's a good thing, but you have to take it into account. Men are physically stronger than women, you know."
    (Picture me on the back of the couch, clinging to her hair like a homuncula, battering her on the top of the head until she doesn't dare to open her mouth.)
    "Of course, Janet," he went on, "you're not one of those-uh-extremists. Those extremists don't take these things into account, do they? Of course not! Mind you, I'm not defending unequal pay but we have to take these things into account. Don't we? By the way, I make twenty thousand a year. Ha! Ha ha ha!" And off he went into another fit.

Winds up looking pretty nasty.

The man from Leeds discerns a connection between conversing with Janet and possibly mating with Janet. He strikes out to explore this situation while we read what Janet's thinking through italics. 

    "You're a good conversationalist," he said. He began to perspire gently. He shifted the pieces of his napkin from hand to hand. He dropped them and dusted his hands off. Now he's going to do it "Janet-uh-Janet, I wonder if you-" fumbling blindly for his drink-"that is if-uh-you-"
    But we are far away, throwing coats out of the coat closet like a geyser.
    Is that your method of courtship!
    "Not exactly," I said. "You see-"
    Baby, baby, baby. It's the host, drunk enough not to care.
    Uh-oh. Be ladylike.
    She showed him all her teeth. He saw a smile.
    "You're beautiful, honey."
    "Thank you. I go now." (good for her)
    "Nah!" and he took us by the wrist "Nah, you're not going."
    "Let me go," said Janet.
    Say it loud. Somebody will come to rescue you.
    Can't I rescue myself?
    No.
    Why not?
   All this time he was nuzzling her ear and I was showing my distaste by shrinking terrified into a corner, one eye on the party. Everyone seemed amused.
   "Give us a good-bye kiss," said the host, who might have been attractive under other circumstances, a giant marine, so to speak. I pushed him away.
    "What'sa matter, you some kinda prude?" he said and enfolding us in his powerful arms, et cetera-well, not so very powerful as all that, but I want to give you the feeling of the scene. If you scream, people say you're melodramatic; if you submit, you're masochistic; if you call names, you're a bitch. Hit him and he'll kill you. The best thing is to suffer mutely and yearn for a rescuer, but suppose the rescuer doesn't come?
    "Let go,____________________," said Janet (some Russian word I didn't catch).
    "Ha ha, make me," said the host, squeezing her wrist and puckering up his lips; "Make me, make me," and he swung his hips from side to side suggestively.
    No, no, keep on being ladylike!
   "Is this human courting?" shouted Janet. "Is this friendship? Is this politeness?" She had an extraordinarily loud voice. He laughed and shook her wrist.
    "Savages!" she shouted. A hush had fallen on the party. The host leafed dexterously through his little book of rejoinders but did not come up with anything. Then he looked up "savage" only to find it marked with an affirmative: "Masculine, brute, virile, powerful, good." So he smiled broadly. He put the book away.
    "Right on, sister," he said.
    So she dumped him. It happened in a blur of speed and there he was on the carpet. He was flipping furiously through the pages of the book; what else is there to do in such circumstances? (It was a little limp-leather-excuse me-volume bound in blue, which I think they give out in high schools. On the cover was written in gold WHAT TO DO IN EVERY SITUATION.)
    "Bitch!" (flip flip flip) "Prude!" (flip flip) "Ball-breaker!" (flip flip flip flip) "Goddamn cancerous castrator!" (flip) "Thinks hers is gold!" (flip flip) "You didn't have to do that!"
    Was ist? said Janet in German.
   He gave her to understand that she was going to die of cancer of the womb.
    She laughed.
  He gave her to understand further that she was taking unfair advantage of his good manners.
   She roared.
   He pursued the subject and told her that if he were not a gentleman he would ram her stinking, shitty teeth up her stinking shitty ass.
   She shrugged.
  He told her she was so ball-breaking, shitty, stone, scum-bag, mother-fucking, plug-ugly that no normal male could keep up an erection within half a mile of her.
   She looked puzzled. ("Joanna, these are insults, yes?")
  He got up. I think he was recovering his cool. He did not seem nearly so drunk as he had been. He shrugged his sports jacket back into position and brushed himself off. He said she had acted like a virgin, not knowing what to do when a guy made a pass, just like a Goddamned scared little baby virgin.
   Most of us would have been content to leave it at that, eh, ladies.
   Janet slapped him.
  It was not meant to hurt, I think; it was a great big stinging theatrical performance, a cue for insults and further fighting, a come-on-get-your-guard contemptuous slap meant to enrage, which it jolly well did.
    THE MARINE SAID, "YOU STUPID BROAD, I'M GONNA CREAM YOU!"
    That poor man.
   I didn't see things very well, as first off I got behind the closet door, but I saw him rush her and I saw her flip him; he got up again and again she deflected him, this time into the wall-I think she was worried because she didn't have time to glance behind her and the place was full of people-then he got up again and this time he swung instead and then something very complicated happened-he let out a yell and she was behind him, doing something cool and technical, frowning in concentration.
    "Don't pull like that," she said. "You'll break your arm."
    So he pulled. The little limp-leather notebook fluttered out on to the floor, from whence I picked it up. Everything was awfully quiet. The pain had stunned him, I guess.
    She said in astonished good-humor: "But why do you want to fight when you do not know how?"
    I got my coat and I got Janet's coat and I got us out of there and into the elevator. I put my head in my hands.
    "Why'd you do it?"
    "He called me a baby."
    The little blue book was rattling around in my purse. I took it out and turned to the last thing he had said ("You stupid broad" et cetera). Underneath was written Girl backs down-cries-manhood vindicated. Under "Real Fight With Girl" was written Don't hurt (except whores). I took out my own pink book, for we all carry them, and turning to the instructions under "Brutality" found:
    Man's bad temper is the woman's fault. It is also the woman's responsibility to patch things up afterwards.

Mark your calendars for the First Annual East Alabama Book Festival.

 

On Sunday, October 18th from 1:00 to 6:00 pm, The Gnu's Room is hosting the First Annual East Alabama Book Festival at Town Creek Park in Auburn, Alabama.

The Festival will feature authors, publishers, local original music, vendors and more! Co-hosts for the event are the Southern Humanities Review and The Republic of East Alabama Artists + Makers. The event is FREE and open to the public.

They are issuing an invitation to authors who wish to have booth space to promote their work and take part in a short reading, as well as to publishers and literary arts related non-profits and others. Booth space is somewhat limited and is first come−first served. Reading slots will be available in a like manner.

The deadline for participation is October 1, 2015. They need your registration form and donation of $20 by that date to hold your spot. Non-profit booth space requires no donation, but they will still need a registration form to save your spot. Bring your own booth- or, as is the case with most of us, bring your own table and chairs.

Town Creek Park is located at 1150 S Gay Street, Auburn, Alabama 36830. Parking and restrooms are available at the Park. A covered pavilion will be utilized for author readings, announcements and musical performances. Bring your own lawn chairs, umbrellas, and blankets. There will be food trucks, local coffee vendors, and various other goodies.

gumdrops

Registration forms and additional info 
More about how The Gnu's Room serves the community
How you can help a nonprofit/bookstore
The Republic of East Alabama (formerly the Revelator)
"It's A Sin to Mock A Mockingbird" by William Cotter
Cole Bryant's graphics 
Auburn Witness Poetry Prize 
Marjorie Rommel, Auburn's Poet Laureate
aaaand...
the superduper philosophy-prof-turned-poet, Kelley Jolley, who marked my papers in bright red ink and thereby earned my eternal favor

The Gnu's Room is located at 108 S 8th St, Opelika. You can speak with a fellow mammal most days at 334-705-048.

Reading an essay by Wendell Berry with flowers in my head.

Prophet and Gnome cozy up to what they call a dandelion gigantosaurus.

I came across an old essay by Wendell Berry in which he dissects the challenges of poetry and language in the present. His regard for history and tradition has much to admire in it- much I wish I could emulate (if it weren't for the unrepentant revolutionist within). 

Our past is not merely something to depart from; it is to commune with, to speak with…. The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it.

Wendell's respect for the past is ecological. He respects the past as we respect heirloom seeds over Monsanto-generated GMO versions. We cannot improve the present unless we acknowledge the past and build upon it. We cannot end slavery until we acknowledge the social and cognitive mechanisms by which persons were made to internalize the possibility of a human as personal property. 

….our malaise, both in our art and in our lives, is that we have lost sight of the possibility of right or responsible action. Publicly, we have delegated our capacity to act to men who are incapable of action only because they cannot think.

Wendell mourns the extent to which politics has evolved into an act of professional strategizing- responding and reacting to polls and events rather than reflecting upon them. 

Putting exclusive emphasis on a world of words has the same result as putting exclusive emphasis on heaven— it leads to, and allows, and abets, the degradation of the world. And it leads ultimately to the degradation of art and religion.

What I take from this is not where Berry leads in the essay but another place altogether- a place which has been returned to my life over the past three years. A place where my soul rests easy in mystery and awe having forsaken the practice of piecing apart the Bible, word for word, pronoun for pronoun.

As Protestants, we have been accused of worshipping the word, the Scripture, while losing sight of the Spirit.  The result is that one line about same-sex love or masturbation (i.e. onaism) can undercut the entire vision with which Christ animates the Bible— a spirit of love, empathy, tolerance, compassion, mercy, and complete disregard for social or conventional hierarchy. In worshipping the word, we become prey to literalism, our eyes abandoning the mysteries of art for the brisk verbiage of advertisments. 

Yellow Goat's Beard seed head
(Tragopogon pratensis)

I remember the scent of the moist, cool cathedrals in France. I remember how the silence and beauty made me hungry for prayer. I remember wishing the tourist groups would pick up a pamphlet and walk the stations of the cross on their own rather than guffawing and blabbing with their habitual irreverence. I say habitual because reverence is a habit we pick up as children. Reverence is a way of observation which a child either learns or learns to disregard.

I say habitual because we attend a church where the service is liturgical and habit-forming, the habit of silence and rapt attention hatched early in young hearts. My husband and I value this together. We admire not what we see in shopping malls and amusement parks but what covets our attention in sombre wooden icons, stained glass windows, the red vein of late summer leaf.

The decision to attend a more traditionally-liturgical church (an Episcopal church) was rooted in our desire for self-discipline as well as the belief that faith is only a costume without a deep sense of reverence. Both of us have worn the costume. We taught Sunday school together and hosted small-groups at our home. We pitched verses like footballs on sterilized stadium grass, stadiums being America’s version of cathedrals, places we go to wave holy symbols and fabrics and worship some vast and nameless corporate franchise together. 

Musk thistle
(Carduuas nutans)

I remember the rise of the megachurch in the early 2000s. I remember wondering at which point at which altars became stages for self-promotion. Certainly this is a modern development, a far cry from the creekside baptisms of the previous century. The church of Northpoint in Atlanta comes to mind— church of rock concerts and cafe latte counters, daycare dressed to resemble an entertainment park, endless cycles and promises of nonstop fun. An extravagant warehouse geared towards consumers of current Christianity where the walls are covered with hashtags and trends, a place where everyone can be entertained with the enjoyment of modern convenience, and nothing permanently exquisite is built because who knows when you need to expand and who knows what people want next, maybe even a bowling alley.

Musk thistle is a member of the sunflower family.

There is an aesthetic dimension to reverence— it is simple as the soft velvet underside of a magnolia leaf, complex as the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It is a line which connects us to the past, the soil beneath our feet and the challenges of human history.

The reason we need to have our certainties shaken is so that we may see the possibility of better orders than we have.

 

I do not believe we can become better people without an awareness and engagement of this past. I do not believe the incessant amnesia of Christian pop or strobe lights enables us to make a habit of forgiveness though it certainly leaves us with memory and salience issues, certainly leaves us prone to forgetfulness. We must un-know as often as we know, but we must do this with wisdom rather than the need for fun, immediate gratification, or convenience. Perhaps a revolution can be wise after all? Perhaps the revolution is poetry.

"Stagger", a poem by Maureen Sherbondy.

I first read this poem in The Broad River Review but then found an online copy at Connotation Press. The simplicity struck me- as well as the rootless texture of life since mom's death.

Stagger

Leaves stagger into the grass, drunk

on freedom and the breeze.

 

We have all fallen

from branches before.

 

We graze on grass

and fat, lazy raindrops.

 

Nothing is left

but the white rind of time.

 

Home is wherever we land.

The view from Keystone mountain in summer, and then that book by Elissa.

Yes, there is snow atop the Colorado mountains in the month of August.

I finished Elissa Schappell's Use Me last night. 

Truth: I started reading it early this summer and then lost it in the pile of books beside my bed. When I picked it up to finish this month, mom was suddenly dead.

Truth: I laughed and cried while I read it. Mostly, I cried and bit my pillow.

Truth: There is no such thing anymore.

Truth: I seek ghosts for succor and look for omens in the woods. Then I curse all the ghosts for their disdain and avoidance. Curse them for visiting people who hate ghosts-- for talking to folks who fear ghosts-- while this ghost-hungry girl goes famished. 

Truth: I am famished for her. I cannot eat enough of my mother. 

Stop. Turn around. Tell me your story.

"On the first anniversary of my father's death, I realized that it was possible that because I'd been building him up in my mind for so long, preparing for the day when I'd lose him, I'd missed the man altogether, and now he was irretrievable."

I left Elissa's book in our Funky Little Free Library (for locals who'd like to read it). It's a great book. A book I didn't expect to need in the way I've need it this month. A book I didn't expect to use as a scaffold for the fucked-uppedness of grief but use it I did. Use each other we must. Use the love we find. And just keep on using it until we use it up.

Nodding while reading Nikky Finney's interview.

Water riffling off Montezuma Road.

Nikky Finney grew up in the South, and graduated from Talladega College in Alabama. She was "always trying to say the really hard thing in as beautiful a way" as she could.

As a child, Nikky thought art should consist of "the hard to say things and the beautiful things." In a seamless recent interview with AWP's magazine, she describes the influence of a 7th-grade teacher who required students to memorize poems, and the intimacy she developed with language after learning "poems by heart":

....Because then I had the ability to do something no one could really take away from me. The library could take the book back. My mom could say 'Go to bed' at night. But I could keep the poem so close? Something changed when I was able to do that.

I think of the phrase "to learn by heart", and how, over time, it becomes becomes "to know by heart." The words become a form of deep, inner knowledge, their significance imprinted on our hearts and minds.

The words a form of power or currency with the spirit. Words we can use as rhythms while walking. Words we can imagine while folding laundry. Words we can sing in the Birmingham city jail. Words we can use to encourage and resuscitate broken spirits (the verses of We Shall Overcome, for example). Words we can revive as lullabies to chase distant sleep. Words no one can take from us or discredit. Words that become treasures.

Watching the anglers upstream at Montezuma.

Nikky uses poetry as a vehicle for historical reconsolidation and self-discovery. Why, for example, she cannot reconcile polite manners and convention with integrity, and how she learned this. She refuses to dance with Strom Thurmond, in her words:

I have to remember this moment because in the remembering of this moment is what I'm saying about memory: we must save what we know so that we don't repeat mistakes from the past.

An excerpt from the poem, "Dancing With Strom,":

History does not keep books on the

handiwork of slaves. But the enslaved

who built this Big House, long before

I arrived for this big wedding, knew

the power of a porch.

 

This native necessity of nailing down

a place, for the cooling off of air,

in order to lift the friendly, the kindly,

the so politely, the in-love-ly, jubilant,

into the arms of the grand peculiar,

for the greater good of

the public spectacular:

 

us

giving us

away.

What we see is limpid motion.

She cites Toni Cade Bambara as a seminal influence on her writing life. Toni's house was a wreck of stacked dishes and clutter- no counter space, books piled into towers along the wall and floor- but her desk was absolutely bare- "meticulous"- apart from what she was writing at the moment.

This example of how a female rearranged her life to invite writing, living to write rather than to clean or decorate, encouraged Nikky. Toni warned, "You'll never have time to write...So therefore you must make time." 

Nikky is/was child who does not resent her view from the margins because she doesn't believe (or much care) what others make of her. The limits other people impose on her as a black female are limits Nikky does not accept or take seriously. She always felt like an "outlier"- and preferred it:

....being in the margins for me does not mean I feel marginalized. It gives me an edge. It gives me a precipice. A vantage point.

In a sense, it also gives her a place from which to fall. Leaving the South after college was terrifying, Nikky says, until she began to grow out of her "terror" and into her "curiosity". 

I have to drop the seed in the ground so it grows from wherever I've been.

Unlike other American poets, Nikky believes history cannot be silenced. She is a witness to the voices of the present- and this emerges as a thread between lines and pieces. She engages inexplicably tragic characters- those stunted by history from moving forward- including a suite inspired by the ontological quandary that is Condoleezza Rice. (Steve Earle's "Condi, Condi" comes to mind.)

For Nikky, history is the story some people get to tell about what happened. Her poems challenge the received wisdom and "historical truth" by enlarging the lens through we envision what happened. In a Zinnian fashion, she adds the overlooked voices to enrich the history we tell and sell to one another. I love her for that.

As the child of political defectors raised on white-bread southern patriotism, I find my political and poetic commitments do not reside in separate spheres, and though I admire writers fortunate enough to compartmentalize, we must acknowledge the ability to write outside politics is a specious sort of privilege. Perhaps, even, a fashionable muzzle.

 

NIKKY FINNEY, THE PERSON

The Beauty and Difficulty of Nikky Finney (NPR)
Excerpts and readings from Head Off and Split (National Poetry Foundation)
"Questions of Faith", an interview (Poetry Society of America)
"So I Became A Witness" interview (Sampsonia Way)

"Heart, Truth, and Justice" interview (Lambda Literary)
National Book Award Acceptance Speech (YouTube)

 

HER POETRY 

"He Never Had It Made" (US Library of Congress)
"The Girlfriend's Train" (Soul Incites)

"The Blackened Alphabet" (The Bottom of Heaven)

"Making Foots" (The Poetry Center at Smith College)

"The Aureole" (Feministing)

"Red Velvet" (Except In Dreams)

"The Greatest Show On Earth" (Punch-In-The-Face Poetry)

"Sign Language" (The Poetry Center at Smith College)

"A New Day Dawns" (Moving Poems)

"Sam I Am" (Huffington Post)

"Hate" (Project Muse)

"The Clitoris" (Structure and Style)

"Heirloom" (Academy of American Poets)

"Sex" (The Poetry Center at Smith College)

Friday Farmer's Market in Dillon.

[Photo borrowed from Summit Daily.]

Last Friday, we woke up hungry for local honey and decided to drop by the Friday morning Farmer's Market in Dillon. There were more vendors than we imagined- and a plethora of snacks and sips and scents to sample.

The Wandering Madman provided more than music- he emceed the entire event while simultaneously producing his own web shows. If you don't believe me, you can see for yourself right here.

"Hmmmm... this is really tasty. Reminds me of a mimosa. The first time I got tipsy it was also 9 am and a mimosa was the solitary culprit....."

"Can I try the other sangria as well? Is there a limit to how many samples I can try because it tastes different by the time you get to the third cup, you know, the taste really pops..."

Meanwhile, the girls sampled tiny cups of bike-blended smoothies, courtesy of Smooth Riders.

"Wow! That's more energy efficient and faster than using a blender!" the Eldest exclaimed. The bikers nodded warily and continued biking.

And so we wandered, picking up candles, homemade pierogies, and a book about local trees. 

Lounging in the car, Prophet and Gnome battled a case of the giggles.

I thought of the "giggly moods" that assailed Carla and myself when we were youngsters. And how my parents rolled their eyes and prayed for rain when the giggles began.

The common current of laughing, mischievous sisters gives us a space in which we can look forward. My mother had a sister. I have a sister. Now Isla will have a little sister.

The tradition of sisterly bondage continues through the generations. I am grateful these days for small, unexpected things which remain the same. For recognizable threads in life's thick blanket.

Bill Withers and the Blue River Trail in Silverthorne, Colorado.

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Gnome pouts with tree.

My sister passed over a few magazines last month and one had a neat interview with Bill Withers that set me to thinking. 

When asked about regrets, Bill said everybody has regrets but the key to life is not thinking too much about them. Common sense. Obvious. But isn't that what we do? Spend time wondering how much easier or better or happier life would be if only we had done that other thing? Mated with that other person? Purchased that other car or house or condo or apartment or life?

The kids watch the water wander past on the
Blue River Trail in Silverthorne, Colorado.

The Eldest and Gnome launch rocks and pebbles.

When asked how he dealt with the insecurity of beginning a music career- the fear of not being talented enough, or original enough, or strong enough- Bill said he decided to test his gut intuition. The only way to know if he could make music was to begin making music and wait for a judgement. In his words:

"I had ninety days to reenlist or not. And I thought about it. Do I want to try to take on this world? I hadn’t been a civilian since I was a kid. Am I ready to take this chance? And I said yes to overcome the fear of finding out. There was something dormant in me. I knew it was there whether anybody else did or not."

My notes on Bill Withers along the Blue River trail.

The interviewer congratulates Bill for his upcoming induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It's a tremendous honor, especially for a man who removed himself from the music scene for many years in order to be with his family. Bill acknowledges this honor, which he takes as a "compliment", an event he anticipates, but his caveat is thoughtful and inspiring: 

"But I’m not a jump-up-and-down kind of guy. If I go to a football game, I sit there and watch it. I’m not waving my arms and carrying on. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel something, you know. I feel it’s healthier to look out at the world through a window rather than through a mirror. With a mirror, all you see is yourself and whatever is behind you."

And then my favorite quote- the litmus test for artists, writers, philosophers, and musicians. The sheer guts of it. The part we prove to ourselves, though the act of proving is entwined with the act of promising in such moments.

"...everything in life boils down to this riddle: Are you what you think you are?"

All I need is a good gauntlet and I am ready to try again. And again.

10 beautiful sights in Summit County, Colorado.

1.... our dear friend, yarrow.
[Peaks Trail]

 

2.... clouds reflected back from the waters of Lake Dillon.
[Dickey Trail on Frisco Peninsula]

 

3...... monks in their purple hoods.
[Rainbow Lake]

 

4.... the eldest lounging between tree roots, his cheeks obscured by a Stetson.
[Peaks Trail]

 

5...... aspen leaf gall, our first sighting ever.
[Peaks Trail]

 

6..... Buffalo Mountain locally known as Baldy, the weatherman.
[Ryan's Gulch in Wildernest area]

 

7.... the king taking photos midstream.
[Montezuma Trailhead]

 

8.... worried thistle hanging her head.
[Dickey Trailhead on Frisco Peninsula]

 

9..... love in a grassy meadow.
[Marina Park in Frisco]

 

10..... the Colorado state flower, blue columbine.
[Ryan's Gulch near Salt Lick]

Things to do in Summit County, Colorado right now.

Prophet ogles an aspen stand on our ascent.

Today we hiked to Rainbow Lake in Frisco. We thought it would be an easy and straightforward hike but we took a wrong turn and wound up following Peak's Trail for a while before discovering we'd gone off the "easy" trail.

The kids loved our mistake because we crossed at least seven creeks before arriving at Rainbow Lake, gleeful to avoid the bikers and large groups we'd experienced on the "correct" Rainbow Lake trail.

Hey, it all works out. We ate a few granola bars and purple tomatoes and Gnome sent a few fairy leaves down the pint-sized waterfalls spilling out from Rainbow Lake.

As usual, I'm making the hit list for myself on the blog. It's an old habit. 

GPS Scavenger Hunt
Keystone's River Run
Weekdays between 8:00 am - 6:00 pm

Guests can check out GPS units and receive instructions from the Activities and Dining office in River Run. Choose from the River Run Scavenger Hunt or the Mountain Top Scavenger Hunt. Each course has waypoints throughout to provide directions, followed by hints, clues or riddles that lead you toward the spot you are looking for. Collect the items at each spot and return them to our office to receive fun prizes, with a chance to earn the top prize if you get the highest score! The cost is $12 per GPS unit.

Tennis Clinics for Kids
Keystone Tennis Center
Tuesdays & Thursdays 
10:00-11:00 am (for 5-10 years)
11:00-12:00 am (for 11-15 years)

Each child receives an-hour clinic/lesson for $15. It's a great deal. Competitive tennis parents might appreciate the semi-private lessons. 

Wild West Night
Keystone Stables
TUESDAY 5:00-8:00 pm

The fun starts at 5pm with a bike-in movie, horseshoes, lasso, and s’mores around the campfire. Food and alcoholic beverages available for purchase. Everyone is invited to hang out around the camp fire and enjoy the sunsets form the Stables vantage point. No charge just to tour the Stables and hang out by the fire. Movie starts at 6 pm. This Tuesday, the movie will be "How to Train Your Dragon." More online.

FREE CONCERT IN THE PARK
Historic Park & Gazebo Lawn, 120 Main Street, Frisco
THURSDAY, 5:30-7:30 pm

Bring your own blankets, chairs, drinks, and hackey-sacks to hear the New Orleans Suspects playing this Thursday evening. More online.

FRIDAY FARMER'S MARKET
Buffalo Street & Main Street in Downtown Dillon
FRIDAY 9:00 am to 2 pm 

A delicious farmer's market but no pets allowed.

FRIDAY FREE CONCERT SERIES
Dillon Outdoor Amphitheater
FRIDAY sunset

With four distinct voices clustered around a single microphone, Darlingside effortlessly draw audiences into their lush musical world. The band’s sound, characterized by classical strings, tight vocal arrangements, bluegrass and rock instrumentation, and smart lyricism, is the product of complete collaboration among the four close friends. The group has no front man; instead, lead vocals are traded from moment to moment, and each song features a new combination of instruments and textures, pulling heavily from folk, retro-pop, barbershop, and chamber music.  

Other great places to drop by anytime the urge strikes, the gas mullah permits, and the kids are ready to combust:

PARKS
Frisco Skate Park 
Marina Park (Frisco)
Point Dillon Park & Lawn (Dillon)
Town Park (Dillon)*
Rainbow Park (Silverthorne)*
Meadow Creek Park (828 Meadow Drive, Frisco)
Walter Byron Park (306 Creekside Drive, Frisco)*
Marina Park and Dillon Amphitheatre (Dillon)*
Dillon Nature Preserve (Dillon)

HIKING TRAILS
Frisco Peninsula Trail System (Frisco)
Windy Point Area Trails (Keystone, Swan Mountain Area)
Saint Johns Road (Montezuma)
Keystone Gulch Road (Keystone)
Lily Pad Lake (Silverthorne)*
Gore's Range Trails (Eagle's Nest Wilderness Area)
Rainbow Lake (Frisco)*
Gold Hill (between Frisco and Breck)
Hunkidori Mine (Montezuma)
Georgia Pass Road (Parkville)
Frey Gulch Trail System (Keystone)
Chihuahua Lake (Montezuma)*
Deer Creek Road (Montezuma)
Horseshoe Gulch Trails (Silverthorne)
Lost Lake (Green Mountain/Heeney)
Old Dillon Reservoir Trailhead (Dillon)*
Buffalo Mountain (Silverthorne)
Sapphire Point (Dillon)*
Lower Boulder Lake (Eagle's Nest Wilderness Area)
Lower and Upper Slate Lakes (Eagle's Nest Wilderness Area)
Rock Creek Road and Trail (Silverthorne)
Ptarmigan Pass (Silverthorne)
Ute Peak/Ute Pass (Silverthorne)
Cataract Lake Lower Loop (Green Mountain/Heeney)
Mayflower Gulch (Leadville)
Laughing Jay Trail (Dillon)*
Tenderfoot Mountain (Dillon)
Loveland Pass (Arapahoe Basin)*

ALINA'S WISHLIST
Peak's Trail from Frisco to Breckenridge
Oro Grande Trail near Lake Dillon and along peaks
Red Rocks Amphitheater 15 miles outside Denver
Dillon Cemetery
Masontown from Frisco
Officer's Gulch from Copper Mountain