In measuring for the fence I remember my father pacing off the length of a field.
Daddy, are your feet a foot long, I asked, looking down at my own 6 year old nubs
No, he said
But he never came up short or long. The acre was always the acre
Mile after mile he would plow. Lines and turns in the new black soil
I think he still walks the land. Measuring each section. Contemplating what to plant.
Did the farming make him a quiet man, or was he quiet because he farmed. People who work with the land must listen to it, hear its secrets. He was good at knowing each field�s desires. This made him good with people too. He listened and they talked. Talked until they felt that Richard knew everything about them and in knowing them, they knew him. But only the land knows my father. Just as now, he is in tuned to it; interned in it,
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Ahhh - no posts since November - what writer I am
I thought I'd post my final essay for my masters degree - which I will be receiving next Sunday the 8th. Yup - I'll be a master
The context is that we had to write a 10 page paper on our "experaince" at Goddard using at least a few of the books we had read over the past two years
Read the essay and enjoy
Post Cards From the Convergence
Crystal Springs, July 13th, 1987
Mom,
You dropped me off, then they opened the store and I bought this post card and some gum. This is the lake. We get to swim tomorrow.
Edrie
I went to camp a few of times as a kid and the part of it that frightened me most was having to share a room, or worse yet, a bunk bed with a stranger. It wasn�t like I wasn�t used to sharing. I shared a room with my sister when we were both in single digit years. For the most part sharing with her was okay, but at times that sharing involved a carefully thought out line of dirty clothes down the middle of the room or fights about who had to clean what. I remember when I finally got my own room after my brother went away to college, that I couldn�t sleep very well for days and I would sneak back to my old room and creep in and watch to see if my sister was having the same problem. She never was. I think she was more than glad to be rid of me. But camp was a whole different story. I was painfully shy and prone to wetting the bed so I coached myself the whole drive there on choosing the bottom bunk and obsessed about getting there early enough to choose but late enough to not be the first kid. Camp turned out to be all right, I always got a bottom bunk since bottom bunks weren�t cool and I didn�t drink any water the whole time so I never wet the bed. The part I didn�t consider was the fact that I might actually make friends. I was so focused on the frightening aspect of camp that I never thought about how good it could turn out or how fun it could be.
It was the same for me when applying to graduate school. I focused on the amount of work I would have to do, the time commitment I would have to make, the amount of money it would cost. Basically, I focused on all of the negatives and coached myself on how to get through them. Even when I finally chose a graduate school, all I could think about was the fact that I might not fit in. That if I didn�t choose the right advisor, I might not learn what I hoped to learn or finish what I hoped to finish. And when I found out that during the residency I would have to share a room with a stranger, it brought camp right back to me and although I didn�t really have to worry about wetting the bed anymore, I was worrying about when and where I could get dressed and if I snored and if she would want to talk to me or if she would ignore me. In fact, I was so preoccupied with sharing a room that I forgot to consider the fact that I might learn a great deal at the residency, I might make friends, and it might change my life.
Goddard, January 5th, 2004
Hey You,
I�m going to write you a post card every day that I�m here. Email too. You�ll get the email before this, but you�ll think this is cuter. This is a mountain, I might snowshoe later.
Me
Goddard was rather a leap for me. I was used to excelling in traditional educational models where grades ruled and my near perfect SAT�s and 4.0 GPA was hard and respected data. When presented with Goddard�s alternate model where grades seemed to be subjective and achievement was not measured on a 4-point scale, I was skeptical. I had gone to the �Get to Know Goddard Day� the previous July and listened to Paul explain the Goddard educational philosophy to a large group of very disparate people. He noted that we were adults. We all wanted to be here. We were all ultimately responsible for our actions and or products and with the help of Goddard, not only would we get an actual MFA but we would also learn a great deal about writing, about each other and about ourselves. I was interested mainly because it sounded like it could be extremely focused but still challenging. And I am always interested in meeting all kinds of different people. But I was not totally convinced. Without grades, how would we know how well we had done? After his scripted talk, he went outside to one of the picnic tables to smoke. A group of us followed him out, at a distance of course, as Paul is rather intimidating. He sat down and noticed us milling about and motioned us over. I sat next to him while he chain-smoked, preparing for the next lecture and tour of campus. One of the others asked him question after question about the academics and the advisors and the requirements and after a few careful answers Paul told him that really the most important thing at Goddard was the writing. Your novel, your play, your poem. Everything else builds towards and off of your writing and how to make it better. None of the other programs I had visited ever talked about what you as a writer wanted to accomplish. They talked only about the classes you could take and the professors you�d be working with. Even in Iowa, it was more about the who rather than the what. My desire was to write and write well. I wanted to get those stories inside of my head out on to a page in such a way as to allow their full potential to shine. Goddard was right for me. I was completely focused on getting in and working hard, but that didn�t mean that I wanted to share a bunk bed.
Goddard, January 6th, 2004 6:41am
Good Morning You,
Day 2 is here. It�s 6:41 right now. I�ve been awake off and on all night. Finally gave up sleep and took a shower (a nice long one) at 6am. The woman next door, whom I told you was crying, is really sick, I am staying well away from her. She is coughing like she has TB. It only occurred to me this morning to offer her some cold medicine (cause I brought some, after Spain, you NEVER know!)
My roommate is very into schedules, wanting to know when I sleep and get up etc. I think she hasn�t ever had a roommate or even a boyfriend before. Though she is nice enough (tall thin and pretty in the way that one might say Shannon Dougherty is pretty). Did I already mention she works at MIT. She is managing editor for the tech journal there.
I met some nice people at the first event last night. It was basically a mini-intro to Goddard and a get to know the other new students. I think my advisor might be Sarah Schulman. Look her up on Amazon. We aren�t supposed to know who our advisors are yet, but she came up to me last night, looked at my name tag and said �You�re Sarah. You�re mine. See you tomorrow.� Scary. One of the advisors I met is named Rachel, but she was clearly a Ralph or Ray at some point. I spent a long time talking to her, she is really into experimental fiction and other odd forms of writing, she kept mentioning people you liked to read and was impressed when I mentioned some too. Thanks for preparing me so well!
Luv Me
Sarah Schulman was indeed my first advisor, and although I was frightened of her reputation, I was excited to be pushed into writing better. I didn�t know, however, just how much of a push I would be getting. At our first meeting she asked me what I liked to write. Creative Nonfiction was my answer. I had come to Goddard hoping to put a memoir together of all of the pieces I had written on my family. Sarah shook her head and tapped her pen. �No, you�ll be writing a novel, tell me what it�s about.� Perhaps it was her reputation, or her lack of any sort of smile but I was convinced she must know what she was talking about. I considered nothing but the fact that she saw a novelist in me. What was my novel about? did I have one? She looked at me still tapping her pen and there it was, my novel, on the spot. Plot and characters unfolded in 3.2 minutes, and so began The Porcelain Pig. The details have changed over the two years it took me to write but the theme has remained the same. I am confident I never would have written a novel had Sarah Schulman not told me too and although it took me a long time to be convinced of this, I now know her parting words were true. �Writing a novel will be good for you.�
Goddard, January 6th, 2004
Hey You,
Did you know I�m writing a novel � or at least I�m going to. I�ll explain more later. Pet Ghia for me. Kisses
Me
That few minutes of one on one meeting with Sarah didn�t just change the direction of my writing, but it set into motion my Goddard experience as a whole. In my advising group were two other women who also came to write creative nonfiction and were also told they would be writing novels. This created a bond for us that has grown, flourished and blended a few more people into the fold. At first we called ourselves Sarah�s Bitches, meaning we would now clearly be doing Sarah Schulman�s bidding, but that name fell away as the fold grew larger. Now we are just a close-knit group of friends who share success and failure, funny advisor comments, and a passion for wine every night of the residency. We are a convergence of souls.
Goddard, July 3rd, 2004 6:04am
Good Morning You,
Boy is it weird to be back here! That �schedule� girl that was my roommate last semester is back, but I think she hates it and is planning to quit. I have Erin for my roommate this time (the girl from my advising group I was telling you about).
Did you know that Chrissy (Sarah S�s advisee as well), me, and Erin all read I, The Divine last semester? It was my favorite book and we spent the whole first night talking about it with this girl Lori who is a G2 poet (and Chrissy�s roommate). When I told you that book changed my life, you laughed but I told them that and they didn�t. They all agreed it was eye opening and brilliant. See, you should read it!
I don�t think I�ve ever found a place to be me before. It�s weird being an outsider your whole life and then stumbling on a place filled with people like you.
I met my new advisor Maud. She seems nice and her book is really beautiful. I hope she likes my book. (Did you see that I have a �book�!)
Luv Me
My advisor for my second and third semester was Maud Casey. She was not the scary and demanding Sarah Schulman. Maud was patient and warm; her comments were helpful and direct but always tough and focused. She took what was a haphazard collection of pages loosely tied together with a theme and made it into a real book. By the end of my third semester I felt as if I had written an actual book that someone might someday read, and I could not have gotten there without Maud. She also helped me find some of the books that most influenced my writing. The first was A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami. I had never read Murakami before, so it was rather a shock to read something where the characters were so real that it seemed like memoir but the situations were so bizarre, it seemed like fantasy. I tired to incorporate his ideas into the narrative of my novel. I was also very fond of American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. Everything about that book is creepy in the extreme, but the character is never portrayed as creepy in any way. He seems normal to all of his friends and even to his own internal monologue. But that supposed normalcy thinly masks horrific tendencies to violence. Since I always wonder how people become the kinds of people who do awful things, it was a great study in character verses circumstance and what comes of that.
My third semester came to be a defining moment in my Goddard career. Not only did I complete a first draft of my novel, but I also faced one of my greatest fears next to wetting the bed at camp, teaching. I knew that a teaching practicum was a part of the Goddard curriculum from the beginning, but had shoved that fact to the back of my mind until the residency prior to the second semester when I took the Teaching Practicum workshop. I am not sure why I always feared teaching except that perhaps I never felt I had anything to teach. How would I teach writing to anyone when I wasn�t even sure I knew what writing was? The setup and execution of the practicum was as much work as the actual classes and the essay I had to write about the experience. I greatly admire anyone who teaches for a living.
I had decided that since I would have to do this practicum that I would go home to North Dakota and do a class for the community. The class turned out well but the big moment was actually writing the essay. Tying all of my feelings for home together with my feelings for my father and how those two things actually led me into higher education in the first place changed the way I looked at the practicum. Writing that essay even transformed my novel as I added present circumstances to allow the main character, Grace, and the father character time together that I never had with my father. This made me think even harder about what I was trying to do with the novel I was writing. What did I actually want to say with these characters? I think the first paragraph from my teaching essay says a lot about the direction I finally decided to go in with The Porcelain Pig:
Some memories are close to the surface; others are buried deep within the fabric folds of past experience. For me the memories that are most close to the surface are those of my father. He is with me wherever I go. He offers comfort, reminds me of my manners, councils me when I need guidance. He is vivid within me and, when I write stories about him, vivid on the page. For when we write about those who are gone they are recreated there, in those lines, in that story. Their spirit�s living through memory. We have the power to keep the old young. We have the power to relive the good and to learn from the bad. We have the power to raise the dead with words.
Perhaps the characters in my novel were never real people but parts of them are made up of real experiences. Everything I write is informed and molded by my experiences. More of myself is in my novel then I ever thought possible and more of Goddard is in me then I ever imagined.
Home, June 25th, 2005 9:10pm
Hello Ladies!!!!
Just a few short hours and we�ll all be back together in lovely Hollister drinking that case of the Three Buck Chuck I just bought. If you need me to bring anything else, just let me know. I have a station wagon after all.
I requested Alison Smith for my advisor and Rebecca for my second reader. I hope that all works out. The book is done but it needs a tough edit or ten.
I can�t believe this is going to be our last real residency. Let�s stay up late every night, have slumber parties in our PJ�s, and read each others fortunes. I�ll try not to be sad until it is actually over. Can�t wait to see you all!
Edrie
Semester four has been tough. It�s not the paper work or the process paper or the rewriting but the bi-polar emotions of being almost done and being excited by the prospect of graduation and being almost done and being very sad at the prospect of moving on from an unexpectedly wonderful experience. I read a statistic somewhere that after a person turned thirty the number of true friends they will make in the rest of their lives is exactly 1/10 of the number of close friends they had made up until that point. Since it was always hard for me to make friends and after hearing that I figured I had the couple of friends that I had and that I had and that was it. Perhaps people stop taking chances after a certain age and that severely limits their friend potential but I took a chance and Goddard rewarded me with the kinds of friends I had never had. People with whom I shared common interest and understanding. People from all over the world that were open to chance and open to me.
The theme of being open to new things is even stronger in the fourth semester because for the first time my novel was read and critiqued by people who had not seen it in anything but its current first-draft state. I had to be open to any possibility from complete loathing to laughter and everything in between. I was scared of what criticism might come because the reputation of my second reader was that of one who was extremely tough and known to not like the kind of subject matter I was attempting. And my advisor was an unknown quantity. I had lucked out with Maud, but would Alison be a lucky break as well?
What I�ve come to expect from Goddard is the unexpected. Everything I feared in the criticism of the novel came to pass but not in the way I expected it. Rebecca was indeed tough to the point of pain, but her comments helped boost me into changes I would not have considered and, since I had enough time to do some revising before I sent the novel to Alison, made a better first draft for her to critique. In the weeks that I waited for Alison�s comments I fretted about the changes I had made and if she would agree with Rebecca in some of the more harsh assessments. I obsessively checked the mail almost from the day I sent the packet and was rewarded finally with some of the most thoughtful and encouraging comments I had received during my time at Goddard. Alison had taken great pains to be meticulous and tough while also respectful. Her comments gave me the courage to tackle the seemingly impossible task of starting a second draft when all I wanted to do was put the novel away and forget about it for a while.
Crystal Springs, July 21st, 1987
Mom,
Could you be late picking me up? My friend Russell has to stay longer �cause his mom can�t come from Fargo until she gets off work. We made a big fire last night and sang and this girl said I had hair the same color as the fire. See you � but late OK.
Edrie
Although Graduation is a few months off, I am already worried about what it will be like without Goddard. It sounds silly, but Goddard provided a framework for me to grow into being a writer. My novel is done enough for me to graduate, but it won�t be the end. I know that there is still work to do and I have set a few goals for myself to help keep me focused even without the structure that Goddard provided. Once I graduate I plan on soliciting feedback from a few people I know in the publishing industry, hoping for a referral to a good agent who could possibly sell this book. I have also started sketching out ideas for three other books. At this moment they are all nebulous but the very fact that I have these ideas down will force me to explore them and to make them into something more. I�ve written one novel and I know I can write more. I was always able to write but Goddard, my advisors and my friends allowed me to take that knowledge and internalize it. In fact, I didn�t even call myself a writer until my second semester. When people ask me what I do, I used to tell them that I sometimes write. Now when people ask I tell them, I�m a writer. There is a fundamental difference and that change occurred because of Goddard. Goddard, like camp, was frightening at first and my focus was on the negative. But a shift occurred and I knew that I would complete my requirements and get through the rough parts. I was able to focus on the good and enjoy my experience. I want to graduate and am looking foreword to it, but if I could be picked up just a little late, have just a few extra hours � I wouldn�t mind.
I thought I'd post my final essay for my masters degree - which I will be receiving next Sunday the 8th. Yup - I'll be a master
The context is that we had to write a 10 page paper on our "experaince" at Goddard using at least a few of the books we had read over the past two years
Read the essay and enjoy
Post Cards From the Convergence
Crystal Springs, July 13th, 1987
Mom,
You dropped me off, then they opened the store and I bought this post card and some gum. This is the lake. We get to swim tomorrow.
Edrie
I went to camp a few of times as a kid and the part of it that frightened me most was having to share a room, or worse yet, a bunk bed with a stranger. It wasn�t like I wasn�t used to sharing. I shared a room with my sister when we were both in single digit years. For the most part sharing with her was okay, but at times that sharing involved a carefully thought out line of dirty clothes down the middle of the room or fights about who had to clean what. I remember when I finally got my own room after my brother went away to college, that I couldn�t sleep very well for days and I would sneak back to my old room and creep in and watch to see if my sister was having the same problem. She never was. I think she was more than glad to be rid of me. But camp was a whole different story. I was painfully shy and prone to wetting the bed so I coached myself the whole drive there on choosing the bottom bunk and obsessed about getting there early enough to choose but late enough to not be the first kid. Camp turned out to be all right, I always got a bottom bunk since bottom bunks weren�t cool and I didn�t drink any water the whole time so I never wet the bed. The part I didn�t consider was the fact that I might actually make friends. I was so focused on the frightening aspect of camp that I never thought about how good it could turn out or how fun it could be.
It was the same for me when applying to graduate school. I focused on the amount of work I would have to do, the time commitment I would have to make, the amount of money it would cost. Basically, I focused on all of the negatives and coached myself on how to get through them. Even when I finally chose a graduate school, all I could think about was the fact that I might not fit in. That if I didn�t choose the right advisor, I might not learn what I hoped to learn or finish what I hoped to finish. And when I found out that during the residency I would have to share a room with a stranger, it brought camp right back to me and although I didn�t really have to worry about wetting the bed anymore, I was worrying about when and where I could get dressed and if I snored and if she would want to talk to me or if she would ignore me. In fact, I was so preoccupied with sharing a room that I forgot to consider the fact that I might learn a great deal at the residency, I might make friends, and it might change my life.
Goddard, January 5th, 2004
Hey You,
I�m going to write you a post card every day that I�m here. Email too. You�ll get the email before this, but you�ll think this is cuter. This is a mountain, I might snowshoe later.
Me
Goddard was rather a leap for me. I was used to excelling in traditional educational models where grades ruled and my near perfect SAT�s and 4.0 GPA was hard and respected data. When presented with Goddard�s alternate model where grades seemed to be subjective and achievement was not measured on a 4-point scale, I was skeptical. I had gone to the �Get to Know Goddard Day� the previous July and listened to Paul explain the Goddard educational philosophy to a large group of very disparate people. He noted that we were adults. We all wanted to be here. We were all ultimately responsible for our actions and or products and with the help of Goddard, not only would we get an actual MFA but we would also learn a great deal about writing, about each other and about ourselves. I was interested mainly because it sounded like it could be extremely focused but still challenging. And I am always interested in meeting all kinds of different people. But I was not totally convinced. Without grades, how would we know how well we had done? After his scripted talk, he went outside to one of the picnic tables to smoke. A group of us followed him out, at a distance of course, as Paul is rather intimidating. He sat down and noticed us milling about and motioned us over. I sat next to him while he chain-smoked, preparing for the next lecture and tour of campus. One of the others asked him question after question about the academics and the advisors and the requirements and after a few careful answers Paul told him that really the most important thing at Goddard was the writing. Your novel, your play, your poem. Everything else builds towards and off of your writing and how to make it better. None of the other programs I had visited ever talked about what you as a writer wanted to accomplish. They talked only about the classes you could take and the professors you�d be working with. Even in Iowa, it was more about the who rather than the what. My desire was to write and write well. I wanted to get those stories inside of my head out on to a page in such a way as to allow their full potential to shine. Goddard was right for me. I was completely focused on getting in and working hard, but that didn�t mean that I wanted to share a bunk bed.
Goddard, January 6th, 2004 6:41am
Good Morning You,
Day 2 is here. It�s 6:41 right now. I�ve been awake off and on all night. Finally gave up sleep and took a shower (a nice long one) at 6am. The woman next door, whom I told you was crying, is really sick, I am staying well away from her. She is coughing like she has TB. It only occurred to me this morning to offer her some cold medicine (cause I brought some, after Spain, you NEVER know!)
My roommate is very into schedules, wanting to know when I sleep and get up etc. I think she hasn�t ever had a roommate or even a boyfriend before. Though she is nice enough (tall thin and pretty in the way that one might say Shannon Dougherty is pretty). Did I already mention she works at MIT. She is managing editor for the tech journal there.
I met some nice people at the first event last night. It was basically a mini-intro to Goddard and a get to know the other new students. I think my advisor might be Sarah Schulman. Look her up on Amazon. We aren�t supposed to know who our advisors are yet, but she came up to me last night, looked at my name tag and said �You�re Sarah. You�re mine. See you tomorrow.� Scary. One of the advisors I met is named Rachel, but she was clearly a Ralph or Ray at some point. I spent a long time talking to her, she is really into experimental fiction and other odd forms of writing, she kept mentioning people you liked to read and was impressed when I mentioned some too. Thanks for preparing me so well!
Luv Me
Sarah Schulman was indeed my first advisor, and although I was frightened of her reputation, I was excited to be pushed into writing better. I didn�t know, however, just how much of a push I would be getting. At our first meeting she asked me what I liked to write. Creative Nonfiction was my answer. I had come to Goddard hoping to put a memoir together of all of the pieces I had written on my family. Sarah shook her head and tapped her pen. �No, you�ll be writing a novel, tell me what it�s about.� Perhaps it was her reputation, or her lack of any sort of smile but I was convinced she must know what she was talking about. I considered nothing but the fact that she saw a novelist in me. What was my novel about? did I have one? She looked at me still tapping her pen and there it was, my novel, on the spot. Plot and characters unfolded in 3.2 minutes, and so began The Porcelain Pig. The details have changed over the two years it took me to write but the theme has remained the same. I am confident I never would have written a novel had Sarah Schulman not told me too and although it took me a long time to be convinced of this, I now know her parting words were true. �Writing a novel will be good for you.�
Goddard, January 6th, 2004
Hey You,
Did you know I�m writing a novel � or at least I�m going to. I�ll explain more later. Pet Ghia for me. Kisses
Me
That few minutes of one on one meeting with Sarah didn�t just change the direction of my writing, but it set into motion my Goddard experience as a whole. In my advising group were two other women who also came to write creative nonfiction and were also told they would be writing novels. This created a bond for us that has grown, flourished and blended a few more people into the fold. At first we called ourselves Sarah�s Bitches, meaning we would now clearly be doing Sarah Schulman�s bidding, but that name fell away as the fold grew larger. Now we are just a close-knit group of friends who share success and failure, funny advisor comments, and a passion for wine every night of the residency. We are a convergence of souls.
Goddard, July 3rd, 2004 6:04am
Good Morning You,
Boy is it weird to be back here! That �schedule� girl that was my roommate last semester is back, but I think she hates it and is planning to quit. I have Erin for my roommate this time (the girl from my advising group I was telling you about).
Did you know that Chrissy (Sarah S�s advisee as well), me, and Erin all read I, The Divine last semester? It was my favorite book and we spent the whole first night talking about it with this girl Lori who is a G2 poet (and Chrissy�s roommate). When I told you that book changed my life, you laughed but I told them that and they didn�t. They all agreed it was eye opening and brilliant. See, you should read it!
I don�t think I�ve ever found a place to be me before. It�s weird being an outsider your whole life and then stumbling on a place filled with people like you.
I met my new advisor Maud. She seems nice and her book is really beautiful. I hope she likes my book. (Did you see that I have a �book�!)
Luv Me
My advisor for my second and third semester was Maud Casey. She was not the scary and demanding Sarah Schulman. Maud was patient and warm; her comments were helpful and direct but always tough and focused. She took what was a haphazard collection of pages loosely tied together with a theme and made it into a real book. By the end of my third semester I felt as if I had written an actual book that someone might someday read, and I could not have gotten there without Maud. She also helped me find some of the books that most influenced my writing. The first was A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami. I had never read Murakami before, so it was rather a shock to read something where the characters were so real that it seemed like memoir but the situations were so bizarre, it seemed like fantasy. I tired to incorporate his ideas into the narrative of my novel. I was also very fond of American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. Everything about that book is creepy in the extreme, but the character is never portrayed as creepy in any way. He seems normal to all of his friends and even to his own internal monologue. But that supposed normalcy thinly masks horrific tendencies to violence. Since I always wonder how people become the kinds of people who do awful things, it was a great study in character verses circumstance and what comes of that.
My third semester came to be a defining moment in my Goddard career. Not only did I complete a first draft of my novel, but I also faced one of my greatest fears next to wetting the bed at camp, teaching. I knew that a teaching practicum was a part of the Goddard curriculum from the beginning, but had shoved that fact to the back of my mind until the residency prior to the second semester when I took the Teaching Practicum workshop. I am not sure why I always feared teaching except that perhaps I never felt I had anything to teach. How would I teach writing to anyone when I wasn�t even sure I knew what writing was? The setup and execution of the practicum was as much work as the actual classes and the essay I had to write about the experience. I greatly admire anyone who teaches for a living.
I had decided that since I would have to do this practicum that I would go home to North Dakota and do a class for the community. The class turned out well but the big moment was actually writing the essay. Tying all of my feelings for home together with my feelings for my father and how those two things actually led me into higher education in the first place changed the way I looked at the practicum. Writing that essay even transformed my novel as I added present circumstances to allow the main character, Grace, and the father character time together that I never had with my father. This made me think even harder about what I was trying to do with the novel I was writing. What did I actually want to say with these characters? I think the first paragraph from my teaching essay says a lot about the direction I finally decided to go in with The Porcelain Pig:
Some memories are close to the surface; others are buried deep within the fabric folds of past experience. For me the memories that are most close to the surface are those of my father. He is with me wherever I go. He offers comfort, reminds me of my manners, councils me when I need guidance. He is vivid within me and, when I write stories about him, vivid on the page. For when we write about those who are gone they are recreated there, in those lines, in that story. Their spirit�s living through memory. We have the power to keep the old young. We have the power to relive the good and to learn from the bad. We have the power to raise the dead with words.
Perhaps the characters in my novel were never real people but parts of them are made up of real experiences. Everything I write is informed and molded by my experiences. More of myself is in my novel then I ever thought possible and more of Goddard is in me then I ever imagined.
Home, June 25th, 2005 9:10pm
Hello Ladies!!!!
Just a few short hours and we�ll all be back together in lovely Hollister drinking that case of the Three Buck Chuck I just bought. If you need me to bring anything else, just let me know. I have a station wagon after all.
I requested Alison Smith for my advisor and Rebecca for my second reader. I hope that all works out. The book is done but it needs a tough edit or ten.
I can�t believe this is going to be our last real residency. Let�s stay up late every night, have slumber parties in our PJ�s, and read each others fortunes. I�ll try not to be sad until it is actually over. Can�t wait to see you all!
Edrie
Semester four has been tough. It�s not the paper work or the process paper or the rewriting but the bi-polar emotions of being almost done and being excited by the prospect of graduation and being almost done and being very sad at the prospect of moving on from an unexpectedly wonderful experience. I read a statistic somewhere that after a person turned thirty the number of true friends they will make in the rest of their lives is exactly 1/10 of the number of close friends they had made up until that point. Since it was always hard for me to make friends and after hearing that I figured I had the couple of friends that I had and that I had and that was it. Perhaps people stop taking chances after a certain age and that severely limits their friend potential but I took a chance and Goddard rewarded me with the kinds of friends I had never had. People with whom I shared common interest and understanding. People from all over the world that were open to chance and open to me.
The theme of being open to new things is even stronger in the fourth semester because for the first time my novel was read and critiqued by people who had not seen it in anything but its current first-draft state. I had to be open to any possibility from complete loathing to laughter and everything in between. I was scared of what criticism might come because the reputation of my second reader was that of one who was extremely tough and known to not like the kind of subject matter I was attempting. And my advisor was an unknown quantity. I had lucked out with Maud, but would Alison be a lucky break as well?
What I�ve come to expect from Goddard is the unexpected. Everything I feared in the criticism of the novel came to pass but not in the way I expected it. Rebecca was indeed tough to the point of pain, but her comments helped boost me into changes I would not have considered and, since I had enough time to do some revising before I sent the novel to Alison, made a better first draft for her to critique. In the weeks that I waited for Alison�s comments I fretted about the changes I had made and if she would agree with Rebecca in some of the more harsh assessments. I obsessively checked the mail almost from the day I sent the packet and was rewarded finally with some of the most thoughtful and encouraging comments I had received during my time at Goddard. Alison had taken great pains to be meticulous and tough while also respectful. Her comments gave me the courage to tackle the seemingly impossible task of starting a second draft when all I wanted to do was put the novel away and forget about it for a while.
Crystal Springs, July 21st, 1987
Mom,
Could you be late picking me up? My friend Russell has to stay longer �cause his mom can�t come from Fargo until she gets off work. We made a big fire last night and sang and this girl said I had hair the same color as the fire. See you � but late OK.
Edrie
Although Graduation is a few months off, I am already worried about what it will be like without Goddard. It sounds silly, but Goddard provided a framework for me to grow into being a writer. My novel is done enough for me to graduate, but it won�t be the end. I know that there is still work to do and I have set a few goals for myself to help keep me focused even without the structure that Goddard provided. Once I graduate I plan on soliciting feedback from a few people I know in the publishing industry, hoping for a referral to a good agent who could possibly sell this book. I have also started sketching out ideas for three other books. At this moment they are all nebulous but the very fact that I have these ideas down will force me to explore them and to make them into something more. I�ve written one novel and I know I can write more. I was always able to write but Goddard, my advisors and my friends allowed me to take that knowledge and internalize it. In fact, I didn�t even call myself a writer until my second semester. When people ask me what I do, I used to tell them that I sometimes write. Now when people ask I tell them, I�m a writer. There is a fundamental difference and that change occurred because of Goddard. Goddard, like camp, was frightening at first and my focus was on the negative. But a shift occurred and I knew that I would complete my requirements and get through the rough parts. I was able to focus on the good and enjoy my experience. I want to graduate and am looking foreword to it, but if I could be picked up just a little late, have just a few extra hours � I wouldn�t mind.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Thursday, May 12, 2005
For my final semester (yup the next one is the FINAL ONE!!!) we have to do an annoatated bibliography of 10-15 titles that most shapped our writing over the course of study. Here is what I came up with so far.
Annotated Bibliography
Short list of primary influences spanning four semesters
Rabih Alameddine. I, The Divine. New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 2001.
A juxtaposition of form against content is how Alameddine experiments in I, the Divine. By giving the reader successive first chapters in a supposed failed attempt by the subject and fictitious author, Sarah Nour el-Din to write her memoir, Alameddine gives the reader a cunning story within a story while propelling the novel with partially revealed substance. I, the Divine subtly states information by mentioning items in one chapter, but leaving them out in the next. However, even though this information is missing, the reader is still aware of the prior chapters, which leads to a deeper understanding of the novel.
These successive first chapters successfully weave content through the form allowing the reader to gather meaning while still being confronted with new substance. Propelled by substance yet immersed on form I, the Divine is a perfect balance of a story within a story.
I, the Divine has to be one of my favorite books of all time. The character is impossibly real and even though I don�t like the main character that much I kept reading. I am really going to think about the human details of this book when I do future writing and rewriting on mine.
Aimee Bender. An Invisible Sign of my Own. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 2001.
Creating empathy for a character is essential to allowing the reader to understand how the character is interacting with the world. In An Invisible Sign of my Own, Aimee Bender takes a socially and personally flawed character and creates a sense of empathy for the reader that allows them to judge the situation the character is in by the scope of what the character must be feeling within that given scenario.
I love the way she takes something as bizarre as incessant knocking and makes it an endearing character trait. It is quite a talent to be able to get inside the head of that kind of person and then to further be able to make you empathize with them. It is a little bit like what David Sedaris does in his memoirs; the taking of the trait and exposing it for the purposes of exposing the character. He does his in a humorous way but Bender does it in a way that allows the reader to see a little bit of his or her own neuroses.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Pevear (t), Larissa Volokhonsky (t). Notes From Underground. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.
The difference between definition and description in regards to the protagonist and narrator the Underground Man is an interesting quandary to explore in Notes from Underground. When pointing out the differences between the definition and description shown by the narrator, the reader gets a sense that the reliability of the narrator in summarizing his own life (at least in the context of providing a definition of himself) can be called into question.
What is clear is that as unreliable in description as the Underground Man may be, it is clear that the subtly between his definition of himself and how he describes himself is meant as a way for the reader to be brought into the distinctions without the narrator having to write a clear roadmap to his life.
Notes from Underground was interesting. I read it while on tour with RobotZen in Budapest and in Slovakia. I kept wondering what it would be like to read it in Russian. It would take me years probably but it might be worth it to see. Not that just reading it in Russian would give me the full story. It�s one of those books where you have to read everything he was reading at the time to be able to get the full story. He makes so much of the culture then too which I was at a distinct disadvantage for. Though I hear that the translation I choose is one of the best. All in the eye of the beholder I suppose.
Bret Easton Ellis. American Psycho. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.
The absolute center of this novel resides in the subtlety of the choices between bone, eggshell, and off-white. Seemingly, small differences in the color, shape or style of an object (in this case business cards) have large differences in perceived value by the main character Patrick Bateman and his over-consumptive cohorts. Everything from the appearance (but not the taste) of a plate of sushi to the maker of a particular suit are discussed and coveted if correct and scorned if they are even slightly off. Parts of the book are written almost in the style of a journal chronicling the main character�s obsession with perfection. Lists of the places he goes and the branded things he has, wears and eats dominate the flat fatalistic first-person narrative. They serve to remind the reader that the goal of this character is to consume. But not just to consume any type of good or service, but the very best good or service. This consumption holds equally true for the people in Pat Bateman�s life as it does for the ODM II music system with dynamic tuning or the six button wool and silk blend navy suit jacket by Zenga paired with charcoal grey pressed Ralph Lauren pants and a spread-collar pencil-striped Sea Island cotton French cuffed Polo shirt.
I was really excited to write about this book because the character is so rational about his actions that he doesn�t even think they are unusual, It is just a part of him to do this and the way that is portrayed in the book is chilling. If I ever wrote a psychological mind-fuck I would want it to be much like this book where the character seems totally �normal� but the reality is that they are deeply disturbed.
Ron Hanson. Mariette in Ecstasy. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.
Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen is more of a narrative poem than a novel. The unusual format and structure does not distract but rather further enhances the reader�s ability to derive meaning from the physical and spiritual symbolism that abounds within the construct of the story. The story is written in such a way as to leave spaces inside the narrative for the reader to contemplate. Much like the hours of silent contemplation and prayer scheduled within the daily tasks of a nun, Hansen schedules time and space to allow the reader brief moments of respite in order to allow them the fully contemplate the meanings of the symbols presented. The two main types of symbols presented within the work are physical and spiritual.
This novel allows both the physical and spiritual symbols the freedom to create a story within a story and allows the reader space and time to contemplate their meanings. Without its poetic style, the book may well lose those quiet moments of contemplation and force the reader out of the story much like Mariette was forced out of her physical symbol for consecration.
Do I believe she had the stigmata? That is an interesting question because it never occurred to me to make the choice to either believe or not believe her. Perhaps that is my failing but I assumed that she believed she had it when it was necessary for her to. I also think that the people around her either thought she had it or didn�t because of their own feelings rather than any reality. What I really felt was that it didn�t matter if the stigmata were the truth or not. It was about the perception like religion in general.
John Irving. The World According to Garp. New York, NY: Ballantine Books, 2000.
When analyzing what makes The World According to Garp an interesting and appealing piece of fiction, one must look at three distinct features of the book. Although quite dense and packed-in, the language of the book is both simple and relatively straightforward. This treatment allows the reader to easily harmonize with the story. Another aspect that allows harmony is the characterization, most specifically that of Garp himself. He starts out unborn and develops through the book into an everyman character. He speaks directly to the reader through bits of text straight from the story. In addition, Garp is easy to relate to, as he is not particularly naturally good at anything. The third aspect that bears analysis has to do with structure. The linear nature of the book brings the reader through the story easily. It allows the reader to live right alongside Garp from his zygote history all the way through adulthood.
Oh John, tell me about your life. Oh wait, never mind, ya did� Ok, maybe Irving wasn�t conceived through the rape of a comatose man by his �feminist� mother, but there are parallels!
Have you ever read what Joseph Heller said about Something Happened? After working on it for 10 years he was quoted in a NY Times article as saying something like;
�I�m about 200 pages in and it�s about this guy, but I don�t know much about him. I know he has a job but I don�t know what it is or what he does. He has this family, but I don�t really know who they are or where they live. I don�t even know his name. He just goes to work and comes home. That�s about all.�
Not that I am comparing my writing in anyway to his, (lord no!) but I do know how he feels!
This one from The World According to Garp was good too:
�He tried to write a story about a family; all he knew when he began was that the family had an interesting life and the members were all close to each other. That was not enough to know.�
Franz Kafka, Donna Freed (t). The Metamorphosis. New York, NY: Fine Creative Media, 2003.
Would a book about a man turning into an insect be considered science fiction? Perhaps if it was written by any other author than Kafka it might be, but The Metamorphosis is more a reality play based on the contents of Kafka�s life than a work of fiction, science or otherwise. The style of this book epitomizes Kafka's general writing style. Even with perfect realism and attention to every detail of life, it is common to find impossible situations as the center of Kafka�s stories. A man turning into an insect transforms from a mere surreal story to a work about the interactions of people and the psychology of living. His detailed account and down to earth style seems to ground the story in reality, heading off any talk of the possibly this story was a dream. Even with these details, the actual bones of the story could not have happened in reality. This juxtaposition of reality verses the fantastical forces the reader to look for deeper meanings within the story.
I love when bizarre things happen and the reader is expected to take them for granted. Of course a man could turn into an insect! Of course it would seem odd but not something to report to medical science, but rather something to have on Springer. Life often feels just like this book!
Maxine Hong Kingston. The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977.
Maxine Hong Kingston�s The Warrior Woman is commonly classified as a memoir, however it does not take the traditional memoir track. The book instead intersperses stories as remembered by the narrator, myths and legend reinterpreted by her, and family history that is as much fiction as it is fact. Many aspects of Kingston�s childhood contribute to this unconventional style of narrative, not the least of which is her second-generation immigrant status. That status causes a disconnect not only with the culture of her parents� country, but with her home country as well. This cultural separation forces Kingston to form and explore stories, myths and history within the framework of an outsider looking in. This can allow the reader greater access to the narrator and a greater understanding of the narrator�s struggles. It does serve, however, to alienate the reader as well since Kingston is the reader�s only way in to the story. Unlike most memoirs there are few occasions when she tells stories from her point of view of things that have actually happened to her.
Whether it be personal stories like that of the torture Kingston inflicted on a silent little girl; myths re-told like that of the enigmatic Fa Mu Lan; or family history that is used as a warning, Kingston weaves the layers of narrative together into a statement about her own identity as a Chinese-American. Wanting to be fully assimilated into the culture that believes achieving straight A�s is as good as avenging a village, Maxine is left in a middle place where both cultures pull on her. Not fully understanding or agreeing with her Chinese heritage but held back by it from becoming fully American, Kingston struggles to find her voice among the ghosts of both her ancestry and her present.
Toni Morrison. The Bluest Eye. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1994.
Having two forms of narration within one relatively short novel is quite a challenge for an author. However, Toni Morrison uses both first-person and third-person narration to great effect in The Bluest Eye.
Because Morrison uses multiple points of view and multiple narration styles, no one narrator is allowed to take over the story. Each is balanced and counter balanced by the next allowing no one voice to take over. Perhaps this method of multiplying narrative perspectives puts more demand on the reader to glean the real story from that of the different perspectives but it also serves to challenge the reader into active participation with the story. Using both first and third narration and switching perspectives leaves the reader feeling whole even though the characters are left searching.
The Bluest Eye was great to read. I love books that are a bit surreal without going too creepy on you. And the fact that everything seemed so inevitable was really great. Perhaps it�s the fatalist in me that enjoyed it so much.
Haruki Murakami, Alfred Birnbaum (t). A Wild Sheep Chase. New York, NY: Penguin, 1989.
Engaging characters leap off the page and directly into the imagination of the reader in Murakami�s book A Wild Sheep Chase. Wholly rooted within the context of the story but allowing enough facets to invite the reader into the dream of the text along with them and create a familiarity with the character. Murakami�s characters encompass the qualities of an everyman while allowing for supremely surprising situations to arrive and propel them within the narrative. The ostensibly simplistic character portraits within his novels allow Murakami�s readers to place themselves within the action of the book through the actions and inactions of the narrator. This representation allows the characters to live and lead on the page and within their imaginations.
The imagination of the reader as to how the character will react and to how the reader would react given the set of circumstances is as important to the story as the descriptions and characters. Simplistic but realistic portraits allow these characters to move and interact in such a way as to make the reader truly feel a part of the story rather then an outsider looking in.
The Wild Sheep Chase was so good. I wrote about the characters because they didn�t feel like characters. He has such a talent for writing real people and making their real thoughts and lives interesting. Not to mention the surreal aspect of things, which adds a whole other layer. I went out and got two more of his books to read for after the semester is over.
J.D. Salinger. The Catcher in the Rye. Boston, MA: Little Brown, 1991.
In The Catcher in the Rye, Salinger portrays a bare and open style of prose that makes the reader feel that the author is truly connecting with the scenes within the book. These connections show the author not only has a stake in the narrative and the characters, but that they are truly coming from a place of utter sincerity. This sincerity resonates with the reader and is achieved through a slow and steady unfurling of action within the narrative that shows, not only the good qualities of the character, but also his many faults.
I had never read this when I was young, though I hear from a few of my teacher friends it is basically required text in some advanced high school English classes. I thought this book was fascinating. Thinking of the history of when it was written, it must have been a huge sensation. It is so honest and cutting, and must have been one of the first books from that point-of-view. Did he invent the whole idea of young adult fiction? Though I rather disagree with categorizing like that. If something is well written it shouldn�t be pigeonholed as a �kids� book.
Constantine Stanislavski, Elizabeth Reynolds. An Actor Prepares. New York, NY: Routlegde, 1989.
I did not write an annotation on this book, but I did read it and use it as a supply of knowledge. I felt like it was a great resource for building a character form scratch. He advocates taking a simple approach. Making your characters real by being your character in that moment. I think the most vivid description was when he describes an actor playing the part of a socially anguished person. Instead of telling the actor (or in my case telling your reader) �you are socially anguished�, you simply give them a problem to solve and let both the actor and the view (in my case the character and the reader) figure out the emotion. He uses the example of a person who is nervous in social situations. When he told the actor that the character developed a tic every time a beautiful woman spoke to him, the resulting scene was forced and over wrought and the tic was entirely too noticeable. Instead, he told the actor simply. This woman is very very beautiful and you are not worthy of her. The acting in that case was more natural and fluid with the added benefit of the fact that even though the actor may not have thought to use a tic as something to show nervousness, the actor did come up with everything from a stammer to a sweaty palm etc. The actor, in that case, inhabited the character enough to make what the character would do in that situation, believable.
Robert Louis Stevenson. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. New York, NY: Signet, 1987.
The main and generally accepted theme of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is that of the duality of human nature and its materialization and expression in the world of white, middle class men. Though this theme has been discussed before, one major piece of the theme is not just good verses evil but the true nature of evil itself and how the freedom and romance of it was the driving force to why Dr. Jekyll sought to split human nature in the first place.
Evil is a necessary and integrated part of the human psyche and though Stevenson did not yet have the psychological vocabulary in which to somewhat describe the root of the evil present in his common man, he does recognize its allure and presence in even the most respected of citizens. This is not a novel of good verses evil for Dr. Jekyll is not wholly good as is Mr. Hyde not wholly evil. It is a novel of how this evil is seductive and even freeing and how, perhaps, society creates a certain sense of this evil by not allowing the full nature of man to surface.
Why does Dr. Jekyll continue to allow Mr. Hyde to emerge? Perhaps the antidote does wear off or perhaps a crucial �impurity� is missing in its raw ingredients. What is more likely is that Dr. Jekyll has succumbed to the part of himself that automatically allows Hyde his freedom. His full nature, up until now suppressed within his cultural standards, will be repressed no longer and comes out in full force wising to be finally freed. Evil is a necessary and integrated part of humanity and it is not clear at the end of the book which aspect, if either, wins out but what is clear is that Stevenson�s allegory brings such struggles into focus and allows a glimpse into human nature and into evil itself.
I didn�t realize until I actually read it how different Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was from any of the movie or TV versions. It had an almost experimental feel with the way it was set up. I have to admit I really enjoyed it
Jennifer Weiner. Good in Bed. Washington Square Press, New York, NY, 2001.
In one of my other annotations I noted that honesty on the part of the writer is one of the most important elements in the crafting of an engaging story. Good in Bed seems honest to a fault. It presents a narrative by a modern-day lead character who lives much like many of my friends live. There was a connection to real-life in this book that was charming and yet had a slice of cynicism.
This book, however, taught me a valuable lesson in writing. The prose can�t just seem honest; it has to be honest to a fault. Every action and scrap of dialogue must be crafted with an eye towards realism. So much so in fact that if even one line is off, it can serve to ruin the entire book. Even one line can hold such power and sway that nothing can be just tossed off but each word must be decidedly deliberate and executed with elegance.
I simply could NOT help myself with this book. I knew it wasn�t on my list, but my husband had to have surgery and I couldn�t concentrate on the books I had brought so I bought this in the gift shop. NY Times bestseller and all and it looked like a quick read. The second I opened it I knew it was kismet that I read this book. Admittedly it�s ChickLit (by current definition, not by original definition), but what is so bad about that exactly? And this one seemed smart and funny and very well put together. The whole thing opened my eyes to the idea of truth and honesty in fiction.
Annotated Bibliography
Short list of primary influences spanning four semesters
Rabih Alameddine. I, The Divine. New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 2001.
A juxtaposition of form against content is how Alameddine experiments in I, the Divine. By giving the reader successive first chapters in a supposed failed attempt by the subject and fictitious author, Sarah Nour el-Din to write her memoir, Alameddine gives the reader a cunning story within a story while propelling the novel with partially revealed substance. I, the Divine subtly states information by mentioning items in one chapter, but leaving them out in the next. However, even though this information is missing, the reader is still aware of the prior chapters, which leads to a deeper understanding of the novel.
These successive first chapters successfully weave content through the form allowing the reader to gather meaning while still being confronted with new substance. Propelled by substance yet immersed on form I, the Divine is a perfect balance of a story within a story.
I, the Divine has to be one of my favorite books of all time. The character is impossibly real and even though I don�t like the main character that much I kept reading. I am really going to think about the human details of this book when I do future writing and rewriting on mine.
Aimee Bender. An Invisible Sign of my Own. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 2001.
Creating empathy for a character is essential to allowing the reader to understand how the character is interacting with the world. In An Invisible Sign of my Own, Aimee Bender takes a socially and personally flawed character and creates a sense of empathy for the reader that allows them to judge the situation the character is in by the scope of what the character must be feeling within that given scenario.
I love the way she takes something as bizarre as incessant knocking and makes it an endearing character trait. It is quite a talent to be able to get inside the head of that kind of person and then to further be able to make you empathize with them. It is a little bit like what David Sedaris does in his memoirs; the taking of the trait and exposing it for the purposes of exposing the character. He does his in a humorous way but Bender does it in a way that allows the reader to see a little bit of his or her own neuroses.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Pevear (t), Larissa Volokhonsky (t). Notes From Underground. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.
The difference between definition and description in regards to the protagonist and narrator the Underground Man is an interesting quandary to explore in Notes from Underground. When pointing out the differences between the definition and description shown by the narrator, the reader gets a sense that the reliability of the narrator in summarizing his own life (at least in the context of providing a definition of himself) can be called into question.
What is clear is that as unreliable in description as the Underground Man may be, it is clear that the subtly between his definition of himself and how he describes himself is meant as a way for the reader to be brought into the distinctions without the narrator having to write a clear roadmap to his life.
Notes from Underground was interesting. I read it while on tour with RobotZen in Budapest and in Slovakia. I kept wondering what it would be like to read it in Russian. It would take me years probably but it might be worth it to see. Not that just reading it in Russian would give me the full story. It�s one of those books where you have to read everything he was reading at the time to be able to get the full story. He makes so much of the culture then too which I was at a distinct disadvantage for. Though I hear that the translation I choose is one of the best. All in the eye of the beholder I suppose.
Bret Easton Ellis. American Psycho. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.
The absolute center of this novel resides in the subtlety of the choices between bone, eggshell, and off-white. Seemingly, small differences in the color, shape or style of an object (in this case business cards) have large differences in perceived value by the main character Patrick Bateman and his over-consumptive cohorts. Everything from the appearance (but not the taste) of a plate of sushi to the maker of a particular suit are discussed and coveted if correct and scorned if they are even slightly off. Parts of the book are written almost in the style of a journal chronicling the main character�s obsession with perfection. Lists of the places he goes and the branded things he has, wears and eats dominate the flat fatalistic first-person narrative. They serve to remind the reader that the goal of this character is to consume. But not just to consume any type of good or service, but the very best good or service. This consumption holds equally true for the people in Pat Bateman�s life as it does for the ODM II music system with dynamic tuning or the six button wool and silk blend navy suit jacket by Zenga paired with charcoal grey pressed Ralph Lauren pants and a spread-collar pencil-striped Sea Island cotton French cuffed Polo shirt.
I was really excited to write about this book because the character is so rational about his actions that he doesn�t even think they are unusual, It is just a part of him to do this and the way that is portrayed in the book is chilling. If I ever wrote a psychological mind-fuck I would want it to be much like this book where the character seems totally �normal� but the reality is that they are deeply disturbed.
Ron Hanson. Mariette in Ecstasy. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.
Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen is more of a narrative poem than a novel. The unusual format and structure does not distract but rather further enhances the reader�s ability to derive meaning from the physical and spiritual symbolism that abounds within the construct of the story. The story is written in such a way as to leave spaces inside the narrative for the reader to contemplate. Much like the hours of silent contemplation and prayer scheduled within the daily tasks of a nun, Hansen schedules time and space to allow the reader brief moments of respite in order to allow them the fully contemplate the meanings of the symbols presented. The two main types of symbols presented within the work are physical and spiritual.
This novel allows both the physical and spiritual symbols the freedom to create a story within a story and allows the reader space and time to contemplate their meanings. Without its poetic style, the book may well lose those quiet moments of contemplation and force the reader out of the story much like Mariette was forced out of her physical symbol for consecration.
Do I believe she had the stigmata? That is an interesting question because it never occurred to me to make the choice to either believe or not believe her. Perhaps that is my failing but I assumed that she believed she had it when it was necessary for her to. I also think that the people around her either thought she had it or didn�t because of their own feelings rather than any reality. What I really felt was that it didn�t matter if the stigmata were the truth or not. It was about the perception like religion in general.
John Irving. The World According to Garp. New York, NY: Ballantine Books, 2000.
When analyzing what makes The World According to Garp an interesting and appealing piece of fiction, one must look at three distinct features of the book. Although quite dense and packed-in, the language of the book is both simple and relatively straightforward. This treatment allows the reader to easily harmonize with the story. Another aspect that allows harmony is the characterization, most specifically that of Garp himself. He starts out unborn and develops through the book into an everyman character. He speaks directly to the reader through bits of text straight from the story. In addition, Garp is easy to relate to, as he is not particularly naturally good at anything. The third aspect that bears analysis has to do with structure. The linear nature of the book brings the reader through the story easily. It allows the reader to live right alongside Garp from his zygote history all the way through adulthood.
Oh John, tell me about your life. Oh wait, never mind, ya did� Ok, maybe Irving wasn�t conceived through the rape of a comatose man by his �feminist� mother, but there are parallels!
Have you ever read what Joseph Heller said about Something Happened? After working on it for 10 years he was quoted in a NY Times article as saying something like;
�I�m about 200 pages in and it�s about this guy, but I don�t know much about him. I know he has a job but I don�t know what it is or what he does. He has this family, but I don�t really know who they are or where they live. I don�t even know his name. He just goes to work and comes home. That�s about all.�
Not that I am comparing my writing in anyway to his, (lord no!) but I do know how he feels!
This one from The World According to Garp was good too:
�He tried to write a story about a family; all he knew when he began was that the family had an interesting life and the members were all close to each other. That was not enough to know.�
Franz Kafka, Donna Freed (t). The Metamorphosis. New York, NY: Fine Creative Media, 2003.
Would a book about a man turning into an insect be considered science fiction? Perhaps if it was written by any other author than Kafka it might be, but The Metamorphosis is more a reality play based on the contents of Kafka�s life than a work of fiction, science or otherwise. The style of this book epitomizes Kafka's general writing style. Even with perfect realism and attention to every detail of life, it is common to find impossible situations as the center of Kafka�s stories. A man turning into an insect transforms from a mere surreal story to a work about the interactions of people and the psychology of living. His detailed account and down to earth style seems to ground the story in reality, heading off any talk of the possibly this story was a dream. Even with these details, the actual bones of the story could not have happened in reality. This juxtaposition of reality verses the fantastical forces the reader to look for deeper meanings within the story.
I love when bizarre things happen and the reader is expected to take them for granted. Of course a man could turn into an insect! Of course it would seem odd but not something to report to medical science, but rather something to have on Springer. Life often feels just like this book!
Maxine Hong Kingston. The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977.
Maxine Hong Kingston�s The Warrior Woman is commonly classified as a memoir, however it does not take the traditional memoir track. The book instead intersperses stories as remembered by the narrator, myths and legend reinterpreted by her, and family history that is as much fiction as it is fact. Many aspects of Kingston�s childhood contribute to this unconventional style of narrative, not the least of which is her second-generation immigrant status. That status causes a disconnect not only with the culture of her parents� country, but with her home country as well. This cultural separation forces Kingston to form and explore stories, myths and history within the framework of an outsider looking in. This can allow the reader greater access to the narrator and a greater understanding of the narrator�s struggles. It does serve, however, to alienate the reader as well since Kingston is the reader�s only way in to the story. Unlike most memoirs there are few occasions when she tells stories from her point of view of things that have actually happened to her.
Whether it be personal stories like that of the torture Kingston inflicted on a silent little girl; myths re-told like that of the enigmatic Fa Mu Lan; or family history that is used as a warning, Kingston weaves the layers of narrative together into a statement about her own identity as a Chinese-American. Wanting to be fully assimilated into the culture that believes achieving straight A�s is as good as avenging a village, Maxine is left in a middle place where both cultures pull on her. Not fully understanding or agreeing with her Chinese heritage but held back by it from becoming fully American, Kingston struggles to find her voice among the ghosts of both her ancestry and her present.
Toni Morrison. The Bluest Eye. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1994.
Having two forms of narration within one relatively short novel is quite a challenge for an author. However, Toni Morrison uses both first-person and third-person narration to great effect in The Bluest Eye.
Because Morrison uses multiple points of view and multiple narration styles, no one narrator is allowed to take over the story. Each is balanced and counter balanced by the next allowing no one voice to take over. Perhaps this method of multiplying narrative perspectives puts more demand on the reader to glean the real story from that of the different perspectives but it also serves to challenge the reader into active participation with the story. Using both first and third narration and switching perspectives leaves the reader feeling whole even though the characters are left searching.
The Bluest Eye was great to read. I love books that are a bit surreal without going too creepy on you. And the fact that everything seemed so inevitable was really great. Perhaps it�s the fatalist in me that enjoyed it so much.
Haruki Murakami, Alfred Birnbaum (t). A Wild Sheep Chase. New York, NY: Penguin, 1989.
Engaging characters leap off the page and directly into the imagination of the reader in Murakami�s book A Wild Sheep Chase. Wholly rooted within the context of the story but allowing enough facets to invite the reader into the dream of the text along with them and create a familiarity with the character. Murakami�s characters encompass the qualities of an everyman while allowing for supremely surprising situations to arrive and propel them within the narrative. The ostensibly simplistic character portraits within his novels allow Murakami�s readers to place themselves within the action of the book through the actions and inactions of the narrator. This representation allows the characters to live and lead on the page and within their imaginations.
The imagination of the reader as to how the character will react and to how the reader would react given the set of circumstances is as important to the story as the descriptions and characters. Simplistic but realistic portraits allow these characters to move and interact in such a way as to make the reader truly feel a part of the story rather then an outsider looking in.
The Wild Sheep Chase was so good. I wrote about the characters because they didn�t feel like characters. He has such a talent for writing real people and making their real thoughts and lives interesting. Not to mention the surreal aspect of things, which adds a whole other layer. I went out and got two more of his books to read for after the semester is over.
J.D. Salinger. The Catcher in the Rye. Boston, MA: Little Brown, 1991.
In The Catcher in the Rye, Salinger portrays a bare and open style of prose that makes the reader feel that the author is truly connecting with the scenes within the book. These connections show the author not only has a stake in the narrative and the characters, but that they are truly coming from a place of utter sincerity. This sincerity resonates with the reader and is achieved through a slow and steady unfurling of action within the narrative that shows, not only the good qualities of the character, but also his many faults.
I had never read this when I was young, though I hear from a few of my teacher friends it is basically required text in some advanced high school English classes. I thought this book was fascinating. Thinking of the history of when it was written, it must have been a huge sensation. It is so honest and cutting, and must have been one of the first books from that point-of-view. Did he invent the whole idea of young adult fiction? Though I rather disagree with categorizing like that. If something is well written it shouldn�t be pigeonholed as a �kids� book.
Constantine Stanislavski, Elizabeth Reynolds. An Actor Prepares. New York, NY: Routlegde, 1989.
I did not write an annotation on this book, but I did read it and use it as a supply of knowledge. I felt like it was a great resource for building a character form scratch. He advocates taking a simple approach. Making your characters real by being your character in that moment. I think the most vivid description was when he describes an actor playing the part of a socially anguished person. Instead of telling the actor (or in my case telling your reader) �you are socially anguished�, you simply give them a problem to solve and let both the actor and the view (in my case the character and the reader) figure out the emotion. He uses the example of a person who is nervous in social situations. When he told the actor that the character developed a tic every time a beautiful woman spoke to him, the resulting scene was forced and over wrought and the tic was entirely too noticeable. Instead, he told the actor simply. This woman is very very beautiful and you are not worthy of her. The acting in that case was more natural and fluid with the added benefit of the fact that even though the actor may not have thought to use a tic as something to show nervousness, the actor did come up with everything from a stammer to a sweaty palm etc. The actor, in that case, inhabited the character enough to make what the character would do in that situation, believable.
Robert Louis Stevenson. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. New York, NY: Signet, 1987.
The main and generally accepted theme of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is that of the duality of human nature and its materialization and expression in the world of white, middle class men. Though this theme has been discussed before, one major piece of the theme is not just good verses evil but the true nature of evil itself and how the freedom and romance of it was the driving force to why Dr. Jekyll sought to split human nature in the first place.
Evil is a necessary and integrated part of the human psyche and though Stevenson did not yet have the psychological vocabulary in which to somewhat describe the root of the evil present in his common man, he does recognize its allure and presence in even the most respected of citizens. This is not a novel of good verses evil for Dr. Jekyll is not wholly good as is Mr. Hyde not wholly evil. It is a novel of how this evil is seductive and even freeing and how, perhaps, society creates a certain sense of this evil by not allowing the full nature of man to surface.
Why does Dr. Jekyll continue to allow Mr. Hyde to emerge? Perhaps the antidote does wear off or perhaps a crucial �impurity� is missing in its raw ingredients. What is more likely is that Dr. Jekyll has succumbed to the part of himself that automatically allows Hyde his freedom. His full nature, up until now suppressed within his cultural standards, will be repressed no longer and comes out in full force wising to be finally freed. Evil is a necessary and integrated part of humanity and it is not clear at the end of the book which aspect, if either, wins out but what is clear is that Stevenson�s allegory brings such struggles into focus and allows a glimpse into human nature and into evil itself.
I didn�t realize until I actually read it how different Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was from any of the movie or TV versions. It had an almost experimental feel with the way it was set up. I have to admit I really enjoyed it
Jennifer Weiner. Good in Bed. Washington Square Press, New York, NY, 2001.
In one of my other annotations I noted that honesty on the part of the writer is one of the most important elements in the crafting of an engaging story. Good in Bed seems honest to a fault. It presents a narrative by a modern-day lead character who lives much like many of my friends live. There was a connection to real-life in this book that was charming and yet had a slice of cynicism.
This book, however, taught me a valuable lesson in writing. The prose can�t just seem honest; it has to be honest to a fault. Every action and scrap of dialogue must be crafted with an eye towards realism. So much so in fact that if even one line is off, it can serve to ruin the entire book. Even one line can hold such power and sway that nothing can be just tossed off but each word must be decidedly deliberate and executed with elegance.
I simply could NOT help myself with this book. I knew it wasn�t on my list, but my husband had to have surgery and I couldn�t concentrate on the books I had brought so I bought this in the gift shop. NY Times bestseller and all and it looked like a quick read. The second I opened it I knew it was kismet that I read this book. Admittedly it�s ChickLit (by current definition, not by original definition), but what is so bad about that exactly? And this one seemed smart and funny and very well put together. The whole thing opened my eyes to the idea of truth and honesty in fiction.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
One of my favorite poets (and how many people can say they have a favorite poet, muc h less more than one?) did this on his blog, so I am too <>
Here is the list of books I have read for my MFA since January 2004. I still have one sememster to go... but I might not have to read so many next semester...
List - - In order by semester:
Semester 1
Sherwood Anderson. Winesburg, Ohio. New York, NY: Bantam Books, 1995.
Carol Anshaw. Aquamarine. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1992.
Truman Capote. In Cold Blood A True Account of a Multiple Murder and its Consequences. New York, NY: Random House, 1965.
Julio Cort�zar, Gregory Rabassa (t). Hopscotch. New York, NY: Pantheon Books, 1995.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Pevear (t), Larissa Volokhonsky (t). Notes From Underground. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.
Ron Hanson. Mariette in Ecstasy. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.
Ann E. Imbrie. Spoken in Darkness: Small-Town Murder and a Friendship Beyond Death. New York, NY: Hyperian, 1993.
Jack Kerouac. Visions of Cody. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1972.
Maxine Hong Kingston. The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977.
Harper Lee. To Kill a Mocking Bird. New York, NY: Warner Books Inc., 1982
Toni Morrison. The Bluest Eye. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1994.
Carson McCullers. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. New York, NY: Modern Library, 1993.
Alice McDermott. At Weddings and Wakes. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.
Dale Peck. Martin and John. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1993.
Robert Louis Stevenson. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. New York, NY: Signet, 1987.
Marilynne Robinson. Housekeeping. New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001.
Richard A. Wright. Black Boy, New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1998.
Semester 2
Annotations:
Rabih Alameddine. I, The Divine. New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 2001.
Rudolfo Anaya. Bless me, Ultima. New York, NY: Warner Books, 1972.
Nina Nikoleavna Berberova, Marian Schwarts (t). The Tattered Cloak and Other Stories. New York, NY: New Directions Publishing, 2001.
Mary Caponegro. The Star Caf�. New York, NY: Scribner 1990.
Sandra Cisneros. The House on Mango Street. New York, NY: Random House, 1984.
Douglas Coupland. Shampoo Planet. New York, NY: Pocket Books, 1992.
John Irving. The World According to Garp. New York, NY: Ballantine Books, 2000.
Franz Kafka, Donna Freed (t). The Metamorphosis. New York, NY: Fine Creative Media, 2003.
A.L. Kennedy. So I am Glad. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 2001.
Alice Munro. The Beggar Maid: Stories of Flo and Rose. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.
Haruki Murakami, Alfred Birnbaum (t). A Wild Sheep Chase. New York, NY: Penguin, 1989.
Walker Percy. The Moviegoer. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 1998.
Plato, Christopher Gill (t). The Symposium. New York, NY: Penguin, 1999.
Terry Ryan. The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio. New York, NY: Simon and Schuster, 2001.
Jean Paul Sartre. What is Literature. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1989.
Colson Whitehead. The Intuitionist. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 1999.
Long Critical Paper � Poetry: Why it�s Best When it�s Spoken
Works Cited
Babette Deutsch, Poetry Handbook 4th Ed., Copyright 1981 by Babette Deutsch, HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., New York, NY
Bill Moyers, The Language of Life, Copyright 1995 by Public Affairs Television, Inc., Doubleday, New York, NY
Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog From Hell, Copyright 1977 by Charles Bukowski, Black Sparrow Press, Santa Rosa, CA
Judson Jerome, The Poets Hand-Book, Copyright 1980 by Judson Jerome, F&W Publications, Inc., Cincinnati, OH
Kathleen Norris, The Virgin of Bennington, Copyright 2001 by Kathleen Norris, River Head Books, New York, NY
Robert Hass, Sun Under Wood, Copyright 1996 by Robert Hass, Ecco Press, Hopewell, NJ
Robert Pinsky, The Sounds of Poetry, Copyright 1998 by Robert Pinksy, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, NY
Sam Cornish, Cross A Parted Sea, Copyright 1996 by Sam Cornish, Zoland Books, Cambridge, MA
Sherman Alexie, The Business of Fancy Dancing, Copyright 1992 by Sherman Alexie, Hanging Loose Press, Brooklyn, NY
Works Consulted
Coleman Barks, The Essential Rumi, Copyright 1995 by Coleman Barks, HarperCollins Publishers, New York, NY
Coleman Barks, John Moyne, Open Secret: Versions of Rumi, Copyright 1999 by John Moyne and Coleman Barks, Shambhala Publications, Boston, MA
Catherine Sasanov, All the Blood Tethers, Copyright 2002 by Catherine Sasanov, Northeastern University Press, Boston, MA
Catherine Sasanov, What�s Left of Galgani, Copyright 2004 by Catherine Sasanov, Franciscan University Press, Steubenville, OH
Elise Paschen, Rebekah Presson Mosby (Eds.), Poetry Speaks, Copyright 2001 by Sourcebooks, Inc., Sourcebooks, Naperville, IL.
James Austin (Prod.), The Beat Generation, Copyright 1992 by Rhino Records, Rhino Word Beat, Santa Monica, CA.
Kathleen Norris, Little Girls in Church, Copyright 1995 by Kathleen Norris, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh PA
Lawson Fusao Inada, Legends from Camp, Copyright 1993 by Lawson Fusao Inada Coffee House Press, Minneapolis, MN
Maya Angelou, Wouldn�t Take Nothing for my Journey Now, Copyright 1993 by Maya Angelou, Random House, New York, NY
Poets & Writers, Poet as Rock Star, May/June 2001, Vol. 29 Issue 3, p. 75-79
Richard Ellmann and Robert O�Clair (Eds.), The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry 2nd Ed., Copyright 1988 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY
Richard Jones (Ed.) Poetry East, Copyright 1996 by Poetry East, DePaul University, Chicago, IL
Robert Hass, Field Guide, Copyright 1998 by Robert Hass, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT
Robert Pinsky, Maggie Dietz, Americans� Favorite Poems, Copyright 2000 by Maggie Dietz, Robert Pinksy, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY
Yeah I know I wrote my LCP on poetry even though I'm writing a novel... Closet poet...
Semester 3
Hanan Al-Shaykh. I Sweep the Sun Off Roof Tops. New York, NY: Random House, 1998.
Aimee Bender. An Invisible Sign of my Own. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 2001.
Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita. New York, NY: Vintage, 1996.
Sarah Shun-leir Bynum. Madeline is Sleeping. New York, NY: Harcourt, 2004.
Jennifer Donnelly. A Northern Light. Orlando, FL: Harcourt, 2003.
Bret Easton Ellis. American Psycho. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.
Francisco Goldman. The Divine Husband. New York, NY: Grove/Atlantic, 2004.
A.L. Kennedy. Original Bliss. New York, NY: Vintage, 2000.
Daniel Keyes. Flowers for Algernon. Orlando, FL: Harcourt, 1987.
Mark Mathabane. Kaffir Boy. New York, NY: Touchstone, 1998.
Haruki Murakami. The Elephant Vanishes. New York, NY: Vintage, 1994.
Walter Dean Myers. Fallen Angels. New York, NY: Scholastic, 1988.
Katherine Paterson. Bridge to Terabithia. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1997.
J.D. Salinger. The Catcher in the Rye. Boston, MA: Little Brown, 1991.
Constantine Stanislavski, Elizabeth Reynolds. An Actor Prepares. New York, NY: Routlegde, 1989.
John Steinbeck. Of Mice and Men. New York, NY: Penguin, 1993.
Jennifer Weiner. Good in Bed. Washington Square Press, New York, NY, 2001.
Teaching Essay � Trust
Works Cited
Cynthia Stokes Brown, Like It Was: A Complete Guide to Writing Oral History, Copyright 1988 by Cynthia Stokes Brown, Teachers & Writers Collaborative, New York, NY
Sanford Kaye, Writing as a Life Long Skill, Copyright 1994 by Sanford Kaye, Wadsworth Publishing Company, Boston, MA
Works Consulted
Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, Copyright 1986 by Natalie Goldberg, Shambhala, Boston, MA
Chuck Klosterman, Fargo Rock City; A Heavy Metal Odyssey in Rural North Dakota, Copyright 2001 by Chuck Klosterman, Scribner, New York, NY
Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Copyright 1994 by Anne Lamott, Pantheon Books, New York, NY
Patrick D. Morrow (ed), Growing up in North Dakota, Copyright 1979 by University Press of America, Inc., Washington, D. C.
Timothy Murphy, Set the Ploughshare Deep: A Prairie Memoir, Copyright 2000 by Timothy Murphy, Ohio University Press, Athens, OH
Kathleen Norris, Little Girls in Church, Copyright 1995 by Kathleen Norris, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh PA
Kathy L. Plotkin, The Pearson Girls: a Family Memoir of the Dakota Plains, Copyright 1998 by Kathy L. Plotkin, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND
Philo T Pritzkau, Growing Up in North Dakota: A Memoir, Copyright 1996 by Philo T Pritzkau, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND
Ron Vossler, Dakota Kraut: a Memoir, Copyright 2003 by Ron Vossler, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND
Ward Wilkins, And Some Went Hungry, Copyright 2002 by Ward Wilkins, Coon Rapids, MN
Ward Wilkins, The Blackboards Whisper, the Walls Shout! : Inside School Houses (Big and Small), Copyright 2003 by Ward Wilkins, United States
Jo Ann Winistorfer, Cathy A. Langemo, Tracing Your Dakota Roots: a Guide to Genealogical Research in the Dakotas, Copyright 1999 Dakota Roots, Bismarck, ND
Selected Workshop Readings
Hazel Grange, Live Arrival Guaranteed: a Sandhill Memoir, Copyright 1996 by Hazel Grange, Lost River Press, Boulder Junction, WI
Chuck Klosterman, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: a Low Culture Manifesto, Copyright 2003 by Chuck Klosterman, Scribner, New York, NY
Frances Mayes, Bella Tuscany, Copyright 1999 by Frances Mayes, Broadway Books, New York, NY
Kathleen Norris, Dakota A Spiritual Geography, Copyright 1993 by Kathleen Norris, Houghton Mifflin, New York, NY
Albert Tangeman Vollweiler, Roosevelt�s Ranch Life in North Dakota, Reprint from the Quarterly Journal of UND, Copyright 1918, University of North Dakota, Grandforks, ND
Larry Woiwode, Aristocrat of the West, The Story of Harold Schafer, Copyright 2000 by Larry Woiwode, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND
Web Resources
http://www.blogger.com/start
http://www.capturingmemories.com/tips.html
http://www.dakotawest.org
http://www.lakeregionwriters.bravehost.com
http://www.state.nd.us/arts
http://www.twc.org/
Here is the list of books I have read for my MFA since January 2004. I still have one sememster to go... but I might not have to read so many next semester...
List - - In order by semester:
Semester 1
Sherwood Anderson. Winesburg, Ohio. New York, NY: Bantam Books, 1995.
Carol Anshaw. Aquamarine. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1992.
Truman Capote. In Cold Blood A True Account of a Multiple Murder and its Consequences. New York, NY: Random House, 1965.
Julio Cort�zar, Gregory Rabassa (t). Hopscotch. New York, NY: Pantheon Books, 1995.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Pevear (t), Larissa Volokhonsky (t). Notes From Underground. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.
Ron Hanson. Mariette in Ecstasy. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.
Ann E. Imbrie. Spoken in Darkness: Small-Town Murder and a Friendship Beyond Death. New York, NY: Hyperian, 1993.
Jack Kerouac. Visions of Cody. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1972.
Maxine Hong Kingston. The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977.
Harper Lee. To Kill a Mocking Bird. New York, NY: Warner Books Inc., 1982
Toni Morrison. The Bluest Eye. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1994.
Carson McCullers. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. New York, NY: Modern Library, 1993.
Alice McDermott. At Weddings and Wakes. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1992.
Dale Peck. Martin and John. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1993.
Robert Louis Stevenson. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. New York, NY: Signet, 1987.
Marilynne Robinson. Housekeeping. New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001.
Richard A. Wright. Black Boy, New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1998.
Semester 2
Annotations:
Rabih Alameddine. I, The Divine. New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 2001.
Rudolfo Anaya. Bless me, Ultima. New York, NY: Warner Books, 1972.
Nina Nikoleavna Berberova, Marian Schwarts (t). The Tattered Cloak and Other Stories. New York, NY: New Directions Publishing, 2001.
Mary Caponegro. The Star Caf�. New York, NY: Scribner 1990.
Sandra Cisneros. The House on Mango Street. New York, NY: Random House, 1984.
Douglas Coupland. Shampoo Planet. New York, NY: Pocket Books, 1992.
John Irving. The World According to Garp. New York, NY: Ballantine Books, 2000.
Franz Kafka, Donna Freed (t). The Metamorphosis. New York, NY: Fine Creative Media, 2003.
A.L. Kennedy. So I am Glad. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 2001.
Alice Munro. The Beggar Maid: Stories of Flo and Rose. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.
Haruki Murakami, Alfred Birnbaum (t). A Wild Sheep Chase. New York, NY: Penguin, 1989.
Walker Percy. The Moviegoer. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 1998.
Plato, Christopher Gill (t). The Symposium. New York, NY: Penguin, 1999.
Terry Ryan. The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio. New York, NY: Simon and Schuster, 2001.
Jean Paul Sartre. What is Literature. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1989.
Colson Whitehead. The Intuitionist. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 1999.
Long Critical Paper � Poetry: Why it�s Best When it�s Spoken
Works Cited
Babette Deutsch, Poetry Handbook 4th Ed., Copyright 1981 by Babette Deutsch, HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., New York, NY
Bill Moyers, The Language of Life, Copyright 1995 by Public Affairs Television, Inc., Doubleday, New York, NY
Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog From Hell, Copyright 1977 by Charles Bukowski, Black Sparrow Press, Santa Rosa, CA
Judson Jerome, The Poets Hand-Book, Copyright 1980 by Judson Jerome, F&W Publications, Inc., Cincinnati, OH
Kathleen Norris, The Virgin of Bennington, Copyright 2001 by Kathleen Norris, River Head Books, New York, NY
Robert Hass, Sun Under Wood, Copyright 1996 by Robert Hass, Ecco Press, Hopewell, NJ
Robert Pinsky, The Sounds of Poetry, Copyright 1998 by Robert Pinksy, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, NY
Sam Cornish, Cross A Parted Sea, Copyright 1996 by Sam Cornish, Zoland Books, Cambridge, MA
Sherman Alexie, The Business of Fancy Dancing, Copyright 1992 by Sherman Alexie, Hanging Loose Press, Brooklyn, NY
Works Consulted
Coleman Barks, The Essential Rumi, Copyright 1995 by Coleman Barks, HarperCollins Publishers, New York, NY
Coleman Barks, John Moyne, Open Secret: Versions of Rumi, Copyright 1999 by John Moyne and Coleman Barks, Shambhala Publications, Boston, MA
Catherine Sasanov, All the Blood Tethers, Copyright 2002 by Catherine Sasanov, Northeastern University Press, Boston, MA
Catherine Sasanov, What�s Left of Galgani, Copyright 2004 by Catherine Sasanov, Franciscan University Press, Steubenville, OH
Elise Paschen, Rebekah Presson Mosby (Eds.), Poetry Speaks, Copyright 2001 by Sourcebooks, Inc., Sourcebooks, Naperville, IL.
James Austin (Prod.), The Beat Generation, Copyright 1992 by Rhino Records, Rhino Word Beat, Santa Monica, CA.
Kathleen Norris, Little Girls in Church, Copyright 1995 by Kathleen Norris, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh PA
Lawson Fusao Inada, Legends from Camp, Copyright 1993 by Lawson Fusao Inada Coffee House Press, Minneapolis, MN
Maya Angelou, Wouldn�t Take Nothing for my Journey Now, Copyright 1993 by Maya Angelou, Random House, New York, NY
Poets & Writers, Poet as Rock Star, May/June 2001, Vol. 29 Issue 3, p. 75-79
Richard Ellmann and Robert O�Clair (Eds.), The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry 2nd Ed., Copyright 1988 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY
Richard Jones (Ed.) Poetry East, Copyright 1996 by Poetry East, DePaul University, Chicago, IL
Robert Hass, Field Guide, Copyright 1998 by Robert Hass, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT
Robert Pinsky, Maggie Dietz, Americans� Favorite Poems, Copyright 2000 by Maggie Dietz, Robert Pinksy, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY
Yeah I know I wrote my LCP on poetry even though I'm writing a novel... Closet poet...
Semester 3
Hanan Al-Shaykh. I Sweep the Sun Off Roof Tops. New York, NY: Random House, 1998.
Aimee Bender. An Invisible Sign of my Own. New York, NY: Anchor Books, 2001.
Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita. New York, NY: Vintage, 1996.
Sarah Shun-leir Bynum. Madeline is Sleeping. New York, NY: Harcourt, 2004.
Jennifer Donnelly. A Northern Light. Orlando, FL: Harcourt, 2003.
Bret Easton Ellis. American Psycho. New York, NY: Vintage, 1991.
Francisco Goldman. The Divine Husband. New York, NY: Grove/Atlantic, 2004.
A.L. Kennedy. Original Bliss. New York, NY: Vintage, 2000.
Daniel Keyes. Flowers for Algernon. Orlando, FL: Harcourt, 1987.
Mark Mathabane. Kaffir Boy. New York, NY: Touchstone, 1998.
Haruki Murakami. The Elephant Vanishes. New York, NY: Vintage, 1994.
Walter Dean Myers. Fallen Angels. New York, NY: Scholastic, 1988.
Katherine Paterson. Bridge to Terabithia. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1997.
J.D. Salinger. The Catcher in the Rye. Boston, MA: Little Brown, 1991.
Constantine Stanislavski, Elizabeth Reynolds. An Actor Prepares. New York, NY: Routlegde, 1989.
John Steinbeck. Of Mice and Men. New York, NY: Penguin, 1993.
Jennifer Weiner. Good in Bed. Washington Square Press, New York, NY, 2001.
Teaching Essay � Trust
Works Cited
Cynthia Stokes Brown, Like It Was: A Complete Guide to Writing Oral History, Copyright 1988 by Cynthia Stokes Brown, Teachers & Writers Collaborative, New York, NY
Sanford Kaye, Writing as a Life Long Skill, Copyright 1994 by Sanford Kaye, Wadsworth Publishing Company, Boston, MA
Works Consulted
Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, Copyright 1986 by Natalie Goldberg, Shambhala, Boston, MA
Chuck Klosterman, Fargo Rock City; A Heavy Metal Odyssey in Rural North Dakota, Copyright 2001 by Chuck Klosterman, Scribner, New York, NY
Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Copyright 1994 by Anne Lamott, Pantheon Books, New York, NY
Patrick D. Morrow (ed), Growing up in North Dakota, Copyright 1979 by University Press of America, Inc., Washington, D. C.
Timothy Murphy, Set the Ploughshare Deep: A Prairie Memoir, Copyright 2000 by Timothy Murphy, Ohio University Press, Athens, OH
Kathleen Norris, Little Girls in Church, Copyright 1995 by Kathleen Norris, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh PA
Kathy L. Plotkin, The Pearson Girls: a Family Memoir of the Dakota Plains, Copyright 1998 by Kathy L. Plotkin, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND
Philo T Pritzkau, Growing Up in North Dakota: A Memoir, Copyright 1996 by Philo T Pritzkau, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND
Ron Vossler, Dakota Kraut: a Memoir, Copyright 2003 by Ron Vossler, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND
Ward Wilkins, And Some Went Hungry, Copyright 2002 by Ward Wilkins, Coon Rapids, MN
Ward Wilkins, The Blackboards Whisper, the Walls Shout! : Inside School Houses (Big and Small), Copyright 2003 by Ward Wilkins, United States
Jo Ann Winistorfer, Cathy A. Langemo, Tracing Your Dakota Roots: a Guide to Genealogical Research in the Dakotas, Copyright 1999 Dakota Roots, Bismarck, ND
Selected Workshop Readings
Hazel Grange, Live Arrival Guaranteed: a Sandhill Memoir, Copyright 1996 by Hazel Grange, Lost River Press, Boulder Junction, WI
Chuck Klosterman, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: a Low Culture Manifesto, Copyright 2003 by Chuck Klosterman, Scribner, New York, NY
Frances Mayes, Bella Tuscany, Copyright 1999 by Frances Mayes, Broadway Books, New York, NY
Kathleen Norris, Dakota A Spiritual Geography, Copyright 1993 by Kathleen Norris, Houghton Mifflin, New York, NY
Albert Tangeman Vollweiler, Roosevelt�s Ranch Life in North Dakota, Reprint from the Quarterly Journal of UND, Copyright 1918, University of North Dakota, Grandforks, ND
Larry Woiwode, Aristocrat of the West, The Story of Harold Schafer, Copyright 2000 by Larry Woiwode, North Dakota State University, Fargo, ND
Web Resources
http://www.blogger.com/start
http://www.capturingmemories.com/tips.html
http://www.dakotawest.org
http://www.lakeregionwriters.bravehost.com
http://www.state.nd.us/arts
http://www.twc.org/
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Monday, February 21, 2005
SOOOOO I got this cute little story published
So read my sotry and let me know what you think. Someday I might write this as a novel. What a summer that was.
Recently this woman from work read it and she was like...
Who are you again? LOL gotta love that kind of reaction
Here is how it appears
It was Shear Madness Alley
A wok full of heroin dominated the tiny but spotless stove. The kitchen was a wall at the end of the living room, separated from the rough carpet by a thin strip of scuffed beige linoleum. The whole of the apartment could be seen by standing in the corner of the kitchen. The living room was finished in an "early 90s student" sort of way, and the bathroom sat small and red behind the secret door. There were bedrooms too but that wasn�t where the action was.
Gogo laid naked on the couch in the living room in front of the large windows. She listened to the CD player that played the song that filled the apartment and played off the street sounds of Shear Madness Alley a few stories below. They were the 2am sounds, the still-partying-on-a-Saturday-morning sounds, the we�re-all-in-this-together sounds.
Slinkster was naked as well. He radiated the heat, but the ocean was responsible for the humidity. In his modesty he had donned a brown corduroy suit jacket with velour patches at the elbows. He paced the apartment with a pipe in hand, puffing rings of cerebral smoke, which hung like fine-spun cotton candy around his head. I listened to him talking, and could smell his cannabis thoughts from my hole in the bathroom. Dark and cool, the hipbath surrounded me like a slick red womb. Up to my neck, I felt like I was emerging into the world but hadn�t gotten very far. Slinkster walked into my dark layer. Through the haze he stared at his bare reflection in the mirror.
"I can�t remember, am I a dead fish or a monkey?" He looked down at me while my own pair of dead fish bobbed in the water glowing white against the red.
The French song was on repeat in the CD player. I idly wondered whether they realized it had played 47 times. It comforted my OCD; I always knew what would be and what had been. I was beginning to understand French; I was the woman in the song, a lazy 1920s diva with a cigarette holder and dainty cigarettes who expected a light from insanely beautiful young men. Gogo started to sing the love song to the Egyptian who was on the street below. Her voice husky from the haze that Slinkster was leaving everywhere. I suddenly knew that the diva wasn�t me. I was more the suitor and I longed to run from the bath to light her cigarette. But the water kept me still, chill and comforted, holding my body in place. I was too late anyway. Slinkster had heard her call and wandered over to offer her a light. Even though I could not see them, I know they gazed at one another with love and unrequited want. They knew they should fuck but never would. It wasn�t in the schema.
This summer sublet was granted through karma. I tend to browse bulletin boards at school and hanging there was a sign. Two bedrooms, furnished sublet, no cats, students welcome, Shear Madness Alley. Fate began there in that living room next to the kitchen in the wok.
Gogo�s singing blended with the French Diva�s. I could no longer tell them apart. The Egyptian was yelling from the street. Inviting her to visit his homeland. Did he come every Saturday? Perhaps he was a customer of one of the neighbors whom we heard working mostly at night. They did a big business in lonely Egyptians.
So read my sotry and let me know what you think. Someday I might write this as a novel. What a summer that was.
Recently this woman from work read it and she was like...
Who are you again? LOL gotta love that kind of reaction
Here is how it appears
It was Shear Madness Alley
A wok full of heroin dominated the tiny but spotless stove. The kitchen was a wall at the end of the living room, separated from the rough carpet by a thin strip of scuffed beige linoleum. The whole of the apartment could be seen by standing in the corner of the kitchen. The living room was finished in an "early 90s student" sort of way, and the bathroom sat small and red behind the secret door. There were bedrooms too but that wasn�t where the action was.
Gogo laid naked on the couch in the living room in front of the large windows. She listened to the CD player that played the song that filled the apartment and played off the street sounds of Shear Madness Alley a few stories below. They were the 2am sounds, the still-partying-on-a-Saturday-morning sounds, the we�re-all-in-this-together sounds.
Slinkster was naked as well. He radiated the heat, but the ocean was responsible for the humidity. In his modesty he had donned a brown corduroy suit jacket with velour patches at the elbows. He paced the apartment with a pipe in hand, puffing rings of cerebral smoke, which hung like fine-spun cotton candy around his head. I listened to him talking, and could smell his cannabis thoughts from my hole in the bathroom. Dark and cool, the hipbath surrounded me like a slick red womb. Up to my neck, I felt like I was emerging into the world but hadn�t gotten very far. Slinkster walked into my dark layer. Through the haze he stared at his bare reflection in the mirror.
"I can�t remember, am I a dead fish or a monkey?" He looked down at me while my own pair of dead fish bobbed in the water glowing white against the red.
The French song was on repeat in the CD player. I idly wondered whether they realized it had played 47 times. It comforted my OCD; I always knew what would be and what had been. I was beginning to understand French; I was the woman in the song, a lazy 1920s diva with a cigarette holder and dainty cigarettes who expected a light from insanely beautiful young men. Gogo started to sing the love song to the Egyptian who was on the street below. Her voice husky from the haze that Slinkster was leaving everywhere. I suddenly knew that the diva wasn�t me. I was more the suitor and I longed to run from the bath to light her cigarette. But the water kept me still, chill and comforted, holding my body in place. I was too late anyway. Slinkster had heard her call and wandered over to offer her a light. Even though I could not see them, I know they gazed at one another with love and unrequited want. They knew they should fuck but never would. It wasn�t in the schema.
This summer sublet was granted through karma. I tend to browse bulletin boards at school and hanging there was a sign. Two bedrooms, furnished sublet, no cats, students welcome, Shear Madness Alley. Fate began there in that living room next to the kitchen in the wok.
Gogo�s singing blended with the French Diva�s. I could no longer tell them apart. The Egyptian was yelling from the street. Inviting her to visit his homeland. Did he come every Saturday? Perhaps he was a customer of one of the neighbors whom we heard working mostly at night. They did a big business in lonely Egyptians.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Silly Homeland Security
What will they think of next?
A yellow dancing banana....
Seasame street
Thank you Mistress! May I have another?
What will they think of next?
A yellow dancing banana....
Seasame street
Thank you Mistress! May I have another?
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Friday, September 03, 2004
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Wow, it's been a long time since I posted here!
Since I last posted there have been many changes. GOne through some family medical issues, still on the diet but because of the aforementi9oned issues haven't lost much weight (changing that though)
I had my second residency! Very nice!
Now I am settleing back into life, let's see what it brings shall we?
Since I last posted there have been many changes. GOne through some family medical issues, still on the diet but because of the aforementi9oned issues haven't lost much weight (changing that though)
I had my second residency! Very nice!
Now I am settleing back into life, let's see what it brings shall we?
Monday, May 24, 2004
Teru had this quiz up so I decided to do it too.
1. Grab the book nearest to you. Turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down here what it says:
found. If you too a full outer join ad
Can you tell I am at work...
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?:
A cup with cute little lucky kitties on it
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?:
the Simpsons
4. WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is:
9:15
5. Now look at the clock. What is the actual time?:
9:13
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?:
People typing
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?:
I came in from the car about an hour and 15 minutes ago
8. Before you came to this web site, what did you look at?:
Teru's Blog
9. What are you wearing?
Black pin stripe pants, a short sleeve blue top and a fitted jacket. I have my shoes off
10. Did you dream last night ? What about?:
Ugh, frustration dream. going going going but never getting anywhere
11. When did you last laugh? Why?:
Um, boy that is a tough one
12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Massive book shelves and a photograph I took
13. Seen anything weird lately?:
When I looked in the mirror this morning I thought I looked 40, but then amended that to 50. Thought that was pretty weird
14. What do you think of this quiz?:
I haven't thought, I just do
15. What is the last film you saw?:
OMG I can't remember. How bad is that.... Kill Bill II in the movie theater but I know I've seen something on DVD since then...
16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?:
Hum another toughie... I can't think of a product I would buy... After getting rid of bills (for me and others) I would probably buy a 1973 sour apple green Karmen Ghia with a black rag top
17. Tell me something about you that I don't know:
I like the colour pink. Yup sorry I now out of character but there it is.
18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?:
let everyone live where they want
19. Do you like to dance?:
Yes, sometimes
20. George Bush:
Makes me want to vomit
21a/b. Imagine your first child is a girl/boy. What do you call her/him?:
Girl: Ruth
Boy: Alhan
22. Would you ever consider living abroad?:
Yes please can I move now?
23. Will you pass on this survey?:
I didn't pass on it I took it
1. Grab the book nearest to you. Turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down here what it says:
found. If you too a full outer join ad
Can you tell I am at work...
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?:
A cup with cute little lucky kitties on it
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?:
the Simpsons
4. WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is:
9:15
5. Now look at the clock. What is the actual time?:
9:13
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?:
People typing
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?:
I came in from the car about an hour and 15 minutes ago
8. Before you came to this web site, what did you look at?:
Teru's Blog
9. What are you wearing?
Black pin stripe pants, a short sleeve blue top and a fitted jacket. I have my shoes off
10. Did you dream last night ? What about?:
Ugh, frustration dream. going going going but never getting anywhere
11. When did you last laugh? Why?:
Um, boy that is a tough one
12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Massive book shelves and a photograph I took
13. Seen anything weird lately?:
When I looked in the mirror this morning I thought I looked 40, but then amended that to 50. Thought that was pretty weird
14. What do you think of this quiz?:
I haven't thought, I just do
15. What is the last film you saw?:
OMG I can't remember. How bad is that.... Kill Bill II in the movie theater but I know I've seen something on DVD since then...
16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?:
Hum another toughie... I can't think of a product I would buy... After getting rid of bills (for me and others) I would probably buy a 1973 sour apple green Karmen Ghia with a black rag top
17. Tell me something about you that I don't know:
I like the colour pink. Yup sorry I now out of character but there it is.
18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?:
let everyone live where they want
19. Do you like to dance?:
Yes, sometimes
20. George Bush:
Makes me want to vomit
21a/b. Imagine your first child is a girl/boy. What do you call her/him?:
Girl: Ruth
Boy: Alhan
22. Would you ever consider living abroad?:
Yes please can I move now?
23. Will you pass on this survey?:
I didn't pass on it I took it
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Hi All,
I wrote a chornicle of our trip. It's kinda long but if you are interested I have posted the day by day accound starting with this one.
Be warned I wrote much of this while VERY tired so gramatically it needs help, but my homework calls so I won't get the help it needs. I have also left out a ton of detail but that too will work out some day, perhaps in an addendum or maybe just in my brain. I'll post a link for pics at some point
********************
Travel Day 1 Bound to Austria
Wednesday:
I had planned to go to work Wednesday but didn�t end up making it. Luckily I was pretty much wrapped up at work anyway. I had wanted to call J before we left so I could give her the run down, but there wasn�t enough time.
Got to the Airport at 3:30 for a 6:15 flight. Ended up driving around to the cheap lots only to find both normal ones full. Time was running short and I was upset almost causing a bus to flatten us before we found (with the help of a Massport employee) the super secret 3rd cheap lot where we could park. They expected payment up front when we got there, but they had uniforms on so I do have hopes the car is still there when we get back.
Finally in the airport at 4pm we easily checked in and checked our luggage. The employees where very helpful this time with the check in procedure. Unlike the time we went to Spin. We had to get the box with the equipment and the guitar hand checked by a TSA employee. He was very pleasant, through and quite efficient. Looks like at least one TSA man is a nice guy.
Went through personal security in less then 15 minutes. And their guy there too was super nice, even complementing me on my smile and clothing. Then we only had to wait for a bit over an hour before the flight was boarding. We people watched mostly and after a quick call to my mom, a magazine purchase and a lovely chocolate shake ala McDonalds we were boarding the flight to Amsterdam. We were unfortunate enough to be sitting very far back in the plane. But the lucky part was that it was two seats together. Not the best plane ride. Full of the small annoyances that make getting to and from your destination more of a nightmare than it should be. S did not sleep at all on the plane but I got at least 2 hours off and on. I was determined to sleep actually knowing that if I didn�t at least get some I would be a total wreck.
Thursday:
The time in the Amsterdam airport was quick and efficient. Very clean and organized people those Dutch. We actually had to go out onto the runway to get on the plane to Vienna. Never had to do that before so it was quite exciting. That leg of the trip was run by KLM so there fore it was a much nicer experience then the previous plane. The ride was short, just an hour and a � but I managed to get a bit more sleep in then too.
Landing in Vienna was a bit bumpy but the airport had a small homey feel that was kind of amazing considering the size of Vienna. It was also clean and orderly and our luggage came out so fast it was mind blowing. Sz and her brother T picked us up in the tour van. He drove us back to the apartment where Sz�s family were letting us stay while pointing out all of the major sights of Vienna. The apartment is in the 9th district very near the University and the center of Vienna. Sz�s father owns the building and half of his children reside here. The tram runs right in front of the building but it is very quiet on the street. In the basement there is a man who restores antiques. He has a musical instrument (a base I think), which is from the Mozart museum that he is currently working on. His work fills the entrance hall giving you the feeling you are stepping into a back wing of a museum. Our apartment is on the first floor. The building is stone as are the floors, but the apartment has tile over the stone with under floor heating running between. When you first walk in there is a little hall where you can leave your coat and shoes. In front of you is a small kitchen, which is the perfect size. It has white cabinets and a very large window that looks out onto the back garden. If you turn left you enter an extension of that hallway where there is enough space for a sideboard and other various furniture. The bathroom is accessible by a door on your right. It, like the rest of the apartment, is painted a soft blue and it has an old-fashioned hipbath with a hand shower. As soon as I saw the bath I could not wait to take one. Continuing further to the left is a living room of sorts with an amalgam of left over furniture. A table and chairs, a sofa, lamps etc. Off of this room in the tiny but comfortable bedroom. I have to mention here that the windows in the apartment that face the street are tall and wide with wonderful deep sills. I am already redecorating in my mind. Here is where I would put plants and these are the curtains I would buy etc.
T took us on a tour of the building showing us his apartment and the new bathroom he was very proud of. The building in general was amazing. But Sz's sister M�s apartment was the best one. Situated in the attic it is full of light and of old wooden beams. It was also full of bits and pieces of every kind of art and general bits of interesting projects.
Sz�s dad is here to greet us. He doesn�t speak English but I can see he understands very well, though he seems to pretend not. Like all parents he is ready to make us busy but we are so tired that we have to politely put him off. He does, however, order lunch for us, as it is not around noon on Thursday. The lunch is from a place on the corner and the food is plentiful and amazing. Roasted pork with walnut stuffing, cold cabbage salad and beets. We eat and drink bottled mineral water until we are very full. The family leaves finally allowing us to rest. S falls asleep immediately almost before he hits the bed. I decide to take my bath then, as I am always too aware of the travel dirt to get any rest without washing.
A few hours later rested and washed S comes back and we head out to the market. We buy a few necessities like shaving cream and razors and a few non-necessities like local chocolate wafers and cheese. We go back to snack before meeting her sister M for dinner at a local restaurant. Sz�s sister is much like her though a bit younger. She tells us all about the bike she just bought and helpfully translates the menu for us. The decor was dark with old newspapers and full-sized door decorating the ceiling. S has a local dish blood sausage with sauerkraut and I have sptezel. We both have a very large Viennese beer. The food was very good and the monster portions made it hard to eat the whole thing which was lucky since I am supposed to be dieting, but I did a pretty good job of nearly finishing it anyway. On the way back we soaked in the neighborhood feel knowing we had eaten at a place that didn�t seem many if any) tourists.
We headed back and I told M of our tour of the building she lived in and of seeing her apartment. She asked if her apartment was messy but I told her it wasn�t. After such a full day it was a little hard to go to sleep but it was 10pm Viennese time and we were determined to get over the jet lag and get back on schedule. I had to force myself to sleep but once I did only a few random loud snores and a few trips to the bathroom could wake me up
I wrote a chornicle of our trip. It's kinda long but if you are interested I have posted the day by day accound starting with this one.
Be warned I wrote much of this while VERY tired so gramatically it needs help, but my homework calls so I won't get the help it needs. I have also left out a ton of detail but that too will work out some day, perhaps in an addendum or maybe just in my brain. I'll post a link for pics at some point
********************
Travel Day 1 Bound to Austria
Wednesday:
I had planned to go to work Wednesday but didn�t end up making it. Luckily I was pretty much wrapped up at work anyway. I had wanted to call J before we left so I could give her the run down, but there wasn�t enough time.
Got to the Airport at 3:30 for a 6:15 flight. Ended up driving around to the cheap lots only to find both normal ones full. Time was running short and I was upset almost causing a bus to flatten us before we found (with the help of a Massport employee) the super secret 3rd cheap lot where we could park. They expected payment up front when we got there, but they had uniforms on so I do have hopes the car is still there when we get back.
Finally in the airport at 4pm we easily checked in and checked our luggage. The employees where very helpful this time with the check in procedure. Unlike the time we went to Spin. We had to get the box with the equipment and the guitar hand checked by a TSA employee. He was very pleasant, through and quite efficient. Looks like at least one TSA man is a nice guy.
Went through personal security in less then 15 minutes. And their guy there too was super nice, even complementing me on my smile and clothing. Then we only had to wait for a bit over an hour before the flight was boarding. We people watched mostly and after a quick call to my mom, a magazine purchase and a lovely chocolate shake ala McDonalds we were boarding the flight to Amsterdam. We were unfortunate enough to be sitting very far back in the plane. But the lucky part was that it was two seats together. Not the best plane ride. Full of the small annoyances that make getting to and from your destination more of a nightmare than it should be. S did not sleep at all on the plane but I got at least 2 hours off and on. I was determined to sleep actually knowing that if I didn�t at least get some I would be a total wreck.
Thursday:
The time in the Amsterdam airport was quick and efficient. Very clean and organized people those Dutch. We actually had to go out onto the runway to get on the plane to Vienna. Never had to do that before so it was quite exciting. That leg of the trip was run by KLM so there fore it was a much nicer experience then the previous plane. The ride was short, just an hour and a � but I managed to get a bit more sleep in then too.
Landing in Vienna was a bit bumpy but the airport had a small homey feel that was kind of amazing considering the size of Vienna. It was also clean and orderly and our luggage came out so fast it was mind blowing. Sz and her brother T picked us up in the tour van. He drove us back to the apartment where Sz�s family were letting us stay while pointing out all of the major sights of Vienna. The apartment is in the 9th district very near the University and the center of Vienna. Sz�s father owns the building and half of his children reside here. The tram runs right in front of the building but it is very quiet on the street. In the basement there is a man who restores antiques. He has a musical instrument (a base I think), which is from the Mozart museum that he is currently working on. His work fills the entrance hall giving you the feeling you are stepping into a back wing of a museum. Our apartment is on the first floor. The building is stone as are the floors, but the apartment has tile over the stone with under floor heating running between. When you first walk in there is a little hall where you can leave your coat and shoes. In front of you is a small kitchen, which is the perfect size. It has white cabinets and a very large window that looks out onto the back garden. If you turn left you enter an extension of that hallway where there is enough space for a sideboard and other various furniture. The bathroom is accessible by a door on your right. It, like the rest of the apartment, is painted a soft blue and it has an old-fashioned hipbath with a hand shower. As soon as I saw the bath I could not wait to take one. Continuing further to the left is a living room of sorts with an amalgam of left over furniture. A table and chairs, a sofa, lamps etc. Off of this room in the tiny but comfortable bedroom. I have to mention here that the windows in the apartment that face the street are tall and wide with wonderful deep sills. I am already redecorating in my mind. Here is where I would put plants and these are the curtains I would buy etc.
T took us on a tour of the building showing us his apartment and the new bathroom he was very proud of. The building in general was amazing. But Sz's sister M�s apartment was the best one. Situated in the attic it is full of light and of old wooden beams. It was also full of bits and pieces of every kind of art and general bits of interesting projects.
Sz�s dad is here to greet us. He doesn�t speak English but I can see he understands very well, though he seems to pretend not. Like all parents he is ready to make us busy but we are so tired that we have to politely put him off. He does, however, order lunch for us, as it is not around noon on Thursday. The lunch is from a place on the corner and the food is plentiful and amazing. Roasted pork with walnut stuffing, cold cabbage salad and beets. We eat and drink bottled mineral water until we are very full. The family leaves finally allowing us to rest. S falls asleep immediately almost before he hits the bed. I decide to take my bath then, as I am always too aware of the travel dirt to get any rest without washing.
A few hours later rested and washed S comes back and we head out to the market. We buy a few necessities like shaving cream and razors and a few non-necessities like local chocolate wafers and cheese. We go back to snack before meeting her sister M for dinner at a local restaurant. Sz�s sister is much like her though a bit younger. She tells us all about the bike she just bought and helpfully translates the menu for us. The decor was dark with old newspapers and full-sized door decorating the ceiling. S has a local dish blood sausage with sauerkraut and I have sptezel. We both have a very large Viennese beer. The food was very good and the monster portions made it hard to eat the whole thing which was lucky since I am supposed to be dieting, but I did a pretty good job of nearly finishing it anyway. On the way back we soaked in the neighborhood feel knowing we had eaten at a place that didn�t seem many if any) tourists.
We headed back and I told M of our tour of the building she lived in and of seeing her apartment. She asked if her apartment was messy but I told her it wasn�t. After such a full day it was a little hard to go to sleep but it was 10pm Viennese time and we were determined to get over the jet lag and get back on schedule. I had to force myself to sleep but once I did only a few random loud snores and a few trips to the bathroom could wake me up
Travel Day 2 Equipment, Family and Sightseeing
Friday:
I awoke at 6 but lay in bed for a long time thinking over the two days before and not quite wanting to get out of bed and start the day. I knew today would be busy as I was warned that we would be going to the music store to buy some equipment and then going sight seeing. We got ready fairly leisurely and ate very little. By 9am it was time for Sz, S, M and I to take the tram to the pharmacy Sz�s dad owns to meet T for the ride out to the music store. I had no idea the drive would be so long. T had mentioned that he had wanted to get back to the store by noon and it was almost 10:30 by the time we got out there. Sz�s father was there to meet us and S, T and Sz�s dad reviewed the choices for some time. Sz and I talked with her mom who had also come along for the ride.
It took quite a while but they were finally set and as T bought the equipment S, Sz and I went next door to a little pancake house to eat breakfast. Sz and I had warms buns with butter, marmalade and honey. I had hot cocoa and she had tea. S had eggs and bacon with coke light. SZ went with her parents to their home to get some things she had left there. T told us we would pick up M (who we had dropped at another store earlier) and we would go into the city. Some cell phone conversation between the music store and picking up M had us suddenly going to Sz�s parents home to pick her up.
Their house is on the outskirts of Vienna in a beautiful area. It is very large and old and made of massive stone. The inside is cool and moist and smells of courthouses and libraries. There is almost no describing the contents of the house. Think perhaps of an eccentric aunt who has lived in her house since she was born and now she is the only one left of thirteen and all of her stuff plus all of the memories of her siblings fill the house to the seems. This house is much like that but the theme is even more interesting. Sz�s father collects owls so many fill his study walls and shelves. His study, which is on the first floor, consists of two rooms paneled ion mahogany and darkened by velvet curtains. There are several rooms and floors, all of which are interesting and homey. S and I were able to check our email and I was able to send a quick message to family and friends letting them know we were safe and enjoying ourselves. Like all parents Sz�s mom sent us off packing eggs and ham and an assortment of food items meant to fortify us the next morning.
T drove S and Sz and I back into the city and dropped us off near the center at a museum of medical history called the Josaphinum. This museum is quiet out of the way but it was well worth the visit. We got there at 1:30 and the museum closed at two but it was plenty of time to see the impressive wax figures highlighting all and parts of the human body. . There was a whole wing devoted to these wax sculptures and the detail was both gory and fascinating.
From there Sz took us first by tram then by U to Stephensdom, which is a huge cathedral in the center of Vienna. The platz was warm and sunny shining on the hair and heads of the thousands of people, tourists mostly, who filled the square. There were many caped Austrians offering tours but we bypassed these people and the living statues and headed straight for the doors. I made a small donation of 1.5 euros as we entered. The inside was very large and dark and equally filled with tourists. There were candles for offer off to the right and a huge alter way in the front. Sz showed us the staircase with the frogs carved into the railing. They had long since been covered with a protective plastic case, but when she was a child she remembers touching them and wondering at their smoothness. We walked around the entire cathedral on the inside and repeated that on the outside as well. Parked next to the cathedral was a double row of hors draw carriages down one its entire length. I felt sorry for the poor animals who must have had to stand there for hours on a slow tourist day.
From the cathedral we went down an uncrowned side street to a caf� Sue hung out in as a teen. The atmosphere was much the same as the neighborhood bar we ate in the night before. It was dark and paneled and locals of all levels sat and drank and smoked. S light up a cigarette and we all ordered coffee. Sz and I had ours with whipped cream and sugar. S had what turned out to be the biggest double espresso in existence. It was a nice quiet break from the crowd and renewed us enough to then go out and search for the ubiquitous Kaueserkreiner which we found from a stand not far from the cathedral.
Ubiquitous though they might be, those cheese filled hot dogs could be a staple of my existence. I have tasted nothing so cheese and gooey and filled with yummy spices as that humble dog. We walked down the pedestrian mall where I bought a few required gifts and then headed for home on the U.
We ended up missing our stop and hopped what we thought was the next train back, but turned out to be a different line. Un daunted we rode that one to another one where I got to see the funky building all decked out in tile and copper that is the towns garbage and recycling center. It is famous for being so ugly but I found it whimsical and cool and I was glad we had missed out stop. We got of the U to catch the tram but were one stop too far so we figured out where the Tram we wanted was and walked to it stopping for gelato on the way.
Exhausted we were back at the apartment at 5:30 pm hoping to rest up until M�s birthday party, which was to being at 8. S napped while I read a book for class called �I, The Divine�. The book was totally engrossing. I sat under the open window listening to the sounds of Vienna reclining in a chair. I stayed that way until 7:30pm when I woke S up. We were expecting Sz to come down any minute and announce our departure for her sister�s party. It wasn�t until 8:30 that Sz arrived and her brother T and the rest of us did a set up and sound check of the new equipment. We then loaded everything into the car and went to the party ready to serenade M with the sounds of a little RobotZen. It was to be our first show in Europe and it was at a club called The Blue Tomato. The club was on a tiny side street in the 9th district. Catering mostly to a college age crowd. The club had a few rooms but we were to play in the far back room. We set up quickly letting the DJ know what we needed as to sound etc. We had to plug in using guitar cables instead of the regular cables so the direct boxes were out. Sz�s whole family was there and the show went very well. They asked for encore after encore until we ran out of songs.
T and Sz took the equipment, and us back to the apartment where we went right to bed to be able to get up at 6am in order to go on the Slovakian leg of our Eastern Block tour.
Friday:
I awoke at 6 but lay in bed for a long time thinking over the two days before and not quite wanting to get out of bed and start the day. I knew today would be busy as I was warned that we would be going to the music store to buy some equipment and then going sight seeing. We got ready fairly leisurely and ate very little. By 9am it was time for Sz, S, M and I to take the tram to the pharmacy Sz�s dad owns to meet T for the ride out to the music store. I had no idea the drive would be so long. T had mentioned that he had wanted to get back to the store by noon and it was almost 10:30 by the time we got out there. Sz�s father was there to meet us and S, T and Sz�s dad reviewed the choices for some time. Sz and I talked with her mom who had also come along for the ride.
It took quite a while but they were finally set and as T bought the equipment S, Sz and I went next door to a little pancake house to eat breakfast. Sz and I had warms buns with butter, marmalade and honey. I had hot cocoa and she had tea. S had eggs and bacon with coke light. SZ went with her parents to their home to get some things she had left there. T told us we would pick up M (who we had dropped at another store earlier) and we would go into the city. Some cell phone conversation between the music store and picking up M had us suddenly going to Sz�s parents home to pick her up.
Their house is on the outskirts of Vienna in a beautiful area. It is very large and old and made of massive stone. The inside is cool and moist and smells of courthouses and libraries. There is almost no describing the contents of the house. Think perhaps of an eccentric aunt who has lived in her house since she was born and now she is the only one left of thirteen and all of her stuff plus all of the memories of her siblings fill the house to the seems. This house is much like that but the theme is even more interesting. Sz�s father collects owls so many fill his study walls and shelves. His study, which is on the first floor, consists of two rooms paneled ion mahogany and darkened by velvet curtains. There are several rooms and floors, all of which are interesting and homey. S and I were able to check our email and I was able to send a quick message to family and friends letting them know we were safe and enjoying ourselves. Like all parents Sz�s mom sent us off packing eggs and ham and an assortment of food items meant to fortify us the next morning.
T drove S and Sz and I back into the city and dropped us off near the center at a museum of medical history called the Josaphinum. This museum is quiet out of the way but it was well worth the visit. We got there at 1:30 and the museum closed at two but it was plenty of time to see the impressive wax figures highlighting all and parts of the human body. . There was a whole wing devoted to these wax sculptures and the detail was both gory and fascinating.
From there Sz took us first by tram then by U to Stephensdom, which is a huge cathedral in the center of Vienna. The platz was warm and sunny shining on the hair and heads of the thousands of people, tourists mostly, who filled the square. There were many caped Austrians offering tours but we bypassed these people and the living statues and headed straight for the doors. I made a small donation of 1.5 euros as we entered. The inside was very large and dark and equally filled with tourists. There were candles for offer off to the right and a huge alter way in the front. Sz showed us the staircase with the frogs carved into the railing. They had long since been covered with a protective plastic case, but when she was a child she remembers touching them and wondering at their smoothness. We walked around the entire cathedral on the inside and repeated that on the outside as well. Parked next to the cathedral was a double row of hors draw carriages down one its entire length. I felt sorry for the poor animals who must have had to stand there for hours on a slow tourist day.
From the cathedral we went down an uncrowned side street to a caf� Sue hung out in as a teen. The atmosphere was much the same as the neighborhood bar we ate in the night before. It was dark and paneled and locals of all levels sat and drank and smoked. S light up a cigarette and we all ordered coffee. Sz and I had ours with whipped cream and sugar. S had what turned out to be the biggest double espresso in existence. It was a nice quiet break from the crowd and renewed us enough to then go out and search for the ubiquitous Kaueserkreiner which we found from a stand not far from the cathedral.
Ubiquitous though they might be, those cheese filled hot dogs could be a staple of my existence. I have tasted nothing so cheese and gooey and filled with yummy spices as that humble dog. We walked down the pedestrian mall where I bought a few required gifts and then headed for home on the U.
We ended up missing our stop and hopped what we thought was the next train back, but turned out to be a different line. Un daunted we rode that one to another one where I got to see the funky building all decked out in tile and copper that is the towns garbage and recycling center. It is famous for being so ugly but I found it whimsical and cool and I was glad we had missed out stop. We got of the U to catch the tram but were one stop too far so we figured out where the Tram we wanted was and walked to it stopping for gelato on the way.
Exhausted we were back at the apartment at 5:30 pm hoping to rest up until M�s birthday party, which was to being at 8. S napped while I read a book for class called �I, The Divine�. The book was totally engrossing. I sat under the open window listening to the sounds of Vienna reclining in a chair. I stayed that way until 7:30pm when I woke S up. We were expecting Sz to come down any minute and announce our departure for her sister�s party. It wasn�t until 8:30 that Sz arrived and her brother T and the rest of us did a set up and sound check of the new equipment. We then loaded everything into the car and went to the party ready to serenade M with the sounds of a little RobotZen. It was to be our first show in Europe and it was at a club called The Blue Tomato. The club was on a tiny side street in the 9th district. Catering mostly to a college age crowd. The club had a few rooms but we were to play in the far back room. We set up quickly letting the DJ know what we needed as to sound etc. We had to plug in using guitar cables instead of the regular cables so the direct boxes were out. Sz�s whole family was there and the show went very well. They asked for encore after encore until we ran out of songs.
T and Sz took the equipment, and us back to the apartment where we went right to bed to be able to get up at 6am in order to go on the Slovakian leg of our Eastern Block tour.
Travel Day 3 Slovakia
Saturday:
The alarm went off at 6 it had been a rough night for sleep. I had to keep waking S up asking him to turn over. The trip had affected his sinuses more then usual and his snoring was very loud. And since I was probably much over tired I found it hard to stay asleep. I finally ended up on a tiny hard couch in the living room with my feet propped up and out to the side by one of the dining chairs. I slept for a good two hours this way. S was kind enough to let me move to the bed and got up to take the first shower. I slept for 15 more minutes much grateful for the extra sleep. I spied T out of the window at exactly 7. He had told us the previous day that we were giving a ride to a carpenter and his girlfriend to their newly acquired house in Hungary. The carpenter J is a restorer of antiques and uses the basement of the apartment building to ply his trade. His girlfriend M does a few chores and general cleanup for the building. They are both very nice but speak no English. They seem to be moving as the amount of stuff they have is more then slightly incredible. They load then we load and the whole Motley crew of us (J, M the band and the band manager T) are off leaving Vienna behind and off through Hungary to Slovakia.
The ride through the city is beautiful. Early on a Saturday morning no one is out and you can see the city for the clean and orderly place it is. T becomes guide again and points out sights along the way. After forty minutes of driving we arrive at a fill station where we eat a buffet breakfast and I accidentally discover that no one locks the doors of the bathroom stalls. But they seem not to mind being interrupted either. I was the only one who was startled apparently. The day turned rainy quickly and I did not envy t his huge driving task in such nasty weather. I thought several times to ask if he wanted a break but I got too frightened by the possibility of trying to drive in a place where I didn�t understand the road signs. I am sure I could have figured it out though.
After several hours of driving we reached the village home of J and M. Their house was outside of a tiny town tucked up onto a rather steep hill. There are several houses in a row like this looking down onto the road. Their stuff is wondrously heavy, but we manage to help them as much as we can. Their bathroom it an outhouse but the outhouse is not yet functional. I count my blessings that I have not drunk anything much as of yet today. S, however, goes to find some plants in their yard that need watering. The countryside here is beautiful. Wide stretches of farm land almost glowing green in the spring rain. Tiny old villages with stone houses and little old ladies riding ancient bicycles. For me it is completely foreign, something that would come out of an old movie. But it still has the feeling of home. Perhaps it is the farmland and the new green plants.
We make it to Budapest but it is not our destination for today. Out concert here is not until tomorrow. Today we must just go through and travel on to a medium sized town in Slovakia. It is still three hours away. By this time we�ve dropped M and J off in Budapest. They needed to get their car and drive it back to their village and it seems to be tucked away somewhere in the city. The land flows quickly past the window. We go past towns and villages separated by farmland. The landscape changes slowly. By the time we make the Slovakian boarder it is more hilly and even though it is still raining one can sense it is a bit more arid.
The boarder crossing turns into an event. Unlike the Hungarian boarder that we had gone through earlier, the Slovakian boarder has no line. We drive right up but they take a long long time to think about our passports. Finally they ask t to kill the engine and then to explain why we have blankets over our things. When we had parked to get a bit of a snack he had done it for the safety of the equipment. They ask how much it is worth and he tells them to us a lot but to someone else, who knows. They seem to have to get some sort of manager and he comes and in seconds waves us through. We continue and then see the people who have set up the show. They have come to meet us at the boarder to lead us to the gallery. T looks back and sees another official waving crazily at us. He backs up and we realize we had only made it past the Hungarian officials. We now hove to be scrutinized by the Slovakian guy. He is upset we went through without stopping. T explains that he thought the other guy told us to go, because he had. The Slovakian official puffs like a rooster and tells us to pull over to the side. He takes a lot of time sitting and smoking in his booth and letting the three cars that have now crowded behind us go on without even a cursory glance. Finally the people we have come to meet come up and T and the official and they all talk. They try and joke with him. Making a point that on May 1st this boarder crossing will be gone and that they will all be a part of the EU. They tell him even this part, which is now Slovakia will actually be Hungary again having been wrongly split off, from the country in WWI. He finally tosses out passports at T and we are off. The excitement wasn�t all that pleasant but we are through it and we drive off with heightened moods ready to explore this new country.
Our new hosts to a castle that has a bust of a Hungarian freedom fighter out front take us. Mustache rubbing and belly patting punctuate explanations of important history. Am I mistaken or does our host resemble the bust just a little bit. We pile back into the van and our three guides pile into their car and we are taken to a local winery to have a wine tasting. The wine is white and sweet, though there are several types. All are made from local grapes whose vines cover the hillsides. We are shown everything including underground caverns where the wine is stored and teased about buying several cases to bring home. I could not imagine how much the wine might be and aside from that we have no way to transport it home. S and I discuss and we think that if one bottle is not too much we will buy one and drink it with the family on Monday. We ask and they tell us the prince in Slovakian money, which T tells us, is about 2 euros. Yeah. We have no Slovakian money but lucky for us they would gladly accept Euros. We buy one bottle for ourselves and another bottle as a present to Sz�s mother and father. All told it comes out to about 9 euros. T then buys a bottle as well and we end up giving him 15 euros, which is about 4 euros more, then the charge but he has no change and we are not concerned.
Happy and VERY full of wine (we did have to try every vintage of everything after all) we then make out way to the home of the hosts. It is in another little village a short distance away. The wife/mother has laid out a spread of snacks for us. The husband shows us his modern rather colorful and moving paintings and the weird but wonderful pastel and pen and ink drawings of his oldest daughter C who has set this whole evening up for us. The food is quite wonderful. She has set out delicate little pastries and some lovely little sandwiches that have fresh butter and ham and radishes. We eat as much as we can S and I both familiar with the custom of eating as much as a grown up offers you. Everything is obviously homemade and we don�t want to disappoint her. But there is no need to force ourselves since the food is so wonderful.
We are then quickly off to the gallery. It is in an old building much like a town hall. The gallery is really quite impressive. Someone has taken a great deal of time in the making of it. The paintings are wonderful though I don�t have as much time as I�d like to examine them. There is only an hour until the show so we set up and sound check as quickly as we can. We have an avid audience for the sound check which is something entirely new for us.
C the journalist introduces us. S and I have little idea as to what she is saying since we speak zero Hungarian but the crowd warms properly and we go on to applause. The set went well though a little rough for me as I made a couple of mistakes. Sz seems a bit nervous at first but gets over it. It is certainly weird to look out at the crowded room full of everything from 7-year-old girls and teenaged boys to old men. The room is also very bright. It was like performing at noon at a family reunion. They ask us for two encores and then C requests we reply Black Swan, as it is her favorite. Finally I close the computer and then the crowd gets to ask us questions with Sz and T translating. It was very surreal but really quite friendly.
After the concert we tried to hurry and strike the show at it was now 8:30 and the restaurant in town closed at 9pm. We were prevented from striking by a line of young and old who expected us to sign CDs. S had decided to just give away the CDs and we set out 30 all of which were snapped up and all of which we eventually signed. Finally at 9 exactly we were in the van with one of the organizers and went to the restaurant. We found when we got there that he was actually the mayor of the town. RobotZen meets and dines with the mayor. We had a before dinner toast with hard liquor and then ordered not off of the menu but by the recommendation of the lady of the house. Beer or wine is also traditional so we had that to. The conversation meandered through art and politics and back to art. Most of which Sz and T translated for us but some of it passed us by. Though I was convinced if I had another couple of drinks my Hungarian would have been very good.
After dinner we went to the apartment they had set up for us to stay in. It was dark and I didn�t notice the building as we went in but the apartment on the third floor of a 5 story building was clean and had everything we would need the most important of which was a bed because after all of that alcohol and the lovely chicken we ended up eating a bed was all I really wanted.
Saturday:
The alarm went off at 6 it had been a rough night for sleep. I had to keep waking S up asking him to turn over. The trip had affected his sinuses more then usual and his snoring was very loud. And since I was probably much over tired I found it hard to stay asleep. I finally ended up on a tiny hard couch in the living room with my feet propped up and out to the side by one of the dining chairs. I slept for a good two hours this way. S was kind enough to let me move to the bed and got up to take the first shower. I slept for 15 more minutes much grateful for the extra sleep. I spied T out of the window at exactly 7. He had told us the previous day that we were giving a ride to a carpenter and his girlfriend to their newly acquired house in Hungary. The carpenter J is a restorer of antiques and uses the basement of the apartment building to ply his trade. His girlfriend M does a few chores and general cleanup for the building. They are both very nice but speak no English. They seem to be moving as the amount of stuff they have is more then slightly incredible. They load then we load and the whole Motley crew of us (J, M the band and the band manager T) are off leaving Vienna behind and off through Hungary to Slovakia.
The ride through the city is beautiful. Early on a Saturday morning no one is out and you can see the city for the clean and orderly place it is. T becomes guide again and points out sights along the way. After forty minutes of driving we arrive at a fill station where we eat a buffet breakfast and I accidentally discover that no one locks the doors of the bathroom stalls. But they seem not to mind being interrupted either. I was the only one who was startled apparently. The day turned rainy quickly and I did not envy t his huge driving task in such nasty weather. I thought several times to ask if he wanted a break but I got too frightened by the possibility of trying to drive in a place where I didn�t understand the road signs. I am sure I could have figured it out though.
After several hours of driving we reached the village home of J and M. Their house was outside of a tiny town tucked up onto a rather steep hill. There are several houses in a row like this looking down onto the road. Their stuff is wondrously heavy, but we manage to help them as much as we can. Their bathroom it an outhouse but the outhouse is not yet functional. I count my blessings that I have not drunk anything much as of yet today. S, however, goes to find some plants in their yard that need watering. The countryside here is beautiful. Wide stretches of farm land almost glowing green in the spring rain. Tiny old villages with stone houses and little old ladies riding ancient bicycles. For me it is completely foreign, something that would come out of an old movie. But it still has the feeling of home. Perhaps it is the farmland and the new green plants.
We make it to Budapest but it is not our destination for today. Out concert here is not until tomorrow. Today we must just go through and travel on to a medium sized town in Slovakia. It is still three hours away. By this time we�ve dropped M and J off in Budapest. They needed to get their car and drive it back to their village and it seems to be tucked away somewhere in the city. The land flows quickly past the window. We go past towns and villages separated by farmland. The landscape changes slowly. By the time we make the Slovakian boarder it is more hilly and even though it is still raining one can sense it is a bit more arid.
The boarder crossing turns into an event. Unlike the Hungarian boarder that we had gone through earlier, the Slovakian boarder has no line. We drive right up but they take a long long time to think about our passports. Finally they ask t to kill the engine and then to explain why we have blankets over our things. When we had parked to get a bit of a snack he had done it for the safety of the equipment. They ask how much it is worth and he tells them to us a lot but to someone else, who knows. They seem to have to get some sort of manager and he comes and in seconds waves us through. We continue and then see the people who have set up the show. They have come to meet us at the boarder to lead us to the gallery. T looks back and sees another official waving crazily at us. He backs up and we realize we had only made it past the Hungarian officials. We now hove to be scrutinized by the Slovakian guy. He is upset we went through without stopping. T explains that he thought the other guy told us to go, because he had. The Slovakian official puffs like a rooster and tells us to pull over to the side. He takes a lot of time sitting and smoking in his booth and letting the three cars that have now crowded behind us go on without even a cursory glance. Finally the people we have come to meet come up and T and the official and they all talk. They try and joke with him. Making a point that on May 1st this boarder crossing will be gone and that they will all be a part of the EU. They tell him even this part, which is now Slovakia will actually be Hungary again having been wrongly split off, from the country in WWI. He finally tosses out passports at T and we are off. The excitement wasn�t all that pleasant but we are through it and we drive off with heightened moods ready to explore this new country.
Our new hosts to a castle that has a bust of a Hungarian freedom fighter out front take us. Mustache rubbing and belly patting punctuate explanations of important history. Am I mistaken or does our host resemble the bust just a little bit. We pile back into the van and our three guides pile into their car and we are taken to a local winery to have a wine tasting. The wine is white and sweet, though there are several types. All are made from local grapes whose vines cover the hillsides. We are shown everything including underground caverns where the wine is stored and teased about buying several cases to bring home. I could not imagine how much the wine might be and aside from that we have no way to transport it home. S and I discuss and we think that if one bottle is not too much we will buy one and drink it with the family on Monday. We ask and they tell us the prince in Slovakian money, which T tells us, is about 2 euros. Yeah. We have no Slovakian money but lucky for us they would gladly accept Euros. We buy one bottle for ourselves and another bottle as a present to Sz�s mother and father. All told it comes out to about 9 euros. T then buys a bottle as well and we end up giving him 15 euros, which is about 4 euros more, then the charge but he has no change and we are not concerned.
Happy and VERY full of wine (we did have to try every vintage of everything after all) we then make out way to the home of the hosts. It is in another little village a short distance away. The wife/mother has laid out a spread of snacks for us. The husband shows us his modern rather colorful and moving paintings and the weird but wonderful pastel and pen and ink drawings of his oldest daughter C who has set this whole evening up for us. The food is quite wonderful. She has set out delicate little pastries and some lovely little sandwiches that have fresh butter and ham and radishes. We eat as much as we can S and I both familiar with the custom of eating as much as a grown up offers you. Everything is obviously homemade and we don�t want to disappoint her. But there is no need to force ourselves since the food is so wonderful.
We are then quickly off to the gallery. It is in an old building much like a town hall. The gallery is really quite impressive. Someone has taken a great deal of time in the making of it. The paintings are wonderful though I don�t have as much time as I�d like to examine them. There is only an hour until the show so we set up and sound check as quickly as we can. We have an avid audience for the sound check which is something entirely new for us.
C the journalist introduces us. S and I have little idea as to what she is saying since we speak zero Hungarian but the crowd warms properly and we go on to applause. The set went well though a little rough for me as I made a couple of mistakes. Sz seems a bit nervous at first but gets over it. It is certainly weird to look out at the crowded room full of everything from 7-year-old girls and teenaged boys to old men. The room is also very bright. It was like performing at noon at a family reunion. They ask us for two encores and then C requests we reply Black Swan, as it is her favorite. Finally I close the computer and then the crowd gets to ask us questions with Sz and T translating. It was very surreal but really quite friendly.
After the concert we tried to hurry and strike the show at it was now 8:30 and the restaurant in town closed at 9pm. We were prevented from striking by a line of young and old who expected us to sign CDs. S had decided to just give away the CDs and we set out 30 all of which were snapped up and all of which we eventually signed. Finally at 9 exactly we were in the van with one of the organizers and went to the restaurant. We found when we got there that he was actually the mayor of the town. RobotZen meets and dines with the mayor. We had a before dinner toast with hard liquor and then ordered not off of the menu but by the recommendation of the lady of the house. Beer or wine is also traditional so we had that to. The conversation meandered through art and politics and back to art. Most of which Sz and T translated for us but some of it passed us by. Though I was convinced if I had another couple of drinks my Hungarian would have been very good.
After dinner we went to the apartment they had set up for us to stay in. It was dark and I didn�t notice the building as we went in but the apartment on the third floor of a 5 story building was clean and had everything we would need the most important of which was a bed because after all of that alcohol and the lovely chicken we ended up eating a bed was all I really wanted.
Travel Day 4 Budapest
Sunday:
The rain seems to have stopped but the clouds persist. I woke up with what could be a really bad sore throat but I tired not to think of it as I showered and got ready. I hear that others are up not out of their rooms. I got ready quickly hoping to do some homework before we leave. I chose a nice spot in the kitchen of the apartment to sit and write and stare out of the window. S showers and Sz and T go to get the van, which was, parked some distance away in a safer neighborhood.
The bell rings and there is a man at the door. T and Sz are still gone so S and I mime through a situation that tells him to come back later when T gets back and he can have the key to the apartment. I am still amazed at the capacity people have for understanding even with a language barrier. Lucky for us Sz and T get back as the man in leaving. He helps us load our stuff and we are off to the home of C and her family.
We find out on the way there that they have made us breakfast. Nothing we expected of course but considering the warm welcome and care we have received thus far we should have expected nothing left. By the time we get there my throat is in a terrible state. Luckily there seems to be a Hungarian tradition to drink a bit of plum cordial before eating breakfast. It has almost no taste it is so strong and after the first sip, which travels simultaneously up my nose and down to my belly, I can no longer feel anything in my throat.
Breakfast was amazing. More of the pastries from the day before were laid out for us to eat plus some eggs with mushrooms and some cold sausage. Also there is bread with a red pepper spread, which I would love to have the recipe for, as it was nothing like I have ever tasted. Later there is also bread with a thin brown spread, which turns out to be duck liver but none like I have ever tasted. The host also insists that we drink from his private stock of wine. Wine for breakfast is not something we are used to but it was so wonderful and fruity. It turns out it is their own wine and he will not let us leave without trying a few of the vintages. S, ever polite, drinks half a bottle at least. All of it in small �tastes� and all of it with a certain gusto. After breakfast C who works as a journalist interviews us. Most of the questions are not translated as Sz just handles them but a few are and we answer trying to be simple but profound (if there is such a thing) knowing some will be lost in translation.
We are shown memorabilia of the father�s art career and we discuss art and how in Hungary all artists drink at breakfast. There is much exciting hugging and kissing and goodbye punctuated by a 2-liter bottle of wine thrust at us as we leave. I know this will not get through customs in the US so we will have to find some time to drink more before we go.
Tired and more then a little drunk we pile into the van an T takes us out of Slovakia (no hassle at the boarder this time) and on into Hungary where we will stop at their relatives before going on to the World Hungary After Party to play our final Eastern Block gig.
**********
The drive was long. It did rain and all of us slept some, except T who drove and drove. We went to Sz and T�s cousin�s house, which was outside Budapest, where they were waiting with a late lunch. M was nice and speaks English very well. He has 3 beautiful children a 7 year old boy a 6 year old girl and a 1 month old baby. We stayed there a bit then drove on to another cousin where we were to spend the night. We basically dropped our stuff off, met everyone and went to the club.
The club was in the university district of Budapest. It was medium sized with a fairly large stage. We did not unload the equipment as it was only 6:30 and we didn�t plan on sticking around until 10 when our time slot was supposed to begin. We talked to the soundman in Hungarian and English and he told us our set up would work and be very easy for him (and for us). We went back to the van and M (the cousin) asked us what we would like to see. We went first to a beautiful (and huge) church. It was more impressive than Stephonsdome in Vienna not only because it was larger but because it was alive with people all worshiping. Next we went all around the city seeing all of the major sites all pointed out by M. It was pretty tiring but it was very nice to see the city. We tried to stop for coffee but the first place was closing so we went off to another. S had a few problems and was getting pretty tired, but we all were. Finally off to the club again. It was only 9:00pm and the first band was on. They were a pretty funky mix of a number of different instruments and sounded really good to me. The next band was a crazy threesome. The girl was a drummer and was Hungarian and the guitarist was American and took off pieces of clothing as he went along. They had a few songs that were really interesting but on the whole I was not a fan. The band on just before us went really long. And I was definitely not enjoying them. By this time I was really tired and worried about S because he had been feeling ill since just before we had coffee. We FINALLY went on at 11:45 (note that they told us we were supposed to be on at 10). S only wanted to play 4 songs but after the first couple we just kept going. The crowd (at least the ones that were left) really enjoyed it. We sold 1 CD, I gave 2 away and we were asked for an encore. Sz was GREAT her voice was very ON and she moved and danced quite a bit. I didn�t even seem to make any mistakes with the looping.
We drove back to the cousins� house and didn�t get to bed until 2am. S had to shower and I had to read a bit before we were both calm enough to sleep in our separate child sized beds.
Sunday:
The rain seems to have stopped but the clouds persist. I woke up with what could be a really bad sore throat but I tired not to think of it as I showered and got ready. I hear that others are up not out of their rooms. I got ready quickly hoping to do some homework before we leave. I chose a nice spot in the kitchen of the apartment to sit and write and stare out of the window. S showers and Sz and T go to get the van, which was, parked some distance away in a safer neighborhood.
The bell rings and there is a man at the door. T and Sz are still gone so S and I mime through a situation that tells him to come back later when T gets back and he can have the key to the apartment. I am still amazed at the capacity people have for understanding even with a language barrier. Lucky for us Sz and T get back as the man in leaving. He helps us load our stuff and we are off to the home of C and her family.
We find out on the way there that they have made us breakfast. Nothing we expected of course but considering the warm welcome and care we have received thus far we should have expected nothing left. By the time we get there my throat is in a terrible state. Luckily there seems to be a Hungarian tradition to drink a bit of plum cordial before eating breakfast. It has almost no taste it is so strong and after the first sip, which travels simultaneously up my nose and down to my belly, I can no longer feel anything in my throat.
Breakfast was amazing. More of the pastries from the day before were laid out for us to eat plus some eggs with mushrooms and some cold sausage. Also there is bread with a red pepper spread, which I would love to have the recipe for, as it was nothing like I have ever tasted. Later there is also bread with a thin brown spread, which turns out to be duck liver but none like I have ever tasted. The host also insists that we drink from his private stock of wine. Wine for breakfast is not something we are used to but it was so wonderful and fruity. It turns out it is their own wine and he will not let us leave without trying a few of the vintages. S, ever polite, drinks half a bottle at least. All of it in small �tastes� and all of it with a certain gusto. After breakfast C who works as a journalist interviews us. Most of the questions are not translated as Sz just handles them but a few are and we answer trying to be simple but profound (if there is such a thing) knowing some will be lost in translation.
We are shown memorabilia of the father�s art career and we discuss art and how in Hungary all artists drink at breakfast. There is much exciting hugging and kissing and goodbye punctuated by a 2-liter bottle of wine thrust at us as we leave. I know this will not get through customs in the US so we will have to find some time to drink more before we go.
Tired and more then a little drunk we pile into the van an T takes us out of Slovakia (no hassle at the boarder this time) and on into Hungary where we will stop at their relatives before going on to the World Hungary After Party to play our final Eastern Block gig.
**********
The drive was long. It did rain and all of us slept some, except T who drove and drove. We went to Sz and T�s cousin�s house, which was outside Budapest, where they were waiting with a late lunch. M was nice and speaks English very well. He has 3 beautiful children a 7 year old boy a 6 year old girl and a 1 month old baby. We stayed there a bit then drove on to another cousin where we were to spend the night. We basically dropped our stuff off, met everyone and went to the club.
The club was in the university district of Budapest. It was medium sized with a fairly large stage. We did not unload the equipment as it was only 6:30 and we didn�t plan on sticking around until 10 when our time slot was supposed to begin. We talked to the soundman in Hungarian and English and he told us our set up would work and be very easy for him (and for us). We went back to the van and M (the cousin) asked us what we would like to see. We went first to a beautiful (and huge) church. It was more impressive than Stephonsdome in Vienna not only because it was larger but because it was alive with people all worshiping. Next we went all around the city seeing all of the major sites all pointed out by M. It was pretty tiring but it was very nice to see the city. We tried to stop for coffee but the first place was closing so we went off to another. S had a few problems and was getting pretty tired, but we all were. Finally off to the club again. It was only 9:00pm and the first band was on. They were a pretty funky mix of a number of different instruments and sounded really good to me. The next band was a crazy threesome. The girl was a drummer and was Hungarian and the guitarist was American and took off pieces of clothing as he went along. They had a few songs that were really interesting but on the whole I was not a fan. The band on just before us went really long. And I was definitely not enjoying them. By this time I was really tired and worried about S because he had been feeling ill since just before we had coffee. We FINALLY went on at 11:45 (note that they told us we were supposed to be on at 10). S only wanted to play 4 songs but after the first couple we just kept going. The crowd (at least the ones that were left) really enjoyed it. We sold 1 CD, I gave 2 away and we were asked for an encore. Sz was GREAT her voice was very ON and she moved and danced quite a bit. I didn�t even seem to make any mistakes with the looping.
We drove back to the cousins� house and didn�t get to bed until 2am. S had to shower and I had to read a bit before we were both calm enough to sleep in our separate child sized beds.
Travel Day 5 Back to Vienna
Monday:
Up at 7am to shower and then read a bit. I almost finished my book but wanted to save some for the ride so I took a shower. Their gust bathroom is very nice though it is difficult to shower without getting the entire floor wet. S showers again and we wait and listen for Sz and T upstairs before we too go up to eat breakfast. It�s quite a feast. It�s clear the kids are at school and the data at work but cousin mom is home with her 1 month old. We get rolling again around 9:30 for the long drive back.
Before we leave Budapest we stop at one of the largest warehouse stores I have ever seen. Inside we buy a few gifts and sundry items including this cheesecake desert, which I eat, three of and feel like if they sold them in the US I would be very very very fat indeed. T gets a kind of cherry soda that looks quite interesting. As we drive off he points out an apartment his wife B used to live in (she is from Budapest).
We all sleep some (even T I suspect) and get over the boarder with no hassles, We all comment again how in just a few days the boarder won�t even be here. Vienna traffic is like that of any large city so we slowly make our way into the city center then to the apartment building where they live and we have been staying. I am reminded again how much like family they�ve made us feel.
S and I rest a bit and then pack up our stuff as we are leaving the next morning. Almost all of the clothes are dirty so it makes packing easy, as I don�t care at all of wrinkles or if the dirty shoes touch the clothes. I fill my backpack full of the food and other souvenirs we�ve bought and I hope that the wine makes it through customs.
We go upstairs to see what Sz is up to and almost her whole family is gathered. We had talked about going on one more sight seeing excursion but it�s already late afternoon and we don�t want to just go off while her parents are here to see all of us.
Sz�s dad rattles some constructive criticism at us while Sz translates. It boils down to the fact that the music is very good and professional but we aren�t terribly commercial in our appearance. None of us wants to be Brittney Spears and since we like it that way it makes us happy to hear that e3veryone enjoyed the music so much.
S gives Sz�s dad the wine we bought for him and we all drink a small toast. Then Sz, T S and I are off to the candy factory to buy more gifts. The wafers are so good and I have a hard time limiting myself to only a few things, but I know we hardly have any room which to bring stuff home. Nor do I like to buy too much while on vacation. Because of all of the care we�ve gotten S and I have hardly spent any money on the trip which is very good considering our current situation.
We are back and rest and finish packing then go up to hang out with Sz until her sister gets home. We are going to have a bit of a family dinner (minus T, his wife, and the parents). This is really the best part of the trip. Hanging out with Sz and getting to know her better (since I am not at practice too much I don�t get to talk to her that often). Also getting to know her family is quite fun. Each of them has a very distinct personality and all of them are so smart and full of life. Sz lays out cheese bread and pate and tidies while I write some and transfer the pictures from the camera onto the computer. I also get a chance to check my email, which is great since I seem to have over 600 of them thanks to some sort of spoofing.
When M gets home S and Sz help her make dinner. Total roll reversal as I am usually the one who is elbow deep in the kitchen. I feel a bit awkward about it but I am a guest so I decide to enjoy and listen to the talk and the music and look at all of the pictures we�ve taken and at M�s wonderful art that fills her entire apartment.
Sz youngest brother Mk and her youngest sister My show up for dinner as well. As does Mk�s girlfriend who reminds me of someone I know so much that I nearly fell out of my chair. We eat WAY too much. The meatballs are so yummy and the sauce so good I have seconds even though my first helping was huge. There is also desert which is really yummy. They speak in English to help us out but sometimes revert to German when it suites the conversation. I can follow a few of the things, but my vocabulary is horrid. It is easier to follow then Hungarian though.
S and I leave dinner around 11 feeling bad it is so early but feeling so tired we can�t help it. I decide to take a bath since my cold is so much worse. I also load up on the meds to try and get a good night sleep. I end up moving out to the couch about an hour after we go to bed mostly because I am tossing and turning but also because S is sleeping so heavily and loudly that I can�t fall asleep. I am so full of the memories of the events over the past few days that I even dream of them.
Monday:
Up at 7am to shower and then read a bit. I almost finished my book but wanted to save some for the ride so I took a shower. Their gust bathroom is very nice though it is difficult to shower without getting the entire floor wet. S showers again and we wait and listen for Sz and T upstairs before we too go up to eat breakfast. It�s quite a feast. It�s clear the kids are at school and the data at work but cousin mom is home with her 1 month old. We get rolling again around 9:30 for the long drive back.
Before we leave Budapest we stop at one of the largest warehouse stores I have ever seen. Inside we buy a few gifts and sundry items including this cheesecake desert, which I eat, three of and feel like if they sold them in the US I would be very very very fat indeed. T gets a kind of cherry soda that looks quite interesting. As we drive off he points out an apartment his wife B used to live in (she is from Budapest).
We all sleep some (even T I suspect) and get over the boarder with no hassles, We all comment again how in just a few days the boarder won�t even be here. Vienna traffic is like that of any large city so we slowly make our way into the city center then to the apartment building where they live and we have been staying. I am reminded again how much like family they�ve made us feel.
S and I rest a bit and then pack up our stuff as we are leaving the next morning. Almost all of the clothes are dirty so it makes packing easy, as I don�t care at all of wrinkles or if the dirty shoes touch the clothes. I fill my backpack full of the food and other souvenirs we�ve bought and I hope that the wine makes it through customs.
We go upstairs to see what Sz is up to and almost her whole family is gathered. We had talked about going on one more sight seeing excursion but it�s already late afternoon and we don�t want to just go off while her parents are here to see all of us.
Sz�s dad rattles some constructive criticism at us while Sz translates. It boils down to the fact that the music is very good and professional but we aren�t terribly commercial in our appearance. None of us wants to be Brittney Spears and since we like it that way it makes us happy to hear that e3veryone enjoyed the music so much.
S gives Sz�s dad the wine we bought for him and we all drink a small toast. Then Sz, T S and I are off to the candy factory to buy more gifts. The wafers are so good and I have a hard time limiting myself to only a few things, but I know we hardly have any room which to bring stuff home. Nor do I like to buy too much while on vacation. Because of all of the care we�ve gotten S and I have hardly spent any money on the trip which is very good considering our current situation.
We are back and rest and finish packing then go up to hang out with Sz until her sister gets home. We are going to have a bit of a family dinner (minus T, his wife, and the parents). This is really the best part of the trip. Hanging out with Sz and getting to know her better (since I am not at practice too much I don�t get to talk to her that often). Also getting to know her family is quite fun. Each of them has a very distinct personality and all of them are so smart and full of life. Sz lays out cheese bread and pate and tidies while I write some and transfer the pictures from the camera onto the computer. I also get a chance to check my email, which is great since I seem to have over 600 of them thanks to some sort of spoofing.
When M gets home S and Sz help her make dinner. Total roll reversal as I am usually the one who is elbow deep in the kitchen. I feel a bit awkward about it but I am a guest so I decide to enjoy and listen to the talk and the music and look at all of the pictures we�ve taken and at M�s wonderful art that fills her entire apartment.
Sz youngest brother Mk and her youngest sister My show up for dinner as well. As does Mk�s girlfriend who reminds me of someone I know so much that I nearly fell out of my chair. We eat WAY too much. The meatballs are so yummy and the sauce so good I have seconds even though my first helping was huge. There is also desert which is really yummy. They speak in English to help us out but sometimes revert to German when it suites the conversation. I can follow a few of the things, but my vocabulary is horrid. It is easier to follow then Hungarian though.
S and I leave dinner around 11 feeling bad it is so early but feeling so tired we can�t help it. I decide to take a bath since my cold is so much worse. I also load up on the meds to try and get a good night sleep. I end up moving out to the couch about an hour after we go to bed mostly because I am tossing and turning but also because S is sleeping so heavily and loudly that I can�t fall asleep. I am so full of the memories of the events over the past few days that I even dream of them.
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